torn from a frantic nap into my perch in the corner. drowsy stare makes a masterpiece. the shadow paint. candied branch drip. white shoes on wet grass that glow like a fizz. //// /// /// / /// / / ////// / / //// //// /// //// / / / / /// /// ///// // ///// ///// /// / // / / / //// //// //// // / / / / /// ///// ////// /// today’s forgiveness: / measure day by the … [Read more...]
Birds, Caves, Time by Nels Hanson
Murmuration To shake one’s head, to murmur “I don’t know,” implies a certain faith, thisevening’s swerving, changing cloud of birds above the failing farm reminds me. We didn’t invent our bones or gravity, an idea that, with other reflections, comes to mind as I watch the flock as fluid as quick water rippled by competing winds." The lightning flash through closed lids … [Read more...]
My Coleridge: On five poems by Sara Coleridge
‘Passion is blind not love: her wondrous might’ Passion is blind not Love: her wondrous might Informs with three-fold pow’r man’s inward sight: – To her deep glance the soul at large displayed Shews all its mingled mass of light and shade: – Men call her blind when she but turns her head, Not scans the fault for which her tears are shed. Can dull indifference or … [Read more...]
No Place Like Home
“Why don’t you bring your friends over? You’re always locked up in that room,” her hands gesture while her foot is on the pedal. She insists on concentrating her gaze onto me as she “talks,” but we all know that you’re supposed to keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel. This, of course, does not apply to her. We start swerving into the other lane, as I … [Read more...]
Intimacy with Doors
Doors are a foundation of our psyche. To understand this, we must ask ourselves: how do we move through doors, how do we conduct ourselves near doors, as we flit through our busy lives, bags in hand, lists in spirals in our minds, do we ever consider the door? Do we hesitate at the door, unsure whether to shake or hug or fall in love, do we wrench the heavy door and let it slam … [Read more...]
Seizure
It is late in April, one of those cool and wet mornings when the sun’s light is hazy and blue. I wake early, escape out the front door of my suburban townhome with a cup of coffee, tell my husband I’ll be back before the kids wake, and take off down the street in the family van, sip coffee, roll down my window, smell the lingering wetness of the grass. Under the low clouds in … [Read more...]
Are Hungry Ghosts Just Ghosts with Borderline Personality Disorder?
“You need to stop waiting for everything to click,” the psychic said, pulling her clasped fingers apart and then placing them together again, in a sort of locking motion. “There is no magic moment. Is this making sense?” It was making sense. She was saying the same thing I’ve been told for years; there is no such thing as irrefutable evidence that things are falling into … [Read more...]
They Saved Me from Myself by D. Nolan Jefferson
The first gay bar I ever went to was a lesbian bar called The Flame. It was on the edge of the gay neighborhood called Hillcrest in San Diego on Park Avenue. I worked in nearby Balboa Park, taking orders for cheeseburgers and nachos at the snack bar and was one of the few on staff there who could take apart, clean, and reassemble Taylor, our big money maker. Taylor was the ice … [Read more...]
Desert Alignment
Nothing is born, nothing dies. Nothing to hold on to, nothing to release. Samsara is nirvana. There is nothing to attain. When we realize that afflictions are no other than enlightenment, We can ride the waves of birth and death in peace, Traveling in the boat of compassion on the ocean of delusion, Smiling the smile of nonfear. -- Thich Nhat Hanh You can tell … [Read more...]
Endless Preface to an Imaginary Work
Light is Speech Marianne Moore, What are Years 1. walking on water in the morning light, walking on water near the boat of saints, the water clear as the conflagration of the dead upon the shore in pyres, this dream you come in my dysphoric grief to wrap your arms about me, but instead blue crabs surround you and between their infinite blue claws they close your … [Read more...]
An excerpt from Rachmil Bryks’ memoir, The Fugitives, translated from the Yiddish by Yermiyahu Ahron Taub
Translated from the Yiddish by Yermiyahu Ahron Taub. Published with the permission of the author’s daughter, Bella Bryks-Klein Translator’s Note: “This is How It All Began” and “Fugitives” are the first two chapters of Rachmil Bryks’ Di antloyfers (The Fugitives) (New York, 1975), a memoir of his experiences from the outbreak of World War II in September 1939 until the … [Read more...]
Milkman by Anna Burns: a soundtrack to street harassment
Milkman Since my car fell apart in November 2018 I’ve been commuting 12 miles to work without one, via crumbling New Jersey, USA public transportation infrastructure. The roughest parts of my commute happen on foot. I’ve picked up poison ivy trekking the side of a highway without sidewalks. The buses run infrequently and follow their schedule only erratically, so I am often … [Read more...]
Exposed by Patty Somlo
The day after a man exposed himself to me on the secluded tree-lined trail, I reluctantly switched my walk to the more open, well-travelled path. I’d known, as every woman does, that walking alone where (a) it’s dark; (b) no one else is around; or (c) the pathway is hidden by trees and shrubs is an invitation to trouble. I knew this but I did it anyway. Hiking the path in … [Read more...]
