Sour grapes in the whirl-pool the albumen, fork a gentle cloudover the yolk, one foot on the sheet, this ghost’s getting caught. Down comes the spider! Net the jellyfish, two tendrils come off, no matter, slippery ropes on a fisherman’s deck. My bread’s in need of blessing; salt the theft. More from this Author Read More in Poetry
Book Review: “Camp Sites: Sex, Politics, and Academic Style in Postwar America”
Not sure how to review this, as it’s been a while since I read a book in this experiential category: a nonfiction book I enjoyed greatly but am not fully sure I “got.” Camp Sites is a work of queer theory, something with which I have little experience. They kind...
Gospel of the Four Septembers
In the time of the Pentarchs, toward the end of the first summer, when his mother lay sick of a fever, they arrived severally in apprehension and wonder, he from the west or from Airyaneum Vaejah some say and she from Ur as it is written in the prophets and they came to where now... Continue Reading →
EMILY AS SHE ASKS ME ONE MORE QUESTION ABOUT MY PARENTS’ DIVORCE
I was unaccompaniedwhen it happened.I was an apple smashedinto the lunch bagof a person who hadno need for a fingerprintfrom the garden.They never should havehappened, I tell her.I never should havehappened. I’m okayliving in that margin,but if you ask me the samequestion four timesI will have to lie to you. More from this Author Read... Continue Reading →
Ugly
O, Ugly, returnedfrom your temporary leave,come closer. Comewith your catastrophicweapons — vandalof love — lootthis heart, tearwith shrapnel handseyelashesfrom their skin graves,command teardropsin massacres of crying.O, Ugly, plungeyour orders insidethis bombed mouth.Make insultslethal affection.Ugly, you are a soldier,battle to reclaimself loathing.Release civiliansof their guilt;these troops ofpraise, hollow praise.Let hate behold the grimaceof plush lipstick,of pouting... Continue Reading →
Q & A with Kerry Hugins
Austin watercolor artist Kerry Hugins opens up.
Double or Nothing
Chris pulled into the parking lot of the box store off I-75 and scanned the grey expanse, a shade darker than the mid-afternoon sky. Drawing closer to the building he spotted a figure standing by a column to the left of the entrance. Skinny, with a patchy beard and glasses, the stranger smoked in a... Continue Reading →
The Idea
is not to bethe biggest ortoughestman in theprisonbut to bethe most affirmingin his beliefs;the birdmanRobert Stroudstudying birds insuch a waythat no one wouldever want anythingto do withhim. More from this Author Read More in Poetry
Book Review: “Jack”
Midway through the book that bears his name, Jack Boughton confesses his sins to a Black preacher, saying, “I’m a bad but confirmed drunk. I have no talent for friendship. What talents I do have I make no use of. I am aware instantly and almost obsessively of anything fragile...
Steam Power
I crawled up the driveway, worn tyres intruding upon a practical marriage of concrete and moss. As I came to a halt, the burnt glare of headlights, filtered through thick yellowed plastic, illuminated the formerly-white workshop door. In the thick dust that clung to it, I could still make out the path Jimmy's finger had... Continue Reading →