Mikael Gregorsky and Charles McGuire Leave London Well Before Dawn to Take a Road Trip to Have Pints in East Coker and Somerset, and Stop Off at Stonehenge Along the Way

Todays photos of the day capture a few moments from a road trip that our own Charles McGuire joined by the photographer Mikael Gregorsky.  The two were on route to visit the graves of T.S. Eliot and T.E. Lawrence in Southwest England.  Be on the lookout in the coming days for photos and narrative about that trip. … More Mikael Gregorsky and Charles McGuire Leave London Well Before Dawn to Take a Road Trip to Have Pints in East Coker and Somerset, and Stop Off at Stonehenge Along the Way

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she thought of painting fire

the radio plays.             Books pages words press hard.             Life is sucking the marrow out of me,             she says and struggles to find             the smile that usually accompanies irony. the saxophone sings.             She can no longer connect             the photograph with the image in the mirror on the wall.             She … More she thought of painting fire

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convolutions.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight…His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, … More convolutions.

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STARVE: a note-poem for the hungry. (to be interpreted as variously as possible.)

PART I:  In which we analyze and attempt to understand the most basic level of need–hunger–and the outcome of failing to meet this need. starve verb \ˈstärv\ starved | starv·ing Definition of STARVE intransitive verb 1          a : to perish from lack of food b : to suffer extreme hunger 2          a archaic : to die … More STARVE: a note-poem for the hungry. (to be interpreted as variously as possible.)

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have your ghost meet my ghost in the room at the end of the hall.

the walls are closing in, we agreed. hills like white trumpet calls the sand storms dune we hope sun-soaked beneath bare feet; I dream of a collaborative tropical escape: run busted hand up mended leg; fuck it all away. it’s a million o’clock in late February and the Sirens sound off across the polar vortex. … More have your ghost meet my ghost in the room at the end of the hall.

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