SUR_ISSUE_3

Life is a series of moments,
touchstones, and memories.
We record these in our mind,
in photographs, stories, music
and artwork. Everything
creative that we put out into
the world is a celebration of
life, its dynamics, and growth.
SUR is platform to share these
experiences and creations.
+ California based and inspired
+ London published
Contributors:
+ Issue 3 >> wish you could’ve been there
Phroso
Evan Burkin
Kati Stubblebine
Daniella Islas
Wil Deas
Kira Skye
Caitlin Dinunzio
Tess Venizelos
Brett Marquette
Editor:
Daniella Islas

show me the things
worth dying for
Dear California, With Love
By Phroso
studied you
from afar
your divots and grace
curves and complex
i fell for you
inched closer
and closer
to the edge
of all i’ve ever known
to the cusp
of all i’ve wanted to feel
show me love
i begged
as i ran to your shore
desperate and dry
show me passion
heartache, bliss
reckless and true
canyons and springs
valleys and desert stars
i lived
under your skin
kept me
summer warm
summer of love
but it was never enough
night would come
had me lost and lonely
needing more
needing you
so i chased city lights
slept on beaches
drove along the coast
through dawn
thick in love
didn’t stop
until cliffside
over your shore
calling out your name
lover,

you leave me hungry
yearning for you
always
then it started to pour
out of the blue
soaked my bones
i yelled to something higher
where do souls go
when they’re tired
sunken stomach
i left early morning
couldn’t bare
to see your face
wrote a note:
please know
you gave me a world
i will love you
always
from mile to mile
end
to end

Photo Credit: Tess Venizelos

After
By Kati Stubblebine
Let me
slip
slow
slide- Yes.
Hug me,
see-saw Mother.
Skin: wet,
twisting, calm.
False calm.
Hug me still.

Harvesting Summer
By Evan Burkin
They say we’re nappers
In the harvest of grapes.
Eyes loose, we are
Of salt
From the parting coast breeze,
We cry,
Gentle weather.
A saturation of brine
A matter of preservation.
We ripen in summer
With seeds of sweat
That splinter for your taste.

Amargada
By Caitlin Dinunzio
Don Quixote dumped me.
Expect to see his Dulcinea
wandering the freeway
selling roses,
knees buckling on concrete.
Chivalry is dead—
it’s road kill on the 55.

“On Return: Los Angeles” or “To the girl I love, that I trust
beyond belief”
By Wil Deas
A collection– postcards scattered on the wind. Glinting off the sun– a hint of
LA glow. Nowhere to stop, nowhere to call my own. A mobile home of the
heart. Rib cages dancing along the sunset strip.
Can you tell me? Is this what you wanted? To lose ourselves in your stars?
My clouds? Tinted, beyond, ever-changing. Lighting the way passing radio
waves and constellations barely visible through ash.
Summer fires, burning long into fall– invisible bonds stretching over
freeways, up north past the bay bridge and into the vines of my home. How
did you get so far away? Love of mine, how are you?
Ease of communication, latent messages tapped out by fingertips against
devices prepared to drop dead at any moment. A failure of the now.
Contemplation of the void, constellations be damned.
I’m coming back now, to you, to us, to renewed faith. I’ll have nothing
there. Some couches, friends and you– to keep me grounded before my
world comes apart again. Upset by those that took me before. We don’t mind
them. You don’t mind the distance. At some point it’s nice– obligation can
go so far. Exploration, keep the connection.

For the second time the city of Angels provides an escape. You, the one that
has given me so much hope– even after all this time apart. I’m crying now, at
the thought of you standing on the ledge of the Arclight parking garage. Me–
a polaroid camera bearing bystander– only a observer of your magical
beauty.
I long to see you. To feel that safety you’ve always shown me. I long to
escape the day– to go where no producer, no pr, no fan can ruin the day. To
where I can stand wherever I want– to where you know.
So won’t you tell me about your heart? Won’t you tell me where I fit in?
You said you’d stay forever. I have no doubts. I can say that now– after
today, last night– the past few weeks. I trust you over any other soul on this
earth. I know that much.
So to the one I love, that I hope loves me back– I miss you. I miss those
warm summer nights in Griffith Park. I miss ice cream in Larchmont. I can’t
wait for the day we can share those days again– going out and just losing
ourselves to the day.
I’m coming home. Through my clouds, beneath your stars– ever watchful.
Through the ether, to you, my sweet darling. To watch your corn-stalk hair
in the moonlight. To discover your heart, and to give you mine–.
A loop– a spiral ending in you–. Beyond the insanity– my own and those of
others. Into you–. We’ll make it to the sunrise, if it’s the last thing we’ll do
tonight.

Untitled
By Daniella Islas
Keep me in your foggy view
Don’t lose sight
or get lonely with the city lights
They'd all love you
I've never felt so cold and so warm
than with the layer of the bay creeping through me
knowing you are in this city,
San Francisco
No one and everyone pass through these streets
The ghosts of jazz past
echoes of legends in alleyways
Garage bands and basement tunes
a smuggled flask
spare keys
Fingers interlocked
in front of your friends
Up
the trolley tracks
to waters edge
Let me be in your breath again
It’ll work this time
Of all these hills
ours has been the best
The neon Asahi sign
hailing every 34 th avenue bus
the couch we share
tired of standing
waiting for us to begin
Your legs on me
Catch you staring
act like I don't know
That Frisco fog is rolling
coming through the glass
When
your mind is made
I'll be gone

homecoming
by Kira Skye
these things you thought you had forgotten but are now beginning to remember
the faded stop sign of the church parking lot where you learned how to drive
the wooden floorboards that creak when you walk down the hallway
the rim of your glass mug that steams with morning coffee
all blur into watercolor, wash away as you pull the plug
down the drain of the bathtub with the silver handle
your skin feels bare against the cold night air
the fuzzy bathrobe on the hook
and the fraying rug on the floor
you can’t see your reflection
in the foggy mirror
it’s in the wick of
the candle you
just blew
out

Photo Credit: Brett Marquette

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