Table of Contents
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintThe Defection Of The Pale Horse Of The Apocalypse
Saddled-up again we ride to sweat and bone,
gallop across the bogs,
fugitive from the sweep of the scythe of mortality,
come to collect its due for the passing through
this life, for what I took from its brimful cache
of loves and sorrows.
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintSifting through recycled magazines for materials to create her elaborate cut paper constructions is a process Kirsten Kindler calls “hunting and gathering.” The Richmond-based artist collects and collates images into thematic groupings: cars, architectural details, electronic equipment, stairways and other signifiers of acquired domesticity. From these miniature facsimiles of luxury, Kirsten Kindler builds intricate structures that serve as delicately fraught monuments to material culture.
"...those ruddy bastards need to know that I intend to collect.”
He is blunt as a dull knife...
...I heard a lot about God.
The 56 Dreadful Things My Mother and I Have in Common
...I decided to tell my mother.
...moving toward three in the morning...
One Hundred Dollar Misunderstanding
Touch is everything now, maybe the only way to communicate.
...it was pretty funny that I’d end up working for Funt in the Summer of 1965.
This is a segment from Mary's novel “The Shaman Factory.”
“Baseball is the background music of my life.”—George Will
Check out these classics
Grandma painted on slabs of butter
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I came upon Maya Brym’s rare breed of paintings by chance. I was flipping though a magazine, and her works reproduced within gave me pause. They stuck out as odd for our time. Hybrids of still life, abstraction, and nature painting, these pictures radiated a kind of psychological intensity akin to Georgia O’Keeffe or Henri Rousseau—artists whose singular styles bucked the trends of their days.
A few years back, pedicures reached a tipping point...
A week later, I filled my sister in on my Virgin Mary calamity.
Focusing is critical.
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintThe Civilised Savage
Among the ancient ruins strewn with moss
Within the decimated architecture
Of a forgotten people
Lives the civilised savage
The balls of his bare feet land on the aged marble
Of fallen Corinthian columns
As he leaps, apishly
Traversing the Hellenistic landscape
His white collar lies starched
As it hugs the knot of his crimson necktie
His muscles wrapped
In a three-piece suit of grey barathea
Tribal markings
Of blue, red and white
Decorate his impish visage
Hearkening back to the insignia of his cannibal tribe
That has since dissolved
His hair, pompadoured with mashed yucca and honey
Maintains its structure
Despite his simian movements
Swinging from tree to tree
His polysyllabic speech,
Constantly interrupted by moans and grunts
Even when he unearths his well-worn copy
Of Plato’s The Republic
And reads it aloud
Through my crooked, cracked spectacles
* * *
Marilyn’s Lips
The diptych exalts her noblest feature
Half filmic, shades of the silver screen
Half palpable, with vibrant red and pink
Newsprint lips crookedly smiling, vampish
Inked, off-register, coy and seductive
Flattened, alienating, out of reach
Red and succulent like the tender flesh
Of tree-ripened fruit, shimmering, wet
Glossy like the pages of magazines
Pried up from her white, coquettish face
Eerily floating in the ether
Like a Science Fiction Double Feature
Suspended in time, life-like in their print
Barbiturates melt on the tongue between
Her swollen lips, oozing down her narrow throat
We recite a threnody chant, but still
Her lips remain
Table of Contents
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintCold Turkey
Can’t see no sky
—John Lennon
We regret to announce that your flight has been delayed
by this announcement of regret. Calendars featuring the anal
passages of today’s cabin crew must be paid
for. The hot chocolate isn’t slow. It’s special.
Satirical sonnets on this or any other airline
must go over your heads or under the seat in front
as the risk of becoming bad observational
comedy is high at this festive time.
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Bright Windows
Jackhammers rattled the walls with stammered curses & I
awoke from a dream of soft-spoken longing–what I want,
ungiven. The window, a rectangle of brilliance I couldn’t enter; thus now, to
retain some sense of holiness I go
to Tompkins Square, but even the monkey bar set escapes the playground, sneaks in
the fenced areas to dance where it says not to tread.
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintMist
On the west side running path
mist-ghosts disappear into the future
or rise to the surface as an impression
of color, or the outline of a limb,
wafting close enough that I can see
the ballooning of ribs sweaty
with effort
and the sinking again
of the ribs behind the spine—
& then the figures drift, sails half-filled
with wind, back into grey
*
The man in black shorts is not too much faster—
a slow erasure into fog
while my breath grows shallow
trying to catch him.
But most maybe they do not want to be dirty, only lazy.