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Future Imperfect Journal is based in New York and Richmond. We publish any literary crap by authors and amateur, hobbyist writers, as long as it's good. If you enjoy this sort of stuff and believe in yourself, submit a poem, short story, essay, etc. to our email futureimperfectjournal@gmail.com—submissions are open until we feel like closing them. NO IRONY OR EMOJIS!!!!!!

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Three Poems by Ian Lee

Richmond Is A City Richmond is a city With bikes And coffee There are old buildings And sidewalks that are imperfect You can get nice cake And hang out on the river The city has a lot of people Mostly students And hipsters A lot of stoners as well And yeah The place is a city *** Life Is A Vape Life is a vape Take a nice hit Enjoy the buzz And you can taste the delicious flavors While wearing a trucker hat and Vintage jeans And you can sip that Espresso tonic Which costs nine bucks And you can read (Kind of) Maybe something from one of the Brontes Or Rowling But only the first few pages And you can hop inside the old Ranger you purchased Off of Facebook Marketplace That barely runs Unlike you Who has gotten into running marathons this past spring Which is around the same time you got into hardcore music Which is well after when you started collecting vinyl Which was like over one year ago When brat dropped Which shows you can be fun to party with At times Like that time you were At a...
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Two Poems by Z.H. Gill

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Discussion [Mufasa] rambling down the bank, i set my pace to the speed at which you drift there in the water— i do this to prolong our discussion. ——— Spirit Chimes We’re here for what’s beneath my feet. Raw, extreme. We’re in Portland, Oregon. You grew up here. I know you’re from here. Is it weird being here now? It is—now I know about all the hauntings here. We need to know what went on down here. These were sailors, loggers, cowboys, sheepherders, transients, not residents. The captain softened the transients with liquor or drugs. [ An innocent night out turns into a nightmare in the blink of an eye .] This was called a deadfall. Down the trap door, hauled off to a cell. These are like bones. These are like human remains. More knock-out drops and they bring you to a ship. You’re safe. I’m sure a lot of them sobered up and tried fighting back. I’m sure a lot were tortured, beaten, killed down here. The objective wasn’t to kill them but people did die. There is an aggressive energy ...
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Two sentences by Danny Evans

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When your body was  withering,  its metabolic and  digestive systems gradually approaching  a state of total  externalization,  organ after organ  transferred from inside to  out,  supplemented  by dripping plastic  bags   or fully replaced by beeping, flickering  modules,  I would sit beside you  on the  bed,  struggling to portray  the materiality of  a death in the family ,  an immense  loss ,  observing those auto-  matic cadences, those  mechanical sequences  of signifiers  the English language  produced via my passive,  trembling  hand;  still,  I would probe  for some singular  arrangement of  words,  pithy and Saxonite  or multisyllabic  in their medical  precision,  perhaps a  synthesis of  the two,  straining  to adequately  depict the particular- ity  of...
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