A Digital Publication From Sunday Jump

In the spirit of taking "HiFi to Wi-fi"

we decided to broaden our definition of indie publishing within our community to the place where everyone is currently connecting during this global pandemic. Instead of a printed zine or chapbook, we are taking our talents to the web. Because we have an online space instead of printed space, we are able to showcase many different mediums and artists that we previously were not able to consider for print.

The guiding themes of this year’s publication “HiFi to Wi-Fi” is the title itself, our annual theme “with love, without shame,” and how our community is creatively and artistically coping with COVID-19.

Table of Contents

100 Miles Apart
Garveaux Sibulboro

Elaine Dolalas

Elaine Dolalas

what a time
Caroline Calderon

Sounds of Loneliness

y2k girl (who am i?)
ysabelle inigo

Venus en Pisces/Olividarte
Moréna Espiritual

questions as portals
Moréna Espiritual

Karen Joyce

Nicole Mairose Dizon

if i could love you
Krisha Algoso

to the moon goddess
kuno stars

Love Language
Sophia Bautista

Found Poem Maya Ross Gay 
Kathy Sanchez

Linda Reyes

Normalize Therapy
Jessica Tsae-Ni Lin

Phoenix Rising
Jessica Tsae-Ni Lin

Brown Bodies
Nura The Poet

Home Sweet Home
Ailene Quizon Ignacio

Justin Ricafort

100 Miles Apart






what a time


oh what a time
that we’re living in

i’m glad to see you’re okay
right on my computer screen

i’m taking it day by day
just wanted to say hello

it’s okay not to be okay
just know you’re not alone

oh what a time
that we’re living in

it’s good to hear your voice
i appreciate you listening

i can’t wait to see you face-to-face
but until that day comes

i’ll just have to say i love you
through the phone

Sounds of Loneliness


y2k girl (who am i?)


poema visual: Venus en Pisces/Olividarte

Moréna Espiritual

poema visual: questions as portals

Moréna Espiritual



Image of pink flower. To the right of the flower is handrawn text that says "I will probably fuck up at some point and learn some valuable lessons along the way."



Disease rolls a pair of dice
to bet on innocents to sacrifice.
Research graphs plot Plan A, B, and C
in hopes of flattening uncertainty.
Thousands of wearied feet stand for a test,
proof of strength over the rest.
Trembling breaths afraid to harm.
“Achoo! Achoo!” blares an alarm.
Trace Life, Head, and Fate on sterilized palms.
Please ease our raucous, racing qualms.
When did the stillness become so proud?
Alone in the muddled crowds.
Dial, dial to escape news shown.
Unspoken words arrive at a busy tone.
As reality unravels at its seams,
strangers’ faces drift into sleepless dreams.
Aboard the station of my mind,
I buy a 1-way ticket for
the Silver Line.

Harana + 10 Ways the Alt Right Reminds Me of Diarrhea


On Love, In Quarantine


Healing Comes in Waves



Heal means “to make sound or whole” and stems from the root, haelan, the condition or state of being hal or whole which challenges the biomedical thinking of curing or fixing. Medicine has no model of what it means to be whole as a person even if we see it as a healing profession.

In such a short period of time, I’ve lost so many people in my life and faced so much death and brutal violence and blatant disregard for community experiences, leaving me struggling to find hope.

But I hadn’t stepped back to think past our bodies as vessels for disease or intergenerational traumas. How we also embody survival and hope and joy. As Faith Santilla says in US: “Your DNA contains building blocks made from the / Mud of over 500 years of resistance and survival…” That resiliency and years of adapting to the harshest of conditions courses through our veins.

This piece “Healing Comes in Waves” is made with love, celebrates community, and is weaved together with memories of my past, present, and future connected by the ocean. It honors my ancestors–the people who have impacted me that I’ve lost recently to mental health and COVID-19. Healing is a process of continuous growth and development and this piece gave me space for reflection and hope with each brushstroke.



I was born / in a garden with the sweetest fruit / 
I was told / there was wealth abound / 
I was taught / to believe all men only speak truths / 
I was raised / to feed their mouths / 
I was warned / of the dangers lurking in the trees / 
I was told / to not reach too high / 
I could hear / all the creatures sighing in my home / 
Beasts of burden cried / 
And they were I / 

Snakes in the garden / come on out, come to play / 
Weave in the patterns I know well / 
Wrapped ‘round my throat / they squeeze as I try to say / 
“No more / your secret’s mine to tell.”

