Online Exclusives

12.12.01
Three Poems
I want to go there, I said, pressing my middle finger, bent with determination, in the middle of a blank space marked unbekantes land on the map (Dresden, 1845). [...]
10.06.01
Woman Jumping
She’s out on the ledge, Roxana, and what’s on her mind is whether she should follow through on what she’s been wanting to follow through on for all these past months. [...]
09.27.01
The Trial
by Isaac Babel
translated by Peter Constantine
Madame Blanchard, a sixty-one year old woman, met Ivan Nedachin, a former lieutenant colonel, in a café on the Boulevard des Italiens. They fell in love. [...]
09.07.01
Two Stories
by Natasza Goerke
translated by W. Martin
For years I’ve whiled away the tedium of Sunday afternoons in the Natural History Museum in London. My eldest sister, Eileen, always thought I must be a masochist. And who knows, perhaps she was right. [...]
08.17.01
Two Poems
I’m the life-sized rag doll strapped to my master’s shoes dancing salsa in subway. [...]
08.10.01
Notes on the Enclosure of Beams
A future character of ownership maps it.
I am squaring iron dunes
assuming each side of the solar aquarium. [...]
07.10.01
On Monsters That Have Come Forth from Women’s Wombs
It is true that men, upon occasion, generate wild beasts within their bodies.  [...]
05.16.01
Peneplain
Opal came by yesterday to ask Where they come from? and say J.’s got you mower fixed. The rain came the day before and washed us all out. [...]
04.17.01
Marso
Almost all are women, many in wheelchairs, all want more than anything else to leave. Forgetful of time, their possessions, the day of the week, the seasons, even their families [...]
04.07.01
Pithiviers
That was a summer of unusual drought in the Loiret, of hot wind and heat and heavy Bordeaux, the blood-red wine the de C’s kept in the small dark cellar opening off the caretaker’s cottage. [...]
01.07.01
Stance Horizontal and Turning
Stills from six different installations, spanning nearly ten years.
by Gary Hill
introduction by George Quasha, Charles Stein
Searchlight was begun in 1986 and is the precursor to Beacon (Two Versions of the Imaginary), 1990. A three-inch black-and-white monitor is mounted inside an eighteen-inch horizontal aluminum tube that faces a wall in a completely darkened room.  [...]

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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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