What will you write about your final day? On that last page the words require truth’s grain. What use is one more journey’s destination? The sweet surprises of another day? What, when the great fire roars through your home? What, when the earth’s fault slips with its sundering? What passion can you…
It’s alright to overdress for the riot. Your rage is stunning. It’s alright to pursue the wrong pleasures and the right suffering. Here’s my permission. Take it. It’s alright to replace a siren with a bell. Let the emergency make some music. It’s alright that the meter reader broke your sunflower in half. You…
for the ladies at Florence House The fact of April first means nothing other than the rent check is due & spring or not we are all tenants of snow today & I have no children under my apron nor angels gracing my back & the women chew slowly while it thickens beyond…
You’d better believe that if I hadn’t already tied the knot on these sweatpants I’d be out there in the mad brick city painting my lips the only red my complexion will allow, maybe with some heels on, I could probably find some heels or at least borrow some, well first make some friends in…
i.m. Kathleen Roche (1982-2018) God of all comfort, close your hand over the tract houses of Livingston— lay shadow on the subdivided land of Christmas lights and cul-de-sacs and minivans—withdraw the mortar from the bricks that bind the staggered townhomes and cracked chimneys over white-trimmed condominiums— swallow the mailboxes down into the loam beneath…
The sickening canal retains a gruesome beauty. Today, the weather has waxed psychotic—chilly rainy in the morning, humid and dense as it grew hot, sunny for a second, and now the bluish gray of photographs of Eastern Europe flows from the train bridge into the sky. On the surface of the water, a cascade of…
We feel we have felt felt. We have felt what felt we have. Have felt. Feel. We feel what felt we felt is not what felt felt is. What we have, we feel. What felt we have! Feel! Feel not what is, feel what felt is not. Not we, not felt. Is is is? We…
Picture civilizations like sparse swarms of fireflies, space/time like the evening air in which they’re suspended. Each bug flashes independently, never simultaneously, randomly announcing itself without regard for its distance from another or for the duration of its light. That one there! That one is us! Doesn’t it lately seem a foregone conclusion that the…
for Anna Maria Hong The master believes himself superior to his slaves. He desires comfort. He considers security and prosperity his birthrights. He prefers to ignore the labor required to create his luxurious world. He often fails to acknowledge the extravagance of his environment by comparing it unfavorably to the surroundings of more prosperous…
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