History is now. And then now. It’s still happening now. And it appears it’s all about me.
Do you hear the engines beneath the model of the city giving out?
“The History I’m Living In Right Now!” by Kent Shaw Read More »
History is now. And then now. It’s still happening now. And it appears it’s all about me.
Do you hear the engines beneath the model of the city giving out?
From the ceilings of our tiny tunneled chambers, we hang.
Workers bring their parcels—drops of toothsome honeydew
fallen from foreign floral nectaries.
“from MYRMECOLOGY,” by Rachel Harkai Read More »
From the ceilings of our tiny tunneled chambers, we hang.
Workers bring their parcels—drops of toothsome honeydew
fallen from foreign floral nectaries.
In this dark moment, the largeness
of which I’d like to deny, we settle
arguments with silence, we divide the terra-cotta
soldiers one eyeball at a time.
“Ultima Thule,” by Susan Rich Read More »
In this dark moment, the largeness
of which I’d like to deny, we settle
arguments with silence, we divide the terra-cotta
soldiers one eyeball at a time.
With all the weight of future uncertainties — predictions of ever greater social despair, economic collapse, another world war, concerns for the end of natural resources and therefore the wildernesses that sustain all of us — Dan Gerber’s Particles: New and Selected Poems is a deeply human meditation more timely and timeless than could have ever imagined.
The Future Every Moment: A Review of Dan Gerber’s “Particles” Read More »
With all the weight of future uncertainties — predictions of ever greater social despair, economic collapse, another world war, concerns for the end of natural resources and therefore the wildernesses that sustain all of us — Dan Gerber’s Particles: New and Selected Poems is a deeply human meditation more timely and timeless than could have ever imagined.
In her clapboard house with hard-packed dirt floors.
In this place of ghostly waking, my grandmother
rises from dark slumber, already dressed, her hair
combed over each ear, held by minnow silver
“Alba for Donatila,” by Virgil Suárez Read More »
In her clapboard house with hard-packed dirt floors.
In this place of ghostly waking, my grandmother
rises from dark slumber, already dressed, her hair
combed over each ear, held by minnow silver
