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No. 5 GUA Print

Cop a copy of Genre: Urban Arts No. 5 Print that will begin being shipped out on September 24th. We have a host of contemporary visual art and writing that needs to be in your hands. Our cover artist for No. 5 is Nadine Mbaka. Read more about her in an article written by Vianca Fuster.

We are a small print magazine. Copies are limited. Purchase your copy now! Continue reading No. 5 GUA Print

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Shanta (Tae) King

NYC born- raised by the streets of Harlem & The Bronx.  I am an experience-collector with a focus on POP-ART.  I am also an OUT and PROUD African-American Lesbian Woman.  I feel that all individuals regardless of color, sex, creed, sexual orientation or religion should be appreciated and heard on any spectrum.  I just live life to the fullest with NO LABELS, and allow my experiences speak for me! My LOVE for art is sometimes impalpable like Warhol.

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Arthur Jackson V: Queer PoC Anthology Editor

Arthur Jackson V is a Queer Afro American poet, and painter from San Francisco California, with an interest in redefining language in poetry. Arthur wants to challenge the reader to think outside of their comfort zone, making the reading an interactive experience. Jackson is currently working on his first collection of poetry To Boys With Green Hair. Seeking to bring a voice/perspective to the LGBTQI+ POC community. Jackson wants to spread understanding to those who haven’t lived the same experience, and, also for other Queer POC identifying to read and know that they are not alone (that someone out their has the same experiences). Jackson is looking to string people together and create a closer knit community through art, and make the world a little less lonely. You can find his poetry in publications such as Decolonise Fest,, Anaise and more. Jackson will be moving to Paris this coming spring to attend culinary school and begin work on a cookbook.
Social Media: Instagram- @Afro_pup

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Marcus Emel: Queer PoC Anthology Editor

I’m Marcus Williams, known to some as Marcus Emel. I am a creative based in Brooklyn. I write poetry and dance. I also dabble in video editing and songwriting. I love the fluidity of art and creativity, it transcends barriers. It is important to support people of color in the LGBTQ+ community because we are doing important work for the next generation. In order for it to be the best, we have to be supportive. 

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Just Duléa: Queer PoC Anthology Editor

Just Duléa is an author, songwriter, educator, and spoken word artist from the East Coast. She is the Founder/CEO/Creative Director of Conviction 2 Change LLC, a publishing company devoted to helping those in under-represented communities be heard. Being an African-American, queer, woman, Just Duléa understands the importance of writing at the intersection point to create compelling, thought-provoking pieces. Her publications include “What Happened to Cyrano?: The Untold Story of Cyrano de Bergerac” (2015), “A Poetic Expression of Change” (2015), “S.W.A.G. – Saved With Amazing Grace” (2016), “Sex, Love, and Other Emotions” (2018). Her work has also appeared in Genre: Urban Arts No. 5 and Bay Area Generations #61. She is presently pursuing her M.F.A. in Poetry, with an Africana/Diaspora focus from San Francisco State University.
Taylor D. DuckettPoet. Author.


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Purchase a Copy of Genre: Urban Arts No. 6 Print

Disrupting the status quo one issue at a time. Our No. 6 Print wants to come out to plaaaayyyy. 

Major thank you to @GenreUrbanArts collaborator Abe Onkst @abe_onkst blessing our cover with this dope rendition of the Mona Lisa by da Vinci.

You’re able to order a copy today. Head to Orders will be shipped on Jan 15th. 

Genre: Urban Arts is a platform where artists can become published digitally and in print. Genre: Urban Arts also provides exhibiting and performing opportunities for visual and performance artists via pop-up galleries. 


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Queer PoC Anthology

Calling all QueerPOC Creatives! Genre: Urban Arts seeks to give you a space to be vocal with your artistic medium, wherever it falls on the spectrum. Our goal is to highlight voices of the LGBTQ+ community that often go unheard or are misunderstood. Come join us in illuminating the readers’  experience in an artful way! We want to hear what YOU have to say! Spread the word. Submissions open January 2019!

A portion of the proceeds from this project will be donated to organizations that support LBGTQ communities in Milwaukee, WI and New York City.

