Anxiety | Sesquipedalism

Ten Sentences About Two Dreams

By James, on April 6th, 2011%

Sometimes, it’s both fun and instructive to set for yourself ridiculous writing constraints: No semicolons, no words an tenth-grader wouldn’t know, find a story to begin with this line, &c. The same way everyone’s grandmother does the jumble or crossword (in pen) to keep her brain limber and nimble, I use Facebook’s . . . → Read More: Ten Sentences About Two Dreams

Pink Turtleneck About Which No One Asks Any Questions

By James, on March 16th, 2011%

Sunrise

The attic’s effluvium is a complex mélange: one-third salt, one-third mold, one-third urine. Hot spruce. The medley is equally identifiable on the palate; I can taste it, I never seem to adjust. All July and August, every breath is like gargling with swampwater, each a heavy, slow-simmered nauseous experience. The . . . → Read More: Pink Turtleneck About Which No One Asks Any Questions

Failing the Litmus Test for Apathy

By James, on February 23rd, 2011%

Simplify, simplify. If I hadn’t already mulched my dog-eared, trade-paper copy of Walden/Civil Disobedience, I could have extended that quotation profoundly, instead of merely adumbrating the idea. Simplify.

By November of 2000, I had a mattress. Stained and remaindered from a two decade-old futon, it laid without linens on the unfinished wood floor, piebald with . . . → Read More: Failing the Litmus Test for Apathy

Lifeline

By James, on January 20th, 2011%

A thick blade of yellow, dead grass tickles the sensitive membrane inside the rim of my nose. My whole body spasms; I snap upright and paw with dirty palms at my eyes, chipping away the grainy caulk of unconsciousness. Eyes open, I seem stricken by synaesthesia: the phosphorescent lemon sunlight registers as a . . . → Read More: Lifeline

An Entirely Different Cuban Missile Crisis

By James, on December 27th, 2010%

This afternoon, I ambled on an errand about a local retail plaza and, to my astonishment, I discovered there the most ideal sneakers I’d ever seen. Suede and several different shades of grey,[1]their white toe, slate laces and a black faux-snakeskin design on both port and starboard sides made them a glorious, textural monochrome rainbow. . . . → Read More: An Entirely Different Cuban Missile Crisis

All the Little Moving Parts

By James, on August 12th, 2010%

Take, for instance, the three-minute introductory sequence of Busted Hub. A logy wipe like the cockeyed rising of Venetian blinds opens the film. Trevor Czewski, greasy-haired and wrapped in a blue/black flannel, sighs in the cracked vinyl front seat of his Chevette.[1]* His left cheekbone bears a recently popped pimple which one will watch Trevor, . . . → Read More: All the Little Moving Parts

In the Bath

By James, on October 6th, 2009%

Sitting in the bath, a poem written on my thigh, in water- soluble black ink, melts faster than you’d think. The first stanza into the second, pooling and becoming concentrated, thick tears the color of collected rainwater in an ashtray.

And it accomplishes nothing, except to remind that all art is quite an indulgence, senseless . . . → Read More: In the Bath

“She Understands & Is Proud”

By James, on October 6th, 2009%

The collar of a washed and washed, charcoal black rock and roll tee is torn out, exposing her shoulders and back, all covered by a tattooed line drawing of an angel that looks like amateur calligraphy.

She claims to be skilled enough to read an aura from five yards and knows that Rider-Waite is the . . . → Read More: “She Understands & Is Proud”

Each an Aspect

By James, on October 3rd, 2009%

I am the Shame of the race. The red cheeks and hot ears of a thing yearning to turn away from itself.

A disappointed Misanthrope witnessing unwillingly. Waiting for the day, the hour, the minute, I can close my eyes, my ears, my mouth; hold my nose and pull on gloves.

Then I will flip . . . → Read More: Each an Aspect

The Consultation