Without any editing or production, each of these tracks is a cohesive, sustained object, as pure and personal as a photograph.
Objectum Sexuals, or On Breaking Up with the Eiffel Tower for my King Louis XIV Chaise
by H. Tucker Rosebrock We have always been doomed lovers, star-crossed against continents and consciousness.
Letum
by Abbigail N. Rosewood … once the substance was taken from the terminally ill, it was gone forever. Cancerous men, women, and children were left to die without a shred of hope. But what did they need it for anyway?…
POETRY – 3 Poems by Soren Stockman
Not the heart, he says. Not beauty, but what it points toward. Then quiet. Then we stand there.
FICTION – Signals by Heather Wells Peterson
Each time the glow goes out it’s sudden, like a snuffed flame, and it feels like it will stay gone forever.
REVIEW – A Musical Hell by Alejandra Pizarnik
Like Dickinson or Celan, Pizarnik’s late poetry knows no waste. Her poems are carefully crafted jewelry hanging from a thread of silence; any ornament or opulence would disrupt their balance.
Review: The Crack-Up by F. Scott Fitzgerald
by Carla Stockton The Fitzgerald of the essays is deafened by the noise of his flapper-dominated dreams and nightmares.
Review: Transatlantic by Colum McCann
by Angelica Baker His characters find triumph not in the realization of their hopes, but rather in the acceptance of the hands that life ultimately deals them.
Review: Tumbledown by Robert Boswell
by Oren Smilansky It reads like an even more ridiculous version of The Breakfast Club.
Review: The Guy Davenport Reader
by Adam Winters Reading Guy Davenport is a joyous occasion for the curious.
REVIEW – Museum Hours by Jem Cohen
Museum Hours meanders thus, like a leisurely walk across campus or a thoughtful mosey through a gallery. It lingers, at both expected and unexpected intervals, to examine the layers of imagery, the texturing of impressions that create the large and…
REVIEW – Mississippi John Hurt: Rediscovered
At the end of each day one can see hundreds of furry white bolls–along the flat, flat, flat fields, or against the red ball of a sun and the flicker of heat lightning and a brutal storm coming–falling like hail…