There were fangs / shining in the dark I couldn’t see / 
There were scales / far too hard to find / 
There were words / so familiar said salaciously / 
They were sounds / I learned to define / 
But they weren’t mine // 

Snakes in the garden / come on out, come to play / 
Weave in the patterns I know well / 
Wrapped ‘round my throat / they squeeze as I try to say / 
“No more / your secret’s mine to tell.” 

I was promised / all this promise / 
But you broke it / when you brought this / 
Flesh of your flesh / to face test after test / 
From the monsters you raised as well / 

Oh, snakes in the garden / come on out, come to play / 
Weave in the patterns I know well / 
Wrapped ‘round my throat / you squeeze, but I turn to say / 
“No more / or I will bring you hell.”  

I will bring you hell / I will bring you hell.

New Spring




The Reality


I think everything happens for a reason.
Everything can change in an instant.
Things are great for one moment. 
Then, they switch up on you.

They said, “You need to think about reality.”

I acknowledge how I live in a dream world.
Maybe it’s because my imagination is a form of escapism.
Maybe I’m truly denying myself from truths so harsh 
that I need to hear these truths; to prevent myself from getting to deep in the clouds.

manila and heaven


I saw babies dropped in boxes
Left by the hunted in a turning cradle
To play alone

Along the skyway
Traffic beelines like a sloth
Who hasn’t bathed, ever

Manila bay
No one follows the street signs
Cause they are more like guidelines

Flying cockroaches fight
Kids playing soccer on graves
I lost a friend to martial law

I don’t know who I am
But I see where I come from



Son, you’ve already seen it.

It’s not a place
It’s a state
But it’s not a country
Or a city

It’s the eyes when you meet
Your counterpart
On your first date

It knows no bounds
When you let go
Of what you think 
And say what you mean
And think

The truth sets fires
Not like hell
Its counterpart
But another kind of life

Like after nine months
Or so
When I saw your first smile

When you cry openly 
For the first time in a decade

But like…a lot, lot longer

Son, you already know
You’ve already seen it.


Psalms for Inside Times


how does it feel


if i could love you


to the moon goddess

kuno stars

Love Language


Papa, did you know the Four Corners Monument is the only point in the United States where you can stand in four different states at once? Your left foot can stand in Arizona, your right foot in Colorado, then you hunch over and place one hand on New Mexico, and the other in Utah. Despite you only having to bend your hip a little bit to place your palms on the floor, your body — at this quadripoint — technically occupies a combined 421,086 square miles of territory. What if I told you that I know how you can inhabit over ninety nine territories without moving

Language is also transformative in the sense of the corporeal. By embodying another world, it creates distance immediately. When someone speaks another language you can’t speak, it alienates you and stops you from understanding the other person. Even God knew this. Man, who once was of “one language” and “one speech,” worked together to create a tower to reach Heaven. God, angry with their hubris, scattered them across the face of the Earth and commanded, “Confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.” The origin of language, according to the Bible, is to divide bodies so that they may never build a tower like that again. This is the story of the Tower of Babel, or bālal, to “jumble or confuse.” The word we now know today as babble — “to utter meaningless or unintelligible sounds” — can be traced to bālal and the story of that tower.

When I was younger and we still lived in the Philippines, I spoke two dialects: Tagalog and Visaya. It was only when I moved to America that I stopped speaking my native-tongue and began speaking and thinking in English. I was now not only spatially away from the Philippines, but linguistically away. Forgetting how to speak Tagalog is different from having never learned it. The emptiness doesn’t come from the fact it never existed, but that emptiness is instead defined by absence. It used to be there, but now it’s not. The world offered by Tagalog and Visaya were now sealed off, and there would forever be a window between my family and I. We could still see each other, but we could only make gestures through the foggy glass and hope the other would understand. My mother-tongue and I were separated; the umbilical cord had been snipped. “We’re in America now,” my papa says, “So, we have to speak English.”

When Lolo Arming and Lolo Luis died, I didn’t know how to mourn. I never got to know them, so I didn’t cry. They both had dementia, so they forgot how to speak English. I forgot how to speak Tagalog, so we all forgot each other. In fact, there were days I forgot I had grandfathers; when they died, there was no difference between their presence and their absence. How do you mourn ghosts? Could they even hear me?

A white, all-American man delivered a package to our house the other day, when you weren’t there. He said, “Mahal kita, everyone!” before he left to show that he knew our language. I wanted to tell him we don’t say I love you in our mother language. When it’s said, you say it in English, “I love you, Pia.” But mostly, it is unspoken: remittances, a sold house to fund my education, a kiss on the cheek before you leave for your work when you think I’m asleep.

