Tyler Mallory grew up in his mother’s art studio in a small town outside of Atlanta. He began his photography career as a photojournalist in Washington D.C., where a mentor challenged him to try to “Look at everything as if
The Story of Figs
[A woman, Michal, sits on stage with a pile of figs which, during the course of the play, she slices.] [at first glowingly] It was to be wrapped To be carried off. Be encumbered. Be wound like bed sheets. Surrounded.
Tampa Bay
The hospital. MASON and DIXON stand in a hallway next to a door. They appear bright and comfortable. At the nurse’s station a NURSE and a DOCTOR lean in close to one another. They whisper: DOCTOR: What are their names?
I Turned Into Bright Carbon! I Became for You a Diamond!
REMEMBER that time I flick wrote something on your flick hand as you were leaving and flick you said why are you writing on my flick hand and I didn’t say Anything but just kept flick kept
In Lieu of Body Parts
A high-speed car chase & a half- on-purpose boob graze: sometimes my heart feels like both, only the vehicle in question is an ice cream truck & the half-graze is more of a full-on punch & both sound like “POP
Knot Hinge
M. Pfaff is a doctoral candidate in Comparative Literature at the University of Michigan, where he is currently finishing a dissertation that explores “postmodernist classicism” in American experimental writing, tentatively titled “Strange New Canons: Classical Reception at the Margins in
Silk Flowers, Trussed
Strapless, you slip into the suicide seat. We swipe bicyclists and barn doors barreling detours. The highway knows which way to turn. Forked road, forks, and a flask for a picnic. I read to you from a cereal box. Here’s
Asperges
Do you see? If you don’t force it, it will come, rising as tender shoots of asparagus rose from their crown of roots in spring, each stiff shaft bearing a purpled tip. Mornings, Papa would clip them from their haze
Enfant
Warm and soft. I’m inside the warm and soft. Mother’s hand is moving over me in smooth after smooth. It’s a round feeling. It’s a yawn of falling inside. Mother’s hand has a rhythm like rocking. I don’t know what
Elliot Smith
The amber-brewed afternoon Plays across the table We’re living in the golden age of coffee The golden October morning When he moved through I was fat and decorated On the porch later with our dumb bottles raised But at least