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
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
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
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
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,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
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.* His left cheekbone bears a recently popped pimple which one will watch Trevor, . . . → Read More: All the Little Moving Parts
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
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”
I’ve already penned two full books of poetry as art therapy when the diagnosis comes back negative. I’m not Bipolar after all, it says. The doctor assures me I am nothing of the sort. I am healthy, best anyone can tell.
I want to ask, then, what the blue fuck my problem is, but I . . . → Read More: The Consultation