We feel we have felt felt. We have felt what felt we have. Havefelt. Feel. We feel what felt we felt is not what felt felt is. Whatwe have, we feel. What felt we have! Feel! Feel not what is, feelwhat felt is not. Not we, not felt. Is is is? We is what we…
Picture civilizations like sparse swarms of fireflies, space/timelike the evening air in which they’re suspended. Each bug flashesindependently, never simultaneously, randomly announcing itselfwithout regard for its distance from another or for the duration of itslight. That one there! That one is us! Doesn’t it lately seem a foregoneconclusion that the psychotic combination of our science,…
for Anna Maria Hong The master believes himself superior to his slaves. He desires comfort.He considers security and prosperity his birthrights. He prefers toignore the labor required to create his luxurious world. He often failsto acknowledge the extravagance of his environment by comparingit unfavorably to the surroundings of more prosperous people. Heignores anything that challenges…
Ooga booga jigga bigga nigga ziggurati bati boom boom tutti fruittiDjibouti mama comma no drama Obama from a llama fonana fanaRosannadanna chapati do be doobie Debbie Rebbie covfefe lemmecrammalamadingdong ching chong Chobani Thulani Donnie honeyDamiani Romani in de windy Indy bindi— do the Lindy, Cindy. Damnyou fam, you slam a ham in a cham, you…
Too easy, perhaps, to romanticize your behavior by comparing itto natural phenomena. Yes, the bird may land on the branch out ofinstinct, without thinking (though who can know for sure). The humanbeing chooses to love based on a hodgepodge of past experiences—asense of humor, shared values, similar tastes, compatibility, evencombativeness. The criteria change often, the…
I think, if I could,I’d be anything elsein this world. Mimosa pudica, my leavesclosing when touched.I’d go back to 1729, take for shelter the awfulcrypt Master kept me inwith only enough water to last between his visits,during which he spokenot to me but about me, as though I lackeda mind, an appeal forfellowship or feeling….
after Claude McKay & what’s the world to carve into your tombstonethen? Here lies a man, twenty-seven years old. He diedbut he ain’t no punk. He was one knife slicing, shit-talkin’ wick. The most lit sonofabitch who’s ever lived.He slept with Smith & Wessons under silk pillowcases.Here lies a body creased with whitewall tires.Here lies…
with lines from D. A. Powell We unyoke owl pellets from marrowin desert meadow. His mouth pigeon eye, a torch, womb turned flower. He, still a boy,dug from cactus skull. Undress into bark beetles. He unlearns how to hold a fistwith my hand. Bursts into dandelion seeds. We are all beautiful at least once.Mud water…
I. It’s entirely up to me to remember what you said. But all I recall is water, flour, strained yolk adding up to something beaten and inedible. I placed my ear to your stomach, whereexcess warmth gathers in the name of the body’s clandestineritual of diminishment. I’d crouch at your feetin the shower, allowing what pale lather ran in runnels from your hair,…
No products in the cart.