It isn’t as easy as it sounds
Talking to dead people
And living people simultaneously
While attempting to be more
Than a cell phone tower

Intellectual uncertainty turns out to be a hallmark of masklophobia.

Every day, a new uncovering. People, places, and ideas are revealed to no longer be what they’d seemed to be.

There's an inherent bias in our fiction-making against the mysterious, the uncanny (style—not narrative). For all the left-leaning of the literary industrial complex, there's a rampant conservativism in its language.

Defenses of liberal arts education seem a dime a dozen these days.

At the Earth Room exhibit—Walter De Maria’s interior earth sculpture made from 250 cubic yards of dirt and 3,600 square feet of floor space—no photos are allowed, admission is free, food and drink should be nowhere near the gallery.

number one i hadn’t understood the importance of ambient light in the installation of the paintings in a narrow corridor that’s dimly lit fantastic

In terms of words that slice two ways, “graphic” is distinct.

I think writing is, in a lot of ways, life-saving work for so many of us that feel like we're walking through the world without a sense of being seen or known or heard. 

A sacrifice zone is a wasted place, or a place deemed worth wasting.

We are in the midst of the MLB playoffs, baby, and the Cleveland Guardians (neé Indians) are, for the moment, in it. And I want that to mean more than it does.

This one night, I’m not shitting you, we saw our friend—everyone called her Tex Ass—throw a guy right over a car. Just right over the top of it.

You remember a fragment of childhood horror. You’re on the day camp bus, and your seatmate decides to punch you, hard, in the thigh.

Early departures, surprise comebacks, protracted witherings, late holdings-on: all different ways of ending things.

At its best, Climate Change as Class War reads as a potential roadmap for the climate politics that lies beyond liberalism’s shortcomings.

The idea that you can just be in this space of pure intellectual pursuit, without a body to feed or provide shelter for, that just by pursuing these kinds of degrees, you leave your body behind, is a fiction.

Baharevich’s creation is mostly known, if at all, to anglophone audiences through its play-adaptation, which is quite a shame.

To go back to the comfort that is childhood reading, before it was ruined by us high school teachers—back when we could both get lost in a marvelous book and finish it in an afternoon.

Sometimes, friend, you hold 
the knife. And sometimes, under a silence of wings
and empty light, the knife just won’t be held.

“It’s Fang’s struggle to give form to his own unsettledness that imbues his poems with their relentless pathos, sensuality, and elegance.”