{ the sweetest bee makes the thickest honey. }

As we position ourselves to receive our own million-dollar hand-out from a deceased yet untalented wealthy socialite, our poetry section is especially engorged with content this month. We proudly introduce Erika Yorio, who delivers us into the claustro-poetic interior space of disintegrating relationships and semantically violent medical conditions.

Longtime bee-tributor Erin Browne returns to the fold with pointillist observations on subway intimacy, capitalist healing, and pastoral-domestic ennui.

Columnist Sebastian Ischer immerses us in his customarily pungent but hopeful view of young people?s struggle to find sexual fulfillment in a world of emotional unavailability.

Williamsburg art explorers Blasto supply a video of their recent gallery staging, Waterfront, in which the time-enforced change of elements copulates with the physical representation of language, briefly puncturing the airless realm of message. Which leaves us wiser, sadder, and smiling.

BK editor Radek Szczesny accompanies our concussive Blasto-rama with an explication and review of the artists and their makings.

Meanwhile this month?s feature article by Anna-Lisa Donovan examines the work of the internationally renowned performance artist Marina Abramovic, whose flesh- and soul-rending self-experiments incorporate masochism and extreme self-control into a form of transcendence that would have earned her Sainthood in recent centuries.

In our Fiction section, Colin Delaney trains the unwatering eye of a meta-conjurer on the most sentimental, quivering of subjects, the life of the family. In surgically eviscerated dinner-table constellations, his narrator tries to burrow into the ordinariness in which parents and children come to stick.

As always, Beekiller compiles armor-piercing musical performances from the finest musicians money cannot seduce. The Brooklyn Jugs unironically make that old-time music sound warm and wet like three pints of ale. This they do on their lunch break.
Traditionalists of another sort, the Banned rock the punk rock that would have made our fathers whip their necks to and fro. That is, melodic but rough, and fast and unpretentious.

All of our Beekiller babies are organically grown in the minds of 100-percent pesticide-free artists and writers. We guarantee that their well-paced consumption will clear your vapors and cleanse the colon of your heart?s desires. It will also make you strong, fast, and mentally able, skills that may prove beneficial in coming years of global turbulence.

So thank you for stopping by. We will see you soon.