This week in Underland, the chicken staged a dawn coup, Celia’s visa was finally approved, and grief arrived quietly in the form of Andrea Gibson’s passing. Between emotional whiplash, endless paperwork, and one deeply unsettling poultry stare, we somehow found time to write, to give, and to hold each other upright. Noise surrounds us. But so does love. And pani puri.
We Didn’t Win. This was not a win.
Call for support for Habiba in Palestine
Modernizing the Constitution: Lessons from a Signal Chat. Part 3 .
The ghosts are back, the group chat is unhinged, and civil liberties are on fire. Amendment V gets the reboot nobody asked for—now featuring civil asset forfeiture, courtroom TikToks, and Alexa snitching on you mid-trial. No self-snitching. No Netflix sequels. No crypto sheriffs. Just ghosts, phones, and the constitutional collapse of due process.
An Op.Ed: Signed, Sealed, Still Oppressed.
Slavery ended. Technically. But the system didn’t collapse—it rebranded. From Jim Crow to MAGA, from plantations to prisons, white supremacy shapeshifted into something harder to name but just as lethal. This essay isn’t about polite debate. It’s about naming the rot. And demanding that we stand the fuck up.
The Things She Carried
Our poem This is Bisan from Gaza. I’m still alive. just won a Vocal challenge. The win is bittersweet—we’ve chosen to donate the prize to support families in Gaza.
This piece is for Bisan, and for every voice still shouting into the void.
Grin of the Deluge: Leavitt at the Levee
The flood came hard, but crueller came her grin,
Sick smirk, shrugs at the drowning in the South.
Dispatches from the Void. X.V.
Visa stress, bureaucratic limbo, and a house full of half-packed boxes. Celia reflects on love, exhaustion, and quiet resistance. Meanwhile, Mowgli files complaints, Akela flees from shadows, and Poe communes with paperwork. The countdown to Thailand continues—chaotic, tender, and just barely held together by bedtime Phil and warrior paws
terms of surrender
i’ve never slept so well
in your arms
when it happens
They told us not to dance on graves.
But when the tyrant dies,
we don’t mourn.
We remember.
We rage.
We reclaim.
We dance.
No prayers. No peace.
Just steel boots, scorched flags, and the fire they tried to drown us in.
Poe ‘Vices.
There’s unrest in the bayou.
Someone (definitely not a TACO) built a prison in a swamp, deputised the alligators, and declared himself Messiah of Muck. But now the reptiles are unionising, biting senators, and refusing to eat the other side. Poe responds—ruthlessly, fabulously—and introduces Traitor Gators™, the only amphibious uprising you can collect, cuddle, and fear.
