May 22, 2018 | Poetry
White Lies
Andrey Gritsman
I live my life by white lies.
And poetry is white lies.
Second language is white lies too.
As well as the first.
But language is the only way
to hide love.
White, black, transparent,
or
Tunneling Out: An Interview with Tao Lin
Elle Nash
I think the dominator model will always exist in each person, just like each person has partnership qualities. After learning more about history, it does seem to me now that humans are in a process, however inconsistent and drawn-out, of recovering from extreme sexism—which reached absurd levels when people started promoting Yahweh ~3500 years ago, culminating maybe with Christianity around the first century—over millennia.
The Difficulty of Learning to Say Yes
Craig Fishbane
Naoko knew all too well how difficult it was to imbibe the air of a foreign culture. She had matriculated for a year at the University of Santa Barbara to study saxophone and marked each day as a progression from one shameful moment to the next.
Nights Like This
Teague von Bohlen
It’s that night in the summer when your open windows mean nothing, when your bed is just stuffed heat
Shredded Cheese
Eric Bosse
My daughter stood on tiptoe by the metal grocery cart and told me we needed two more bags of Colby Jack.
Street Repeat
Street Repeat
StreetRepeat is an online project curated by photographer Julie Hrudova that aims to recognize similarities and repetition within the genre of street photography. Hrudova arranges each entry on the
Your Father Devouring His Short Stack
Geoff Peck
He had a disciplined approach to all things that surely came from the military. For breakfast it was always two hard boiled eggs – you imagined he swallowed them whole – but on the road, he allowed one indulgence: a short stack of pancakes.
Things in my Room: Mirror Ball
Martha Grover
It’s someone’s job to bury the dead.
Lyrical Realism
Sonia Feigelson
“I was just thinking about you,” he emailed, a week later. “I’m rereading The Bell Jar.”
West Virginia Fictions
Juliet Escoria
They were not in Brooklyn, California, a nice suburb outside D.C.
They were in West Virginia.
You Are Just a Name I Wrote on My Hand
Greg Rhyno
Hey, here’s an idea: how about you don’t spend half the period texting your boyfriend, and then he won’t dump you in the middle of class. Ever think of that? Maybe you talk to him like a human being instead of sending him a bunch of fucking sideways sad faces.
The Queen is Dead
Rosemary Harp
Two years later, I fell in love with a boy whose devotion to The Smiths matched my own.
Asleep in the National Museum
Connor Messinger
He paints using the ashes of the towers in his watercolors.