We will also be celebrating this issue during Pride month at Bowery Poetry in NYC. Keep an eye out for our call for performances!


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Awkward Girl: Day 4 (Part 3)

PART 3: Headlights

Awkward Girl:

It is maddening.  Why now? After all the emotional outpouring.  Why is now the time he’s come to collect the sex? He’s smooth…slick as an oiled railing. Now is the moment he chooses to ignore our awkward behavior and immaturity? We are in an endless cycle of us reacting to each other’s reactions and trying to then process how to react to that.  If this is what he needs in order to cope with the gravity of our connection, then sure, I’ll buy in. Not that it’s ever been just fucking, and we both know that. But he works so hard to deny the connection, and to be honest, I let him. Because, after all, I’m horny. I have needs. And before any judgment is passed, I am not using him. This neediness and craving is not just for anyone, but for his particular brand of tortured love. I need him; a heady thirst.

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Awkward Girl: Day 4 (Supermarket)

PART 2: Supermarket

Awkward Girl:

I struggle with tasks that I must participate in, in order to function as a respected adult, that is. I know, I know…we all feel that way when stress and the atrophy of time plagues us. I know I am not alone in feeling like I cannot keep up with the errands and appointments or making sure the smoke detectors have new batteries so that the ear-splitting, incessant beeping doesn’t push me to completely lose it in the middle of the night. But you see, with me…it is beyond a 9-volt or managing to get to the dentist twice a year.

For instance…

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Awkward Girl: Day 4



Dating is hard.

Finding someone that is just the same shade of broken as me, or at least accepts the quirky things that make me, me, is (Can you guess?) awkward. It’s like an intricate social experiment where I am trying to, at the very least, survive the undertow. At the most? Find a human I connect with and can actually tolerate beyond a couple of months. A human who will eventually know all of me, weaknesses exalted, and who still wants to grab me and hold me despite of it all.

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a seat in group

It’s early fall. There’s a new girl in our group. White, like the others. Not like me. Her shoulders curve in – no longer from the weight of the world, but now to shield her core. I want to tell her to straighten up. Tell her that her heart is already exposed. She speaks of her addiction. We all pause to welcome her. We use the same drug of choice. Opioids. The ones that allow you to sleep while awake. Same substance. Different day. I want to say this, but I’ll have to wait ‘til the words come to me. Timing is everything. She is white like the others. Not like me. She says the opioids were first offered for body pain. She’s a gymnast and was told that she was in pain. Her heart believed it before her spine did. And so, she swallowed. ‘Cause that’s what addicts do…take charge of the pain, take charge of the ruining. When the docs finally pinpointed that the pain was coming from nerves, not muscle, and switched her meds, she tried to swallow those too. But her heart screamed and her mind came to the rescue. The abusive boyfriend could bear it no longer. Who wants to beat a numb horse? He left and took the money, the degrees, the 12 years, the house, with him. And the universe sent her a heart that matched her own. She is white like the others. Not like me. The new pair began to numb their bruised hearts, this time together, this time with cheaper drugs that docs don’t prescribe. Dispersed by a majority of hands the same color as mine. Heroine. Heroin. Can’t mistake the similarities of those two words. Drug is Queen. Drug is sacrificial right hand of King. Drug is savior, gone too sweet…rotten sweet. What do you call an overly ripe queen? You don’t. She calls you. She is white like the others. Not like me. She speaks of her new legal issues – a drug deal gone wrong (do they ever go right?). Wrong place, wrong time. Wrong side of town. My side of town. She speaks of a white girl, on the wrong side of town handing money over to brown masculine hands in exchange for heart-mind-muscle relief. Trailed by the police. Found with both drug and gun in car – both belonging to the new boyfriend with the matching skin that covers up a matching heart. She speaks of privilege that allowed her to snitch on hands the same color as mine to save her own purple heart. She speaks but her words do not connect to the triangle turned square of events – white man, white woman, black felon, single black mother. She speaks more and more of a road to recovery that leads back to a nuclear home, classic family. I look down at my naked left hand. It is only her first day. I chuckle, because on her last day she will choose to sit in the same place. I know this, but she is blissfully unaware. There are no empty seats on her side of the room. I sit alone on my side. Empty seats galore. I think, I am the same color as these seats. She speaks like the others. Not like me.
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My Mother Syria

My mother
she has been crying for
a long time now
weeping for her children
her children burning in flames

My mother is now shrieking
and screaming with pain
her skin being ripped off
her bones breaking
she’s crumbling, disintegrating.

