Practice: New Writing and Art pays $200 and tea to its contributors; it's not surprising then that several poems meditate on caffeine (thought the variant -ine in tea was theophylline):

Sit down on a rock and pour tea out of a thermos
The bottom's low and the treble's clear

There's a bad painting of a lake and tree
Slapped up over bullet holes in a concrete wall

Lots of men walking all one way
A couple of wedding rings and muddy knees

(Susan Tichy, "Summer Is Brief, Cities Are Large")

*

In the city of crazies, she crushes burning sage with her feet,
blows on coal for tea.

(Christi Kramer, "Maskil, at the Wall")

*

Coal fires burn under black
iron pots and all night
intoxicated customers
flutter over the silver and white leaf caffeine tea
cups splashing over, and over the table and
onto the floor.

(Eleanor Graves, "How! a Bawdy Teahouse and Her Strong Arms")

The journal's gorgeous production and fine editorial hand bode well, but team, don't even TRY in the foreword to say the magazine is full of birds. What it is is high on tea: A good clean high, gives you the munchies fierce. More about Practice later.