Online Exclusives

12.01.02
Baba Ganesh, Ubiquitous Authority (from the Books of Ubar)
We divide the rectangular glass terrarium diagonally across the bottom, into triangular halves of clay and sand. [...]
10.08.02
Drafts, Updrafts, and the Physiognomy of Air
This might have been a story about Vincent van Gogh. Might have been, I say, because most of it takes place within that very asylum where the “Mad Dutchman”—as he was remembered by the local population until recently—spent the last full year of his life. [...]
09.08.02
Certain Hazards of Living without the Assumption of Timing
Being and changing are almost one and the same thing
Not changing and not coming into the crisis is almost one and the same thing with not living
Being and living are not the same [...]
08.30.02
Three Poems
    Aunt sleeps on, neglecting our selves; her rustic
devils furnish us with sorrow. [...]
08.23.02
Two Stories
“I completely forgot” is twice as true as “I don’t remember that.” “It hurts” is as often untrue as “I don’t know.” Opinions are less often lies than facts. [...]
08.16.02
The American Green Machine
Good morning, CLARENCE T. FORDHAM, please do not be alarmed, because I can imagine what you are contemplating right now as you struggle to attain consciousness and the answer is no [...]
08.09.02
Three Poems
Silent trees are failure and fault

Half the creatures come when called, half tilt away [...]
06.28.02
From Dear Laird Hunt, Author of The Impossibly
Cold has descended on the county. By week’s end, we expect a hard frost.  [...]
06.05.02
Shelburne Falls
A hand in a crevice, the tongue at rest in the mouth,
and also,
the pressure of one body against another: summer, waxed and honeyed. [...]
05.30.02
All Winter Long the Girls Smoked Tobacco Leaves
Up in the hills the talk was of the men all disappeared and presumed dead. [...]
04.10.02
DAU AL SET
If only we could plunder rumors kept well-guarded.

But are you there and are we troubling you?

The stars suffused with aspects no one can discern. [...]
04.03.02
Three Poems
Song after a song after story
one of the stories which end in stumps or falsely
which are made up of poses of positions and transpositions
of positions [...]
03.19.02
The Sound Gun
We are dragging it by hand now. The engine gave out days ago in a ravine two kilometers south of the parallel. [...]
03.01.02
Vague Swimmers
Thank you for saying pathos instead of pathetic, keeping us the same size as before. [...]
01.19.02
Disintegration: Poem for Eva Hesse
Compulsive winding, bandaging 
or what am I worth 
and also why don’t you leave me alone when I am doing these things? [...]
01.17.02
Three Poems
He’s sleeplessness pulled through
a sieve, snake branch beliefs
dangle from, overgrown
with flourishing abjections.  [...]
01.06.02
Reverse Song
not because there is a road
and a woman walking,
nor the trees lining this road,
the light at half mast [...]

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Vol. 82
Works & Days
Spring 2024
Bradford Morrow

Online

June 19, 2024
I am sorry for not writing sooner. To be completely frank, I was afraid of receiving a response and knowing for certain that you’re finished with me. I am very troubled by the way we’ve left things.
 
June 12, 2024
It took place in London at the end of the seventeenth century—a man was spending the evening at home, often thinking of a friend of his, a woman, who was very ill, worrying about her, hoping she would live, when there was a knock on the door, and she entered, looking fine, thriving, in fact, and sat down in a normal way and began a normal conversation, though she seemed a little more serious than usual until he began to cry, at which she continued quietly, discussing things of the soul, aspects of time, and he began to sob, and she continued speaking quietly, as he sobbed and sobbed, and when he finally looked up she was gone.
June 5, 2024
I’ll just speak for myself. This seems to be the best plan. When you try to speak on behalf of others you run into trouble. See? Already I has become you, but I cannot be you. But you can come along with me, at my side if you like, even if my walk is a bit awkward and you probably want to move more quickly over the terrain. Probably you wouldn’t say “terrain.” You would say ground or path or street. These choices don’t amount to a disagreement, just a different habit of mind. The mind’s terrain. Just now my mind’s terrain is a bit foggy, a bit dreary. It feels, inside of this fog, quite empty, as if, when the fog lifts, there will be nothing but an expanse uninflected by things to see or do, undisturbed by names and places, recollections and glimpses into other times and other places.