God and the Magical Potato Chips by Jennifer Jordán Schaller
When I was a six-year-old child, it was the eighties. I sometimes stayed overnight with my Grandma Virginia in the South Bronx. My Grandma Virginia only spoke English when she talked to people like me, people who can’t speak Spanish. I remember walking with my little, gray-haired grandmother one cold and blustery New York morning. Her native tongue was one of many languages I … [Read more...]
Are Made Of
You remember each new encounter, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the salivating. How your mouth shaped around every new one in an attempt to make itself one with it, tongue exploring crevices and ridges, curves and surfaces. The tints and tones, surprising tastes; how fundamentally they are all the same, yet each so unique. Suck, lick, nibble, bite, swallow. It’s hard to … [Read more...]
Body Bereft of Fitton Farm
1. Under a gray sky, the sun came around a corner like a drunk with a knife, a slice of light on the ruins of our childhood: the houses, sheds, barns, and junkyards that were once our farm on County Road 1800 East, Rantoul Illinois 61866. I say it in my mind with the singsong memorization of my four-year old self. My brother Jacob took control of the situation, asking the … [Read more...]
Lexington Avenue
The span of Lexington Avenue between 25th and 29th streets is flanked on either side by Bangladeshi, Pakistani and Indian restaurants; by buffets of masala chicken and palak, floating in layers of oil. In between, there are Indian grocery shops specializing in everything from ground coriander to nutmeg, from bottled pickles to canned curries, some with Arabic writing and … [Read more...]
The Accidental Monster: Salomé, Mom and Me
It is strange that the husband of my mother looks at me like that. I know not what it means. In truth, yes, I know it. —Oscar Wilde, Salomé When Oscar Wilde wrote Salomé in 1891, English law banned play performances involving biblical characters. Even without such forbidden material, the spectacle of a young girl kissing the lips of the severed head of the man whom … [Read more...]
Icarus Regrets Every Tired Muscle
At the base of my spine glows an orange orb, free-floating amidst the Harrington rods and titanium cage. My low spine fused, my narrative nerves pinched and running the length of this mortal cord from sacral to skull. In between The Greenman, Jesus, Carl Jung dive in and out of the pool meeting their reflection as they sink, first fingers, then wrists, arms, shoulders into the … [Read more...]
Scylla
Central Park in spring was magical. Leaves began to reappear on bare trees; the sun rose earlier—soft and shy—just waking up after winter, turning everything into a warm amber. It all looked new; even the benches glowed in a different kind of radiance. As the days grew longer, so did my walks with Scylla—first to the drinking fountain where she played with water; then up past … [Read more...]
Something About Rage and the Light Dying
I hadn’t killed us yet. My dad fidgeted next to me, exhaling loudly every few moments. Always a sensitive kid, I guess I was something of a Doppler radar of other’s emotions and my father’s nerves were transmitting microwave signals to my own. DNA to DNA---pinging from him to the truck’s ceiling to me---a continuous triangle of tension. It had been that way for most of my … [Read more...]
Conversations at Thresholds: a Contemplative Offering
I went for a walk this morning, as I do most days, before the sky held enough light to see in color. Morning joy is one of the most reliable sorts for me. Part of the appeal is living the visible, audible, gustable, tangible changes rung by the dawn. In the quieter winter months, with light coming late according to our shifted clocks, I tend to walk slowly, and luxuriate in … [Read more...]
Love Song for a River Bank
The great wall of ancient growth slides its shadow across the river. Alder-cedar-redwood are the color of the afternoon water: serpentine. A breeze sweeps up from the sea. It picks out the leaves of the tanoaks one by one in gold; it turns up the volume on the rapids just downstream. Wild azaleas bloom from the tangled bank, but the wind is wrong for me to catch their … [Read more...]
The Mill Stones of History
My wife always thought that someday I’d be a big success. She talked about it since we got married, enthusiastically in the beginning, particularly when she became pregnant with our first daughter, less and less later, after she got pregnant again and we decided to keep the baby. I taught Russian literature and linguistics at the local college and held seminars every other … [Read more...]
Richard’s Coat: Remembering Richard Irwin
Richard’s Coat… went into the cardboard box with all the other things for the thrift store: an orange radio with a broken antenna, a vintage purse that was only in fashion in San Francisco’s Haight Street where I had spent my younger days - some old clothes, a pink pair of cowboy boots that I was brave enough to buy but not to wear, and a sewing basket with a broken … [Read more...]
Aztec Summer
And after I got laid off from my teaching job in Michigan, I moved out to Portland and lived on unemployment and savings for almost two years, running my credit union accounts almost down to zero searching for another gig. When that didn't happen, I decided to try working a summer seasonal job again, fighting wildfires with the Forest Service like I'd done when younger. But … [Read more...]
a toast to ti-jean in a liverpool gloom saloon
12 March 2018 It is said that a woman haunts, she sees everything. An observer, a writer, a siren of dreams. In my heart and mind, I am always searching for slivers of paradise while being silently pulled towards some sort of freedom I can’t quite describe, but desire all the time. Again and again I find myself in Liverpool, where everything is nothing and exactly as it … [Read more...]
