for . . . . Beyond anything else, he dwells on what might inhabit his mind at the moment of his death, that which he'll take across with him, which will sum his being up as he's projected into spirit. Thus he dwells upon the substance of his consciousness, what its contents are at any…
"Hi babe" Hidalgo always said. Then as always wordlessly we made love. I was brutal just short of ruining the sex. Then we would lie almost dead. "I've got to go!" I cried suddenly, pulling on my clothes, checking to see they were right-side-out, and running home to Algot who was sick. Hidalgo said he…
All whom I love, all neighbors and relations awry and pure, all intimates of the same heart-paths, all strangers I would know would want to go there, would be compelled thuswards: the most northern, unknown, uninvented, patchy, unvisited on the maps. And I would go with them. In shivering boats, leaky carracks, floats of reed…
I killed the bee for no reason except that it was there and you were watching, disapproving, which made what I would do much worse but I was angry with you anyway and so I put my foot on it, leaned on it, tested how much I'd need to make that resilient, resisting cartridge give…
One way to look at it is this: the spiritual history of European communism is divided evenly into two parts by the name of Moses Hess. And the essay Uber das Geldwesen (On the Essential Nature of Money) is nothing less than the watershed which divides it. Ernst Bloch has famously distinguished two currents in…
Drinking, looking into the glass, I see a deep well, some clouds moving over it. At the bottom, a small lizard. A gold vapor swimming up. His eyes are blue, sad. He says listen you've had enough of one world, now try two. He melts back into the glass, the clouds break off. I swear,…
Where no question possibly remains—someone crying, someone dead—blame asks: whose fault? It is the counterpart, the day to day, the real-life, of those higher faculties we posit, logic, reason, the inductions and deductions we yearningly trace the lines of with our fingers. It also has to do with nothing but itself, a tendency, a habit,…
Mrs. Lovelady, in a morning-fresh white uniform, helped Lisa's mother-in-law, Mrs. Worthy, into the car. Lisa could only stand by and watch. The bucket seat was too low and dangerously tilted for Mrs. Worthy as she was now, and Lisa wished she had listened to David, and had come in his car instead of her…
This is where they put all the women: the mothers, the injured, the diseased. Someone has moved into the bed next to mine: we share a water pitcher and a bar of soap. Her name is Irena. She is the color of burnt umber, tinged yellow by jaundice and alcohol. She smells of urine and…
No products in the cart.