Time moves fast, and slow, and bent. Mostly this is an effect of the new authoritarian gravity stretching and clumping it.
Reviews • Essays • Excerpts • Interviews • Fiction & Poetry • Print
There are places to look for answers.
and with no warning she kicked /
my thigh her hoof squarely hit my wallet I felt / an old teary shame for a second telegraphing that / I will be its host for as long as I live
Cohen does not appear to be in on the joke.
Is the hand being proffered in the spirit of a gift, or is it evidence, rather, of something damning and unnamed?
And it worked. Neighbor helping neighbor. Neighbor chopping it up with neighbor. Saying hey. Crossing the street to ask how the kids were.
How can one be trusted with a language that one has lost?
stalked by something incomprehensible and menacing.
for a winner / is every loser / outright butler / flat tire singing / the license plate frame / insisting
The end of history is the eternal present of a bureaucracy without humans.
My dollhouse consulting room is at the scale of my truth, and is therefore the true room.
the toucan w/ the tidy mind who handles distribution at the paris review
Hamrah writes to a tub of over entertained frogs warming in shitty media bathwater he wants to drop a toaster oven into.
Thus the three dominant justifications of art in our time, as a strategy of self-knowledge, as means of therapy, as a road to empathy, are thrown out with the soiled bathwater.
As in a pantomime, we only know through happening.
