January 21, 2016 | Poetry
Three Poems
Eszter Takacs
I built a Ferrari inside my white mouth
The shape of it was blue and up came the sun
I said hey, Ferrari and with my white mouth huffed it good, huffed it pretty
The throat of your pale moon heartscape contained me
January 21, 2016 |
THE REVENANT
Sean Kilpatrick
Please, let it fuck me if I have it. Right? Fucking USA, again. If one person is making a bona fide constructive statement, the other nine are making you their bitch.
Vigil at Fort Jesus
Derick Dupre
Nighttime near Fort Jesus. We point our phones heavenward and hear about the latest rave death.
Elizabeth Ellen interviews Christa Parravani: the Interview That Almost Wasn’t
Elizabeth Ellen
Eventually, I turned to memoir because I wanted to stay in scene. I craved space. I believe in the connection between poetry and memoir. It’s no coincidence that some of our best memoirs have come from poets: Mary Karr, Nick Flynn, Lucy Grealy, Mark Doty, Maggie Nelson, and Sarah Manguso—that list could go on-and-on.
How to Be a Dutiful Thing: Elizabeth Ellen Interviews Chelsea Hodson
Elizabeth Ellen
According to my parents, I was obedient from birth—I emerged in silence and then slept through the night. I was just never interested in rebelling—even as a “punk,” I got good grades and was always home by curfew.
Three Poems
Rosalynde Vas Dias
And it is easy, so easy / to welcome them into the poem.
Three Poems
Rosalynde Vas Dias
I didn't imagine you could grow into your harness, that it could embed in your skin, that you could plod one circle for so long that actually stopping would open up the ache in your body.
Human Origami
David Alasdair
The wind isn’t really knocked out of you. When you fall, you panic, hold your breath, tense every muscle.
The Lepidopterist
Kendra Fortmeyer
The killer dispatched the boyfriend easily in the kitchen, and then he had an idea.
BRI and YOU: Brian Oliu says Enter Your Initials and Means It
Pat Siebel
Here’s a statistic: After reading Brian Oliu’s Enter Your Initials For Record Keeping, I’ve spent more of my life reading Oliu than playing basketball.
America, This Is You
James Yates
This was a painstaking choreography of getting whacked in the balls.
Family Reunion
Hannah Gamble
Yes, the girl says, / thus entering into an unspoken agreement / that a black shirt with prints of golden parrots and martini glasses / is the only requisite balm.
dying on the internet
Christina Montilla
somewhere on the internets, in a dusty archived sent folder and a long forgotten inbox is our turn to Genesis chapter two verse eight
How We Are Religious
Emily Carney
Sheila Heti’s words penned: BLOW-JOB ARTIST. I have always wanted to be everything to everyone.
Tuesday Night Bieber
Joe Sacksteder
At one point, Justin’s stick got swatted and went flying. He hesitated for a moment, before strut-skating to the bench. This is not something a hockey player would normally do, just leave an unbroken stick on the ice during a non-competitive game. Someone eventually pushed the stick over to the dark team’s bench. “Pick it up,” Tony heard him say. For a second, Tony thought Justin was talking to him. Turns out he was talking to his bodyguard.
March 22nd
Peter Witte
I was on an evening walk with my dog when we came upon me neighbor, Rick.
Herman French
Eric Rosenblum
The one and only time I saw Herman French naked was when he was toweling off after a shower. Herman was my bunkmate two years ago at Camp Thunderbird. He had the smallest penis I’d ever seen.
The GwalaCost // Ep. 4: Happy GwalaDays!!!
Jordan Castro
Jordan Castro writes about rapper Peewee Longway, memories of his dad and Run-D.M.C., his views on Christmas over the years, and some of his favorite Christmas rap lines.
I Lost My Orgasm
Hillary Leftwich
Maybe I dropped it as I struggle to hold the box of Munchkin donuts and the lukewarm cup of coffee in my hands that I brought for you. Even after you told me not to. Even after you told me you needed space.
Great Moments in Cinematic Drinking: Scrooged
Matt Sailor
Christmas Past
Bill Murray has come a long way. His corner office is all black lacquer and polished chrome, a monument to late-80s decadence, a temple whose sole object of worship is money. His
INSIDE OUT
Sean Kilpatrick
Where is the sequel with everyone’s joy icon shown twenty years down the road, morphed into a cenobite, gnawing the bedpost it tied itself to, libidinously squelched?