{ the sweetest bee makes the thickest honey. }

Hey, come over here. Do you see all these bees?  Iíve got a great idea: you take this long rope and tie it around my waist.  Then Iíll pick up a stick, and rub some glue and sugar on it.  Iíll climb into a tree with the stick and poke it at the beesí nest, and when the bees swarm out and settle on my stick, you pull the rope hard, and Iíll fall into the pond below.  Iíll sink to the bottom, and while I hang out there, the bees will run out of air and die.  Then Iíll swim to the shore and we can have a good laugh together.  Thatís just one idea, Iíve got others.  We could use lighter fluid, too, or make some mustard gas.

Speaking of, hereís a new issue of Beekillerís honey-licious digest.  Weíve got some nice artwork to look at, articles to feed your mind, a short story to waste your time, and rock songs to listen too.  Catch that beat, stay on your feet!

New songs by Begushkin transport us into a surreal nightlife of yelped emotion and deadpanned absurdity, augmented by intricate guitar picking, mournful harmonies and a jaunty sense for pirate culture and disturbing sex metaphors.

Poems by Dorothea Laskey stir the soup-heart of emotion as they plaster the mind with enchanting wide-screen vistas, enforcing a universal reconciliation between lovers, the living and the dead, birds and the sun, me and you.

The Psychic Ills ride a drone-rock space throb all the way to your hypothalamus, activating reptilian pleasure-centers that erase all conscious thought and leave you mentally dehydrated and thirsting for more.

Paul Paddockís allegorical water-colored drawings draw disturbing truths out of soft, clear surfaces, somewhere between fairy-tale nap-dreams and half-remembered cautionary tales.  If you are a child wandering his landscapes, it is advised that you keep your skull on tight, your underwear in sight, and a watch out for creatures.

A brand new story by Sebastian Ischer explores familiar shades of humiliation and paranoia, reinvigorated by the conventions of the aeronautical disaster genre, according to which violent thrills and sexual titillations alternate with minutely researched technical descriptions and intense artistic introspection.

March Violets is a song from Mike Wexlerís mysterious new EP, which is newly available for sale in stores.

Brandon Neubauerís photo collages refract objects and places into prismatic visual architecture, building abstraction out of the tantalizingly distorted commonplace.  A vertiginous sensation of losing touch with the world results.

A photo of Brynna Tuckerís installation 1,0 9 7 suggests an alien ecosystem infringing on human habitation.  Clustery globules dangle placidly from stringy webs, like cotton candy or cancerous cell growth.  A soft peachy hue suggests that the colonyís intentions are benign; we may soon find it unobtrusively infesting all our environments.

Christa Tooleís Rings could be a painted enlargement of a microscopic cell formation, or a complicated puzzle involving shower curtain rings and string.  Other interpretations come to mind, then recede into the dense tangle.

Thatís all for now.  Your beekilling enjoyment is requested.

Sebastian Ischer

Brandon Neubauer

Brynna Tucker

Christa Toole

Paul Paddock


Mike Wexler

Psychic Ills

Dorothea Lasky

Anna-Lisa Donovan