Unsaid 7 Available for Pre-Order


Unsaid 7 is 300+ pages of innovative fiction and poetry by Masha Tupitsyn, Russell Persson, Ottessa Moshfegh, Stephen Dixon, Mairead Small Staid, Peter Markus, David Hollander, Kate Wyer, Matt Bell, Brian Evenson, Phillip Grayson, Katherine Manderfield, Kayla Blatchey, Paul Maliszewski & James Wagner, Joseph Scapellato, Michael Copperman, Elizabeth Gramm, Catherine Foulkrod, Beth Imes, Robin Richardson, Pamela Ryder, Michele Forster, Brian Kubarycz, Jason Schwartz, Richard St. Germain, Naomi Stekelenburg, David Ryan, Robert Lopez, Joseph R. Wojtowicz, Mahreen Sohail, Danielle Blau, Gary Kertis, K.E. Allen, Jordan Gannon, Robin Martin, Dana Inez, Ryan Ries, M Sarki, Tom McCartan, Russell Brakefield, Josh Milberg & Elise DeChard, and Luke B. Goebel.

To secure your copy, pre-order Unsaid 7 today for just $18 (shipping & handling included). The issue will go to print in May and ship shortly after. Thank you for your support of Unsaid!


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When There Are No Winners There Can Be No Losers

The first time that you killed, killed something fully, something whole, you were in your thirties. You were driving, driving to a house outside the city. You had been hunting and you were almost done. First you hit it with your headlights, then with your full vehicle. You drove a truck. You were weaving as fast as tropes of speech, as quick as intuition, curving through leafless trees at midnight. You were cutting around a corner and gripping the shoulder of the road, and the doe stood there waiting to be killed, though not on impact. Your punched your horn, and then you stopped your truck, another deer strapped to its exterior. Which is to say, the doe stopped you. You saw the stricken body was alive, though still, and slowly bleeding on the roadside, beneath your headlights, its blue tongue slowly thrusting, its doe eye softly glowing, gazing back, its entrails in full view. They felt glove-like to the touch.

Next day you put down the cadmium. You broke open a carton of smokes and began to write about the models. You named them, every one. You wrote until day had become stillest night and the moon had peaked over the boles of the trees and flooded the clearing with a blue light of the hue that brings to mind the lakes and seas captured in museum pieces, the pains of childhood spent living in a land of leafless trees, trees that would not leave the heart untouched for their bleakness, for their jagged persistence as the darkest fingers ever pointed at the stars. Such light flooded from the moon, and filtered through your room, and flickered through the smoke of cigarettes quivering between your lips, as you sat writing. The models you had seen. The dapple of paint on their faces at they sat there sitting, or waiting to be paid. All the sweaty vices you discovered, all the petty crimes you perpetrated on your spread of rags, together. For they were numbered, every one of them, just as was each separate print.

Game,” The Collagist, Issue 49, August 2013

June 30, 01 #2 (adj)

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Never Not Signifying

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Now Hear This!

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Writing and Death – Mummified Language

The articulate sound [phoneme] issues from the breast to awaken in another individual an accord through aural perception. Simultaneously, the human being thereby discovers that there exist about him beings with identical inner needs. He becomes additionally aware that such individuals are capable of appreciating sympathetically the multitudinous longings lodged in his mental reaction patterns.

Language is the structural organ of ideas. Intellectual activity – completely intellectual, completely innate, and to a certain extent passing without a trace – becomes externalized in speech and perceptible to the sense. . . . Intellectual activity is inherently tied to the necessity of entering into a combination with the phoneme. Otherwise thought cannot attain distinctness, the image cannot become the concept. The indissoluble bond connecting, thought, vocal apparatus, and hearing to language reposes invariable in the original arrangement of human nature, a factor that defies further clarification. The coincidence of the sound with the idea becomes clear. Just as the idea, comparable to a flash of lightning, collects the total power of imagination into a single point and excluded everything that is simultaneous, the phonetic sound resounds in abrupt sharpness and unity. Just as the thought engages the entire disposition, the phonetic sound is endowed with a penetrating power that arouses the whole nervous system.

To the phoneme, finally, is appropriate the erect posture of humans, which is denied to animals and by which man is, so to speak, called upright. For speech does not want to resound dully along the ground; it desires to pour forth freely from the lips toward the person to whom it is directed, accompanied by the facial expression of the speaker, as well as by the gestures of the hand; speech thus wants to be associated with everything that designates the humanity of man.

Properly conceived of, language is something persistent and in every instant transitory. Even its maintenance by writing is only an incomplete, mummified preservation, necessary if one is again to render perceptible the living speech concerned.

–Wilhelm von Humboldt, Linguistic Variability and Intellectual Development


The mysteries of the Egyptians are mysteries to the Egyptians.

–G.W.F. Hegel, Lectures on The Philosophy of Religion



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Don’t Think About Picasso


~ I want to recommend the exploration of mind and the adventure within the mind. It takes so much time; that is the difficulty. It is so hard to slow down to the pace where it is possible to explore one’s mind. And then of course one must go absolutely alone with not one thought about others intruding.


This lecture was originally given at the ICA on February 14, 1973 on the occasion of the exhibition, “Agnes Martin” which was held at the Institute of Contemporary Art at the University of Pennsylvania, January 22 – March 1, 1973


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Neon Nights

Oh no, here it comes again.

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Pure Self Is This Empty Night

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