Online Exclusives

12.19.03
From A Story
The man is in the backyard, quoting to the stars a secret
only his heart knows, smiling at the moon first, and then  [...]
11.10.03
The Museum of Small Things
I’m telling you this because you don’t remember. [...]
10.18.03
From The Rooms Where We Are
The room where I’m
kept is all        glass. [...]
09.18.03
From Everything and More
Here is a quotation from G. K. Chesterton: “Poets do not go mad; but chess players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. [...]
09.01.03
The Last Hand
Before me lies a man. Perhaps handsome once, time has flattened his features, eroded the tightness of character—a creased brow, a drooped nose. [...]
08.20.03
The Sangreal
These things without nature, proper nature that is, of a terrestrial kind. Devoid of the essential forepart. But with wings. [...]
08.09.03
Three Poems from The Black Heralds
by César Vallejo
translated by Rebecca Seiferle
    There’s the desire to return, to love, to not be absent,
and the desire to die, fought by two
opposing waters that are never to be an isthmus. [...]
08.04.03
From Pirate Talk, or, Mermalade
Ma, there’s rope in my soup.
      Eat it or you can’t watch the hanging. [...]
06.09.03
January
In January, during the deepest part of winter, after two years of pleading on my part not to mention numerous gifts and blandishments and increasingly lucrative proposals, she once again agreed to be photographed. [...]
05.10.03
From The Lichtenberg Figures
When a longing exceeds its object, a suburb is founded.
Goatsuckers spar in the linden. The redskins are hunted. [...]
03.22.03
The Prince of Bees
There was nothing left for me after that but the beach—the grey afternoon—bells of cable cars over the lyme grass and a field of desiccated husks sprawling along the dunes. I was nineteen—or—twenty—as I have said, again and again—and will continue to say—fully-clothed and shivering over the sand in delicate measured steps. [...]
02.12.03
The Judge’s Wife
There’s a tower the lake calls Brother.
She whispers, someone has lost a white dress
in my eye that swims like nightfish.
[...]
01.25.03
Three Poems
In prehistoric times there was balance.
Bedrooms were charming and restful
animals would travel for miles
to be blinded by the beauty of the dawn. [...]

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In Print

Vol. 74
Grendel’s Kin: The Monsters Issue
Spring 2020
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

May 26, 2020
Coworkers drop me off at a cutting-edge camp for the talkative so I have people other than them to bore for two weeks such as the doorman with the bad left knee who I tell about my bad right knee as we are exiting applauding vehicles under upstate trees
May 19, 2020
As the light scanned his body, I could not tell if what was projected was what was outside, that which remained of his dynastic rule, the ruins of pillage and scorched-earth tactics from those of the north, or perhaps of his own minions; or was it some landscape of his dreams, an unfolding of what would come, the ruins that lay waiting deep in the tenses of the future, where the springs would be clouded with matter, the earth pocked and scabrous, mucosa and serum streaked.
May 13, 2020
It is contested territory. Right now she has two thick horns atop it. Dying can turn the most flamboyant into their most feared demon.

     R who works with her in the daytime puts oil (olive, coconut) on the horns, which G, who works nighttime, complains about.