Review of Paul Auster’s 4 3 2 1, appearing in Riot Material. “He believed in an infinite series of times, in a growing, dizzying net of divergent, convergent and parallel times. This network of times which approached one another, forked, … Continue reading
Destiny, the morningstar, hikes her dress up high and pisses a saberlike stream of light, honeyed pixels outsourcing guidance.
Whoever I am, I have always depended on the kindness of words— such strange company these solitary verses.
In the permanent flophouse Love reigns supreme— A tried and torn migrant ready to drop from chronic fatigue
Dear Letters of the Alphabet, We regret to inform you of the untimely death of one of your brethren, lowercase i. Gone missing a while back, we were hoping for its return to its rightful place in the alphabet, but … Continue reading
Hands reach, instinctively, because they understand what the mind’s fixed gears are sometimes too tight or slow to grasp: the necessity of shrinking distance through first contact, the dream-life of prayers.
God in the small details, the Devil in the abstract— in between, Us, the stuff stars are made from, on the cutting room floor.
Boy on street corner brown bag in his hand, crinkling– Yo, I’ve gotta piss.
(In memory of Anthony Hassett, and in response to his artwork) I have seen the Little Emperor— mischievous, unabashed, baiting in borrowed skin dong tolling through the marketplace offering his services for a nominal fee. He leads, without words, through … Continue reading
After all these years I still might use the same technique: tugging on pigtails. A cruel and delightful swing, gaining momentum to vault headfirst into your secret hive, vaguely aware of and interested in honey, but the main draw, your … Continue reading
