What made me click his profile was his eyes. There’s sadness there, surrounded by a façade of confidence, but sadness nonetheless. There’s also something in his posture, the kind of weariness a man isn’t born with, but can only accumulate.
Ann Landers Advises Against the Use of Twitter
This isn’t like the razor blades in the apples. Or the rice making pigeons explode. Or my sister’s alleged “talent.” This, faithful readers, is real. While it seems like 140 characters could do no actual harm, studies—by Harvard doctors and
What Horse Hooves Turn Into After the Horse is Over
what adheres me to you is not that you are glue, but that you are the idea of sticking to something. the possibility that i will one day become tinfoil & stick to you while holding all of you all
What the Mailman Won’t Deliver
I’m not sure. That is to say I’m unsure about the lighting. It really brings out that milk mustache from six years ago and your skin looks like hot tar at noon in August. I can’t touch you like that.
Decision Tree
My mother likes anything that allows her to see inside herself—mammograms, x-rays, ultrasounds. She collects the results of these procedures and files them according to year and body part. “This is my brain,” she says, pulling out an x-ray. “This
Landscape: A Storm
a real sky is a real humanin the quiet senseand stick stuff out the backthe bark age that there isbeing necessary to quella feeling under all questionsand so the going of all extrabespake every glow wormthis point of narcissism with
Introductory Notes on a Date, Uptown Chicago, 2008, November
You want a drink? Want to follow me? (Applause) And this is what we talk about: Sexual Perversity In Chicago? We’d do better discussing the contours of ugliness in this nasty god’s splayed out seventeen year old. God in this
Other California
Say you’re not one of those lost people in concrete lots near Malibu and Zuma— the ocean in your eyes waves goodbye to the beach restaurants where you have never ate rockfish tacos— admit you’ve not felt the sting late
Expanding Witness
He burns the skin off their legs to make them walk, make them alive, their deprived metatarsals—skeletal as a map, its barbed lines. Witness to removal—hands to fan the flame, the smell of rotten veins, their exposure to lighter fluid
Cloaked in Fragments: Fragments of Sappho, trans. Anne Carson, Ed.
This video was created for Push the Envelope, an exhibition at Dynamo Project Space in Thessaloniki, Greece. It compiles fragments taken from a reflection on a pond, Sappho’s lyrical poetry, and alterations of Anne Carson’s English translations of Sappho’s poetry.