Fanny Howe, Indivisible, a novel: In this new avant-garde novel, Howe gives us the inimitable, fast-talking Henrietta, a filmmaker and foster mother in Boston whose ragged relationships lead her to religion and mysticism. Highly charged and poetic and profound. (Semiotext(e))
Another day of hair in my food. Another day of being cheated, Overlooked. Another day of nausea. I play Beethoven: Symphony 9. The violin simmers for an instant, And the cello is the instant, And the timpani, The timpani comes crashing. My stomach turns its peach pit to the moon! The sound says I am…
Becomes a layer, means a look A tilt my skull to better Seesaw from this to back To finishing for a kiss To lean on the fall of your hair My thumb and forefinger Like the rain Pooling gain by plurality.
Don Lee, Yellow, stories: Eight short stories that offer a fresh, contemporary vision of what it means to be Asian in America, a post-immigrant examination of identity, race, and love. (Norton)
Once a whiff, once a flint, the shifty skystuff blinds me on five sides. I take icefuls of noise and gas rounding out an inside. I prepare the upper reaches by kissing distance back into my skull like a transparent worm. Smoke keeps returning a little freckled, so I use it too. Throw it up…
When kiss spells contradiction it spills an ocean of open clothes. I gave me to one who hung hearts so high it was a mast in mute blue weather, the clang and strop of it, the undercover wet. Said are they sails your impenetrables that only winds can jibe them, the arc and the rip…
Thomas Lux, The Street of Clocks, poems: In his first all-new volume in seven years, Lux delivers a mesmerizing series of lyrical monologues, imbued with characteristic playfulness and lucidity, in language both distilled and musical. (Houghton Mifflin)
If you do it with a feather, it’s erotic. If you do it with the whole chicken, it’s perverted. —Contemporary bumper sticker Kenmore gloss-white washing machine, you idiot savant— dgalosh ganosh dgalosh ganosh dgalosh ganosh. To exorcize our dirt, we walk down stairs toward hell. That darkness, past the water heater, behind the furnace ….
I am not making myself up for public consumption. I enjoy consumption when it means an end to things. Please deduce. Each flower comes from the axil of a small leaf which, however, is often so small that it might escape notice and which sometimes (as in the Mustard Family) disappears altogether. (Waving adieu,…
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