The political philosopher Frantz Fanon writes, “A man who has a language consequently possesses the world expressed and implied by that language.” In other words, language is a world in and of itself. There are entire cities etched in the roll of an r. Speaking a language is transformative, transporting you from one world to another. There is a difference between good night and buenos noches, the firm sharpness of d and t versus the soft, buttery kisses in the o and s.

I read another article today that Filipino nurses are dying of COVID-19 at a significant rate, and I found myself bent over in prayer for you. I don’t speak. This is the language I remember from the silence of mama’s womb.

And I remember you, concerned that I didn’t believe in God anymore, said, “I want to talk to you about Catholic faith, Pia, but it’s hard because my English is not good.” For you, English is a destination — it is a means of arrival. But with every arrival, there is departure. I’m scared that one day, you’ll finally liberate yourself from the conqueror’s land and forget how to speak, babbling in your orphaned mother tongue. I can speak the world, but what does that mean if I can’t reach you? What if you forget how to say “I love you” to me? Will you understand me if I tell you “I love you?”

Found Poem Maya Ross Gay


Maybe in all likelihood

it was meant for me to love you from afar

With your very large hands you’ve left your love in me

And while you’re gone the love continues to grow

Love grows in me if you’re in Mexico

it grows if you’re in Spain

I love you if you’re in Gardena

I love you if you’re only videos replaying in my brain

I love you! I love you! I love you!

In all likelihood when I’m gently put into the earth

Some plants, maybe most plants will continue to grow

And everyone will be lucky enough

to breath the love you planted in me



the days drag
on & on … & on
wake the fuck up ’cause it’s been too long
and are equally fleeting

I wear the same loose-fitting cotton tee
and adidas gym shorts
that I’ve worn since I was a kid –
I think they were mom’s,
I think they’re older than me

I settle into this nest.
I do almost nothing, or so much
of nothing
a cycle of the mundane
where grief hums,
anxiety props its feet up,
and I eat bagels and nongshim snacks almost every day

I settle into myself,
a quiet force of nature that
is constantly shapeshifting, evolving ~
I have let the world break me many times,
just so I could rearrange myself
in a new, unseemly way
just so I could see things in a strange light
on an unexplored plane,
from a hidden crevice in my heart

the idleness reminds me that
transformation lives here
in my curiosity, in the echoing depths of me
as I make sense of how God
and the continuum exist
inside me
I have always,
will always wonder what form they take, what it is
I’m meant to learn and share or keep to myself

I take in the stifled air,
gasp between the mourning
wash the ash away
steady with the rumbling earth – this time,
it’s the world that’s breaking
rearranging itself, I know the feeling
this time, it’s my secret she yearns to know
one that requires my complete undoing
– and so we’re back in step with the
push & pull … & push & pull

we never leave the mundane
which feels like slow waves taking their time
to greet the shore
but it’s a constant and tremendous unraveling
it will look familiar until one day it doesn’t
until one day it’s gone
until she and I again
become curious about each other

in the meantime, I will
sit with the sun and drink green tea
at the same time each day
and pretend that this is

Normalize Therapy


Phoenix Rising

“Phoenix Rising” is part of the “Qi Pao” series, which highlights the artist’s imagined designs for traditional Chinese dresses of the same name. Each work of art features smooth, sweeping lines and organic geometric forms. Although intended to be abstract, the image evokes images of nature. Birds, flowers, and even fish seem to glide through with grace and ease. The bright, effervescent colors further add to the sense of movement and life. 

Brown Bodies


Home Sweet Home


Handwritten note. Alternating paragraphs of text written in black, blue, and yellow ink on lined paper.

My first home – your womb – you created me.
You carried my body – you carried my soul.
My heart beats because yours did.
My first home – your love – you showed me.
You carried my pain – you carried my joy.
My heart beats because yours did.

This home we have – anything but perfect.
I carry anger, frustration, pain, so much hurt.
I strive for freedom, joy, kindness, light.
We build love. We build love.

My current home – your heart – you fill me.
We text our temperatures to each other every day.
Sharing to connect: a new sign of care.
We make intentional time for each other.
We are each other’s home by fate.

My current home – your warmth – you lift me.
We hold each other and sway slowly.
Dancing to connect: a new sign of investment.
We make intentional time for each other.
We are each other’s home by choice.

This home we have – beautiful despite imperfection.
We carry sadness, longings of a different world, mourning.
But more importantly,
we carry hope, strength, courage, compassion.
We carry love. 
We build love. We grow love.
We keep love. We share love.
We express love. We are love.
We are home.