Online Exclusives

Three Stories
The old man made a list of things that would not notice his death. [...]
From The Reserve
If Bear had been a girl, Jordan would have named her Puma. Wolf he would have named Peregrine. He said he wanted his children to be inspired all their lives to live up to what they were called. [...]
Two Poems
long, jointed bones, floating like a bird’s, prehistoric, knuckling

in their brightness, as if to perform some magic trick, to pull 

a kerchief from the debut of darkness, I feel dangerous [...]
Roving packs of five-year olds roam the overgrown lots by the abandoned steel mills. [...]
The Pool House
Every once in awhile, another ghost moves into the pool house. They like it there, curled up behind the floats and tucked into inner tubes, since it's January and nobody uses the pool house in January. [...]
From Sonnet 56
Sweet love, renew thy force, be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite [...]
Three Poems
Moon: what the earth does not know
Light: what the earth does not know
Light: what the moon does not know
Moon: the grasses!  [...]
Year of the Bird
On the seventh day of the seventh month, Golden Bird Chinese Food opens its doors [...]
Two Elegies
Saturday, a fawn wing sung of women and of woods:

“We heap the pearls, we loose the ground,

and some go godward with a rose.” [...]
Objects of the Visible Language
Do you believe in the once indivisibility of atoms?

The arranged ruins of planetary lights? [...]
The Other Walk
This morning, going against all convention, I turned right instead of left and took my circuit—one of my circuits—in reverse. [...]
Draft 85: Hard Copy
One nano-second later and
a snarl of light that crashed to the floor binds one 
to the terrors of historical time.  [...]
The Pool
And it’s not all of us who run, who surround, who slip in or charge or surge. [...]
From Wave Offering
Lovingkindness of Lovingkindness

Today is day one of the Omer
Beginning is an opening [...]
Two Poems
The rostrum is able to mail.
Malachy owns a keyshop. [...]
Three Poems
Comb the chrysalis from your beard to fasten the milkweed
Rather your eyes be matted with Queen Ann’s lace than pill blisters scatter the sink [...]
The Slide Turned on End
O’Hara claimed he glanced at a work of abstract art—a Kandinsky, he thinks—and was immediately struck by how similar it was to some of the rare amoebas he was working with at the time. [...]
Influenza, Mother of God
We ought to search for Lil when the woods have thinned for winter. Then, even in bitter light, the curve of her skull, phalanges, a tibia might be easier to see among the scatter of branches. [...]
Five Poems
Inside blaze      earthly figuration

the lover in pieces at the mouth [...]
Three Fictions
Perhaps three days’ journey south, southwest, across a salt desert leading to an ancient wood dense with black cypress and a strain of ivy so fierce its creeping roots are said to choke even the soil it feeds upon, lies Cieloso, city of floating men and women. [...]
Elegy for the Sentence
I remembered the sentence when I saw the old man and woman walking on the shore the man with a plank for a leg a war having kept the leg. [...]
Notebook A: Notes on Wakefulness and Being
The body resists its knowledge of oneness—as if to exist it must renounce that from which it was issued. [...]
An Interview
interview by Tayt Harlin
by David Markson
I had a great deal of trouble getting started. I don’t know whether I was afraid or just thought I was bullshitting the world and myself. [...]
Four Poems
The moon is the kind of birthplace who,
if in the process of blooming 
a fine son stopped pressing his shirts [...]
Four Poems
Hand on the wall my
time in turn to
mute—to form with 
rhythm: my whole [...]
    place Pigalle night nine teen o five  [...]
A Hill in Spain
On our honeymoon, I caught a stomach bug in Spain and, for the long day leading up to Easter, for Easter itself, and for the day after it, I spent most of my time in the hotel bathroom [...]
Five Lyrics
The codes reawake
a lesser, nightly repeat [...]
Major Nixon
Rob Nixon, do you remember me? You invited me on base. You wanted to show off the cool splat ball setup and maybe trade notes on the missing. [...]
They Found the Claw and Hung from It Chimes
The Aztec baby came in on the back of the wolf.  [...]
The Devil, A Digression
The Devil has black tangled hair. He eats only the meat of dogs or goats. He is capable of showing you small examples of miracles. The Devil prefers the smell of violet. [...]
Work Song
It is an hour. One
of those hours.
The hours. Hour
after hour. Ours. [...]
Paul Klee
How to compose a question: To spell the word blue
in Paul Klee’s painting entitled Paul Klee’s The Color Blue [...]
The Other Borges: A Fiction
The encounter I will describe here occurred in the Buenos Aires mid-winter of 2004; it has taken me until now to muster the courage to recount it and to conclude, as the gentleman involved insisted, that it contains a story that must be told. [...]
Is It Twice as Big?
We’d just gotten up.
We’d washed our faces. 
Sky-blue mugs of coffee.  [...]
Two Poems
The water needs a forder. Otherwise there’s no cutting through to something other. Other than the water. [...]
A Map of Her Town
The knife recurs as a figure in certain rooms. Take the parlor, where the matron, aflame, parts the drapes—and the bedroom, where brown ants cover the haft. [...]
Three Poems
We need new ways of living
without resorting to crocodiles [...]
The Ones Who Came after the Ones Who Could Fly
My father, like every man of his generation in our country, never quite got over the loss of flight. [...]
An Interview
Well, I am not sure that it is actually a process of translation. I think that the same principles apply to both music and poetry and that ideally they are one art.  [...]
From The Woodblock Prints
“a swan and its reflection on the water’s black surface” [...]
The Coca-Cola Executive in the Zapatoca Outhouse
The Coca-Cola executive was kind to me, though everyone was being kind that summer. [...]
Three Poems
Round uneven sumptuous it heaves up its weight against
the pile of leaf and litter and farm trash [...]
Rothko Chapel Sequence
farther off 
are spaces 
farther off  [...]



In Print

Vol. 78
Fear Itself
Spring 2022
Edited by Bradford Morrow


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

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