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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Vol. 82
Works & Days
Spring 2024
Bradford Morrow

Online

July 10, 2024
Marcie decided on Vertigo because she’d recently encountered several texts in quick succession that made extensive reference to it: Chris Marker’s time travel film told in still images, La Jetée, Terry Gilliam’s unlikely Hollywood adaptation, 12 Monkeys, and a story by Bennett Sims called “White Dialogues” about an embittered academic seething in an auditorium during a lecture being given by the hot new thing in Hitchcock studies. The coincidence made her feel involved with the film, and vice versa, in a way that evades more specific description.
July 3, 2024
We slapped together two clods of oak around a broken bedpan lid and twined them together with a horsetail. Realized then our discovery: the first knife ever. We go to Tony’s. Tony indicates our find—What is that shit?—and he slides us each a prairie fire: whisky, tabasco. Crab says, Maybe lean forward, Tony, and Tony, doing so, discovers the knife sinking in buttery smooth, right between his ribs.
 
June 26, 2024
Moments lately, I think I am on the brink of an epiphany, swept right to the threshold by, say, the pulp of a grape or the progress of a Beethoven sonata or some other spiritual force, and were I to cross over it, loosed into the light of that knowledge, it would also mean my days on earth are numbered, that I have understood all that is needed before this life meets its resolution. But each time I am held back, caught by the hem of my shirt, denied whatever I thought I might see, allowed it only in periphery.