The Muse Cuts: On Mental Health and Writing
My university lies at the center of a small farming town. It is a splotch of academia in the midst of many hay fields, and this year it has eleven thousand students. I’m here to learn creative writing, or really to hang out with creative writers. My school talks about taking care of yourself. We have a Wellness Center where anyone can wander in and get 25 free condoms (and, if … [Read more...]
Notes on the Sacred Art of Dog Walking
I read and reviewed Jim Harrison’s final collection of poetry, Dead Man’s Float, for the Missoula Independent in January of 2016. One of the first poems to strike me deeply is called “Notes on the Sacred Art of Log Sitting.” The poem, which is more prose than verse, begins with the poet talking about his recovery from back surgery, and how the chief neurologist tells him, “You … [Read more...]
(Part VI) Alison Winfield-Burns memoir
This is the final excerpt and contains chapters 11-Denouement. Here are all of the installments: Part I · Part II · Part III · Part IV · Part V · Part VI 11. Jack Kerouac School Revisited at Columbia University (Sam Kashner and Honeybee Panties) Reader Road Map: Sam Kashner (aka "Sam Jake Seuss") plights his troth. News topics: … [Read more...]
Faleeha Hassan: My Life as a Refugee
Once my name appeared on a death list published in a number of newspapers and on some websites, I decided to flee Iraq and went first to the Turkish city of Eskişehir—on the advice of an Iraqi friend who lived there. I only lived there a month, however, because I had a hard time adjusting to that city, especially to the high cost of living. So I moved to Afyonkarahisar, … [Read more...]
Eight Hours
A man, who was leaving, asked me to write a story. He said he was going on an errand – a meeting with his accountant, a lunch with his cable guy, a high tea with a small herd of white rhinos – I wasn’t sure which. It was tax season. He promised to be back in eight hours, or so, an equivalent of a short story, he said, give or take. Smart man: no one should be writing novels in … [Read more...]
(Part V) Alison Winfield-Burns memoir
This excerpt contains chapters 8-10. Here are all of the installments: Part I · Part II · Part III · Part IV · Part V · Part VI 8. Homeless Newsreel (Charcoal Wool) Reader Road Map: homeless, 2012-2014. There isn’t any privacy in the bathrooms at Butler Library. I use dispenser soap. Each day, a labour to stay clean. I wash my … [Read more...]
How to Die Like You Meant It
“I don’t have long to live, and this is what heaven looks like,” I thought as I lay on my back, my breath freezing to my beard in the minus 3 temperature, the hard, dirty snow between the boxcars glowing in diffuse light. It was dawn, it was the coldest first day of spring on record, and we had stayed up all night drinking 10 cent beers and talking up the courage needed to … [Read more...]
Animals, Seven Days Old
I. I start at the cheek, the slope slowing into the area where eyes rest. The dip of the chin, gray’s muted hue, smog on jaw. The ear, hair sheltering it. Eyebrows, eyes and the gleam trapped beneath. My mother taught me that noses are simple. At the lips, there is a cupid’s bow and plumpness to thumb. Shading spaces. … [Read more...]
(Part IV) Alison Winfield-Burns memoir
This excerpt contains chapter 7, in which Alison spends time at the Kerouac School in Boulder, then continues her adventures in Rome. Here are all of the installments: Part I · Part II · Part III · Part IV · Part V · Part VI 7. Rome (Lemons and Apricots) Reader Road Map: 1982-1996 various journeys. Current Events: Space Shuttle … [Read more...]
(Part III) Alison Winfield-Burns memoir
This excerpt contains chapters 5 and 6, which detail Alison's experiences at the Kerouac School in the early 1980s and her later homelessness at Columbia University. Here are all of the installments: Part I · Part II · Part III · Part IV · Part V · Part VI 5. (Blue Silk Chiffon) Reader Road Map: 1979-1982. Current Events: Iran … [Read more...]
Dearly Beloved, Part II: Growing up in Bohemian 1950s San Francisco
You can read Part I of Nanette's memoir of growing up in 1950s San Francisco here. I begin to make a habit of snuggling down behind the Shoji screen with a "Minka." I hold my breath when my mother comes looking for me to help with the dishes. She is annoyed even before I protest. The move to the church house is a way for my parents to make a fresh start. It … [Read more...]
White Jesus – A reflection on summer camp and Charlottesville
Growing up in Kansas, from about 9 to 12 years old, I went to Christian summer camp down the highway in rural Missouri. I loved it there. We swam in creeks and caught crawfish. I played soccer and made friends. There was a zipline that ran through the woods and one year a counselor had access to a speedboat and took us out tubing, driving figure eights and running us over the … [Read more...]
Panic Drapes the Look of the World: Literary Treatment for Anxiety in an Uncertain Age
1. June, 2016: I was having a panic attack while I walked the dog after dinner. Children rode skateboards and scooters in that last yellowed hour before bedtime. I felt unreal to myself, and the Denver streets I’d known my whole adult life seemed false and imitative. What I felt was a numbing and a derealization that left me somewhat incapable of speaking to other people, as … [Read more...]