My mother’s crying
her body tore apart,
she’s being raped openly
bombed, she’s in flames.

She;s being torn apart
The whole world is seeing her being
torn apart
and they’re all pretending to be blind
And she’s being torn apart
But yet the world pretends to be blind.

My mother’s tears have created their own ocean
And I the child, have found shelter
We’re safe in my mother’s tears
The world is too cruel
The world is deaf to our screams
The world is blind to our wounds
The world is dumb

My mother, my mother’s name is

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Holiday Sale

We know you love our print. We have a limited number of our No. 4 and No. 5 prints left. In these gorgeous high-quality prints, we have art and writing from creatives all over the globe. If you’re affiliated with us on our site our through social media, we know you appreciate good reads and beautiful things. Well, that all we have. Come decorate the interior of your brain with brilliance by reading the great art we have organized, selected and designed for you.


We are a small, independent print. We do a little dance when you make orders. Support small businesses… especially, if their products are DOPE… like ours.

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Eternally absent.

Eternally absent.

Who are you?
That’s the wrong question.
Who am I?
The one who threw
the rock in the pond.
What do you want from me?
The stone is thrown
I am light
and I’m leaving behind
your questions.


Eternamente assente.

Chi sei tu?
E’ la domanda sbagliata.
Chi sono io?
Quella che ha gettato
il sasso nello stagno.
Cosa vuoi da me?
Il sasso è gettato
sono leggera
e mi lascio alle spalle
le tue domande.


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No Cream

written by Nakeysha Roberts Washington

First Published in Wisconsin’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Nonfiction

It is his blackness. He stops at the tables. His deep voice lifts slightly above a whisper, “Sir, do you have some change?” At another table, “Spare change?”

A woman, whose face Time has yet to fissure, poignantly sits. She is regal. Her skin is a creamy caramel. Her hair is a perfectly couiffured pepper gray fro. As he approaches her and presents his request, she stops and grips her face with her left hand, takes a deep sigh while she drags her hand down the length of her face. She opens her momentarily closed eyes as her hand passes them. She turns to him as irritated as I am with his requests. She felt it too. She utters something inaudible. He turns away sans receipt of that which is to deliver his salvation.

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Harlem Holiday Lights 2018 Presented by 125th Street BID & Community Board 9


Holiday Lights takes place on W 125th Street in Harlem, New York. Special programming includes the TD Bank Community Stage on 125th and Morningside, an Interactive Tree from Limbic Media, a Parade of Lights, Children’s Village, (3) Health Villages by HealthFirst and Ugly Sweater Contest & much more.

Holiday Lights is an annual event, download the Harlem Happenings app to keep up to date on our latest events and programming.

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On teaching pale women how to color their walls…

***Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

Oh.  How many times I’ve heard, “I wish we could take you home with us” while swaddling a newborn, positioning a lactating breast, counting pushes, and smelling the scent of new life.  By the way…it is an earthy smell; a muted sweet scent of all outdoors (quite interesting when you think about it).  Oh.  How many times I’ve thought, “I am my own home.  I’ve always had to make a home in me.  You should learn to do the same.  And have the courage to inhabit it. Without.  Help.”

Besides, the man of my choosing is coming to paint my kitchen a vibrant shade of green in the morning and I wouldn’t dare miss him (and I’ve been considering a mauve for the bedroom – whatcha think?).  Furthermore, I only lie my head down under roofs that motion to all the places where the guns are hidden.

We’ll talk later.  The lesson must continue at some other time.  I can smell that the Cornish-hen is ready.  I can feel the clock approaching quitting time.  And I can hear my own baby start to stir in her crib.  I left her walls nude. Perhaps her first word will be blue.  Again, I will call the man of my choosing and he will oblige to pigment yet another one of my walls with the color of oceans.

I have so much to do.  In my own home.  Perhaps I should thank you for reminding me?