The screen’s fabrications remain. A film shot never fails, sailing through the century like a black v at the hour of moaning. I premiere these pontifical birds: villagers march and raise their arms, Marschlieder. Thus I am your sweet messenger glittering more than first stars, a harvest of light concealing your nicks and little deaths….
It’s my first class in the infra-tactile studies program it meets in the Incunabula Collection of the Bancroft it’s Nate Mackey’s class Professor Mackey is young wears jeans and Professor Mackey wears a brown leather belt a big, oval silver buckle with inlaid blossoms the heels of…
I was sitting on the bitch tree, smirky and small. Just me to myself with my hats on, a tulle dress eating pomegranates, throwing seeds, as the sun rose and fell into my body’s mouth. There were no boo hoos but murmurs and people far below grew distant. Money fell out of the tree, honey…
This morning’s hothouse: a pornography. All my darlings pressing up to watch My fan-dance, velvet spathe flourishing Open to my hidden plush. I will peel down To my inmost creases for you, and your camera Will snap and whine, but we both know You’re not after some glossy shot For your desktop botanical. What you…
Cohen Awards Each year, we honor the best poem and short story published in Ploughshares with the Cohen Awards, which are wholly sponsored by our longtime patrons Denise and Mel Cohen. Finalists are nominated by staff editors, and the winners—each of whom receives a cash prize of $600—are selected by our advisory editors and staff….
meanwhile, back at the castle… the fan made in Taiwan is sputtering. the boring commercials for male enhancement and arthritis cures blare. someone’s dragging their feet. the idiot thugsta in the spanking convertible corners curbside, speakers on boom. space shuttle Discovery cracks the atmosphere. the effing faucet is dripping. the thousand sparrows are singing down…
Varick, yes. Just—oh, Film Forum, sure. Go straight down Carmine and turn left. Wait, did I say to turn onto Houston after Varick? Actually, I’m walking that way. You’re welcome. Actually, you can turn here, before Varick: this street dead ends at Film Forum. In fact, I’m going to Film Forum. Would you like me…
By midnight, Josif had downed five shots of whiskey, flirted with three girls the wrong side of half his age, and sprawled into a table, clattering aside glasses and bottles. It was my fault. I’d brought him. He was a contract worker from Croatia, and, despite monthly sojourns in the States, he had no friends….
1 my eyes are as big and Grimm as china saucers but this is no fairytale. i do my daily doings hurried to purposeful distraction, a couple of snits or fits if things work out—anything to keep my muddling mind off those kith among those missing if i’m lucky the headlines will be so outrageous…
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