Online Exclusives

12.12.99
Matter Has Been Blown off the Surface of this V   i   s   i   b   le Star
In my collection of gluons whose color adds up
to white:

a time the universe

was the size of a darkening
string [...]
12.07.99
Horses
by Michael Eastman
introduction by William H. Gass
Everything swims up into its eyes. Its agility, its strength, its swiftness: These qualities soften though they do not lessen as they rise. [...]
11.26.99
Canaan
The news is always of rapture

A plume of dust, the raking of ashes [...]
11.10.99
The Lightning Field (V)
Your mind unkinks itself like carded wool
as one foot steps in front of the other, circling
the five-foot figure-eight infinity loop [...]
10.17.99
HIGH PRESSURE/film shoots
by Kathrin Rögala
translated by W. Martin
and off the mark meadows tipped in in green, which should serve as a pattern here for figures, but the landscape doesn’t know anything, just talk to it, though, and it’ll give in at once. as always [...]
10.08.99
Sappho’s Sparrows
there are so many places to find you   in the endless   white spaces you have left us [...]
09.27.99
Remembering Mr. Gaddis
A memorial tribute was held May 6, 1999, for the late William Gaddis, the esteemed novelist who died in December 1998. [...]
05.19.99
The Raven
Story time done but plenty left over, riches of fishes and fancy comestibles heaped on the table within; a toast, friends, to the slow servant! No master for me. One of the oldest professions, mine, and right honorable, too. [...]
05.17.99
Some Maps
Which it watches, where it waits
In cleft or cavern or crevasse
In dolmen or diluvial boulder-hoard
Not the fissure, not the fosse, a flaw [...]
04.04.99
The Word Laid Bare
Congealed, concertinaed version of “I bet he’s had it,” meaning he has come to grief. [...]
02.27.99
What Happened with Gilbert That Night
Think of our silhouettes lengthening across the bare stage, the creak of the wooden boards beneath our feet, the broken spotlights of gray glass, the dizziness as he twirled me erasing the curtains from my sight, his muscled legs folded in bunched trousers, the actors gone home. [...]
02.12.99
Mechanics
                         Will you
                                      not come again?

                          I will go—
there soon.
                          Will you
                                      not come again?

                          I will cross—
the river twice [...]
01.24.99
A Quiet Poem
My father screamed whenever the phone rang.

My aunt often screamed when she opened the door. [...]
01.03.99
Fog Life
One, two, three, four … strung in a seaward-running necklace each foghorn sounded progressively more distant, a warning that here an island lay. [...]
01.01.99
Paper Head Last Lyrics
They are said to be in the book,
           but there is no book. [...]

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In Print

Vol. 78
Fear Itself
Spring 2022
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

September 28, 2022
When you were the size of a fist, a coyote dragged a three-year-old Angeleno out of the living room by the Peter Pan collar of her pale yellow shirt. She survived but was left with a sizable scar on her cheek. The scar resembled an American flag, pocks for stars and gouges for stripes. Her mother was on the news all the time, which led to the child signing a deal with an agency, and quite soon after that, the child and her scar started appearing on billboards as the new face of a California restaurant chain that sold bratwursts. Last month, for reasons unrelated, the little girl passed away. 
     The querent used to say we come back as either human or animal, that in the spirit world, there is no delineation.
     It’s nice to think the end isn’t the end. 
     Though I wouldn’t dare say that to the dead girl’s mother.
September 21, 2022
What we had done was trample on Johnson’s city, four sheets of paper, loosely placed side by side, with buildings growing in no particular visual perspective, some upwards, some in profile, some in three dimensions but others in blueprint, and this, we felt intuitively, was a triumph of Johnson’s city, or would-be city, it’s resistance to confinement, its ability to transcend.

And we sat with Johnson. We consoled. We patted Johnson on the back and said that we might rebuild it, that it could be rebuilt. That it could be better and that we could help.

We collected the roll of white butcher paper from its mount and unfurled it across the linoleum, gathered the colored pencils, the crayons and scented markers and watercolors and even the Sharpies we’d hidden in our cubbies. We collected scissors and Scotch tape, and began to connect the sheets of paper, for there would be no limit to what we could design.
September 14, 2022
Nocturne

Midnight at the pit of my irrelevance:
     a hair’s breadth away, I step closer to the mouth of it, no more afraid to
shake hands with my lacuna than a bird is of the air
     whistling in its bones. To stay possible as long as possible

had felt like enough now—a persistence of streaks
     in soft butter yellow shed from the clock tower onto the indigo-
freaked slate-to-black vagueness
     that indicates the river. The light lives
 
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