Welcome to our clapboard chicken coop
apartment building on Montrose and Essendene
crammed with soothsayers and disavowed nine-to-five
hipster wraiths strumming beats in top floor brick and flannel nests.
Our communal living paradise, conducting priorities
of holistic enterprise, communists if you will,
in that simple Jazz way, contemplating manifestos
that encapsulate renovated crack-shack hotels.
Societal armistice, securing space to dance wild
raving lunacy fueling Joy-induced inebriation.
Cook two meals a month for the housemates.
Do your duty for cleanliness. All hail Atangard, our temple
perched above punk band reverberation, conceding 2AM
to repetitive gong first floor indian banquet zeal
for that weekend breakfast feel and parking lot boxes of kale, freely.

—

A poem by Bradley Peters, pinned to the dining room bulletin board before leaving to Nicaragua for the summer.

a peculiar feeling
when united by loss

whether outlaw
or wound

we sat around the fire
encircled a play-tower
smoked, sweat
and climbed a hill together

—

“Atangard Director’s Retreat”
by Simon Bridgefoot
Cultus Lake
April, 2017