…and somehow I forgot to mention it on my own fucking webpage. I tweeted it. I Facebooked it. I posted it in the obscurer depths of a Nine Inch Nails message board, but I never mentioned that the interview is actually available online. Below, is the full-text. But I think the magazine probably wants you . . . → Read More: Amoskeag Interview Went Live…
Hi, kids. If you’ve landed on this website and read past its front page, there’s at least a 40% chance that you’re a nerd. And I offer that epithet in complimentary fashion—nerds are my people. We’re as much a family as any political party, any college fraternity, any professional football team or its fans. We’re . . . → Read More: Nerd Flirting
I lay next to you. No: not next to, entangled with. No: not entangled, braided. No: there are no prepositions that fit our configuration. We lay swaddled in the soft cotton of bedsheets; our arms and legs akimbo, your thinner limbs weaving in and through the acute angles of my bent elbows and knees. In . . . → Read More: We Suck the Moon
Once, in a workshop, I was pressed by a shockingly hostile roundtable of peers to explain why, precisely, it is that I write. Within the cobwebby cortex of my brain, a number of fragmented imaginings popped and fizzed like fireworks as, aloud, I moved through a series of speech disfluencies—“uh,” “well,” “you know,” . . . → Read More: I Am Trying to Break Your Heart
The semicolon is the most complex of all punctuation marks; it is also the most beautiful. Aesthetically dazzling, it comprises two separate symbols; simple, primordial. A hovering sun vertically pursued by fingernail moon; ovum overhanging an intrepid, eager sperm. A fresco of tension: the semicolon as seen by a sensitive semiotician is emblematic of . . . → Read More: ;
In exciting news, you’ll be able to find my short story “Horse Latitudes” properly published for all to see in the mid-2011 issue of The Willard & Maple—a magazine with real live overseas buyers (or so the internet tells me).
“Horse Latitudes” was, when I quit writing for two years (2006-2008) due to a bout . . . → Read More: Accepted!
This won’t be love- making. It’s an empty construct. An abomination. Keep reading and I will promise you no symbolic language, no archetypal characters, no deus ex machina, no meaning buried beneath the text—except a lusty reverence for the very act of creation. This is poetic masturbation. Likewise, it will soon spiral out of control. . . . → Read More: An Uninspired Onanism
At dawn, when the water is a sidereal, speckled checkerboard of marigold on violet and blue, row past the breakers out to the mouth of the tide; fill an iron urn with the briny saliva from under the tongue of the sea.
Spill it out midday into a flat-bottomed blown glass pan. Take a nap; . . . → Read More: Ars Poetica
Originally, I was only trying to explain the subtler nuances of the moment to my friend.
In the explicated memory, I had quit smoking weeks previously and my sense of smell, deadened by the habit, had returned all at once, all while I slept in on a March morning. I knew something had changed, but . . . → Read More: The Rationale of Sesquipedalism