sometimesthe words that I useare too heavyfor paper andsink beneaththe surface words like beatensuicidal and cutare too dense forfiber to holdtogetherso meanings turn and slump to the emptyside of the pagehide the blurof an empty father punctuate smacks slaps and jabs work-stained hands leaving blacknessand blue behind my eyes Continue reading Bleed Through by Eric Machan Howd
what is it—about the beating—and whipping—of horses—inthose old books? “Poor horse,”Fantine sighs in Les Misérables—as Dahlia calls her pity—absurd—what is it—Raskolnikov’s night-mare—in Molchusky’s words—“Mikolka beat the nag aboutthe eyes with a shaft, and then finishesit with a crowbar”—Raskolnikov—a child in the dream cries—screams—hugs “the blood-soaked head”—kissesit—“The cruel deed fills him with mystical terror.”—(but too late—for Raskolnikov—he’s still driven—to kill—the two old ladies)—what isit—when Nietzsche in Turin—we’re … Continue reading Horses and Mystical Terror by Frank Freeman
From the very outset of Vincenzo Latronico’s fourth novel (and the first to be translated to English), Perfection, there is a simmering contempt that’s always waiting to boil to the surface, but never does in quite the direct way one might have ordinarily expected before emotional suppression and passive aggression became de rigeur. A description that can, in effect, describe what it means to be … Continue reading Perfection: Not So Much an Attack on Millennials as the Things That Shaped Their Formative Years—In Other Words, the Internet
it all depends so much on the knowingas if the clinging itself would save you—should holding prove itself inadequateand release prove the impossible whole a stone falls not demanding its meaningand the bird must be held to the breeze—fingers recalling a charmed slack of threadthe light passing through, unraveling vision ache is your body surrendering its bordersopen palms, soft geometry, inward home—absence without calculus, knots … Continue reading Hissing of the Feathered Thread by Gregory O’Neill
We leave our souls like luggage—bodies like garment bags.In the bat‑black clock hours,we usher meteors,like tiny golden pins up the ivoryheights the day calls clouds. Children’s buckets at our hips jinglewhen they kiss—dream‑power makes us taller.Nightgowns and PJs sweeping like flags.Slippers loosen jangly baubles of frozen rain. A hundred million assemble themselvesinto a backup band for the universe.Sounds arrive that other minds might callinterference—or harmony. … Continue reading The Night Out by Gregory O’Neill
I look like an ant—red as fireor one of those grease ants you might crush with your finger as it marchesacross the kitchen counter insignificant in catastrophes of my own choosing(dear god—not yours) as sentient as all wildlife the way I head for my burrow at the first orange glow of the lowering sun imagine how … Continue reading From a distance, I know* by Dale Champlin
No No thank you No thank you No thank you! Just no Just not feeling it Just not not not notno No! NO!! What part of no DON’T you understand? N O Please remove your hand Please remove your hand No None of that None Nada Nada thing Nothing Silence The Unspoken The Refusal Not the UN-Lived Not the i couldn’t care lessNot the silence of indifference or recusal nor the conspiracy of consent Not the absence of yes But no Just no No to submissionNo is … Continue reading The Other Option by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko
Ten years agoin ParisYou were rapedby the tongues of peacocksand told it was Paradise Todayyou standa little left of the Mirrorfanning yourselfwith liesannouncing your own arrivalwith nothing left to say Whereis the smileyou stretched across canvasbefore you learned to paint You say nothingwith so many featherswhile I sip passionlikean elephantthrough a straw Continue reading Viens! by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko
Sing a song of sixpence spent on killingA popular hobby but never quite fulfilling I wish for day, I wish for mightTo survive the drones each night Round and round in circles, dizzy in despairStumble on a landmine and disappear Little Mohamet sat on a bucket eating a crust of stale breadAlong came a sniper with a .50 cal rifle and shot off Mohamet’s head … Continue reading A Child’s Hellscape of Verses by Gary Keenan
It’s not any kind of “shocking revelation” that what’s left of the “book business” is mostly in shambles. And that what it takes to “monetize” literature in the present is a decidedly “bread and circuses” approach. Never was that made more apparent than the advent of “BookTok.” However, with Emerald Fennell’s latest film, a “version” of Wuthering Heights (that she opted to put in quotation … Continue reading Why Emerald Fennell’s Adaptation of Wuthering Heights Is Such a Hot-Button Issue for the Stodgier Side of the Literary World Right Now (And Why It Shouldn’t Be)
