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Tweet 1986 The arrangement that summer was as follows: Cyril St. John was allowed to assemble every day the yellow and sepia sofa cushions into the two sides and roof of a crude igloo; he could use the twenty-two-inch Pye Teletext to close in the fort’s front, and a second-hand, straight-backed cedar chair for a rear . . . → Read More: Revenants Tweet
Amoskeag: Your work, “[sic],” was featured in the 2011 Spring edition of Amoskeag. Tell us a little about the story behind this piece. How did it come about? James Black: I was discussing with a friend the importance of names. His stepfather’s birth certificate provided only “Baby Boy” as his first name, and we were laughing . . . → Read More: January 7th, 2012 Tweet Big fucker named McMasters takes them into the basement. Always bad when orderlies are bored. When they feel like herders of sleeping sheep. Everything’s better when they’ve won control. In battle. Which is what they call it, how they want to see it. Days are great when early on someone wakes their temper, but just . . . → Read More: The Proxy Tweet I. You got your first tattoo when you were twelve. Thirty days back from the hospital, your best friend Jack, son of a three-strike con, did the work for you. He had the know how; made the ink from toothpaste, newspaper ash, and the rainbow runoff of a busted Vis-a-Vis marker set. The outline hurt . . . → Read More: Husk Tweet I see a woman with double chins, both overgrown with a downy blonde pelt, as I drive south on state route 90. Darker hairs, spangled through the goatee, are stiff and perpendicular to her face. She coughs, belches—something— some full-body spasm sends pink debris spraying. It becomes flocking for the glass and dusty vinyl dash. . . . → Read More: Fat Woman in an ’89 Camry Tweet I’m able to stand on the wheelchair seat when someone calls me idiot. My head stays on, hypnotist still, neck no longer damp pasta, as I articulate my indignation. I never remember what I yell, only that they are terrified. Poor souls, didn’t know there was anything within me they didn’t need to pity. So . . . → Read More: The Palsied Boy’s Dream Tweet 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 Tweet I am an arm of my mutable memory; an extremity of the epitome of desperation; a prosthetic of the drugs I swallowed and sniffed and became. I am gestating, a doomed conception; a bastard child of barren parent; mind and heart fallow but excited by the drugs I swallowed and sniffed and became. I am . . . → Read More: Conception Tweet I would no longer know your real face in a crowd. I only recognize wax paper skin, bedsores, baldness and thrush; the you that looked melted in the sun: a thalidomide. This you had spread through memory by the capillary effect, like the expanding puddle of your piss—the time you yanked the catheter and wet . . . → Read More: Ignoring Your Corpse Tweet After a while, he went to the extent of renting two beds, twin pressboard dressers; a larger apartment, as well. He said support was paid up to date and the troublesome custody battle had come to an end. All of this means, he believes, that no one could doubt his daughters—estranged, now teenaged—are really coming . . . → Read More: Elaborate Act |
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