Rosemary still loves, she says, “on condition.” a car arrives. Rosemary receives it. garment: clean (minus the mysteries). she is dialed in; fresh. I move on swishing round the pavement of alleys to waves. a sign blinks: “VICTORY DON’T SLEEP” I look around, check my pockets. “LIVE EXTRA G NTLY” the neon goes dark. things … More Sailing under the guidance of a feather
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
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.
One night last week I was having drinks with a close friend I hadn’t seen in a while. We proceeded to catch up on how things were going with work, with our romantic relationships, our families, mutual friends, the whole standard ticket. At some point in the evening, things turned to talk about writing—as they … More Writing for Writers: Poetry, James Joyce, and the Arc of Absurdity