At the Root — Rebbecca Brown
CJ made a mother out of birthday cake, so I decided I’d force a father from the dirt I now tendered. CJ made that mother years ago from wanting something sweet to do… Continue reading
CJ made a mother out of birthday cake, so I decided I’d force a father from the dirt I now tendered. CJ made that mother years ago from wanting something sweet to do… Continue reading
I In early July 20-, just before the heat wave struck that would plague our region with the hottest, driest, most lethal string of days in over a century, I went to the… Continue reading
1. How to run : remember the grave danger in our bodies. How to rationalize running : from an ax-wielder from a dingo or a baby from the bully who invariably will kick… Continue reading
The faculty meeting wasn’t any more boring than usual. The new dean seemed to be addressing another audience, as if she were already auditioning for a better job. Mike Pollard from History managed… Continue reading
Pictures of Us Here I am mowing down tin cans with a .45 while the dog goes berserk you’re picking casings from rose bushes the gardener could chip a blade on the whacker… Continue reading
“These pieces are acrylic pour paintings created by combining acrylic paint with various substrates and silicone oil. The layers of paint react within the mixture according to their density and form an abstract… Continue reading
CHILDHOODS As if catching a moth between two cupped hands, her yet-to-be-broken father holds her head above a sick- bed stained with a century’s illness. Through the winter window, fields of blackened lungs… Continue reading
is where you place the sun-dried tomatoes. Too near the surface they burn, little islands charred in a sea of gorgonzola. Black olives are best broken and drowned, as the tomatoes must be,… Continue reading
The Answer to Your Question is, “We Will Be Doing This Dance Involving Sun and Clouds Again Tomorrow if the good Lord’s willing and my leaky old boat stays afloat. Our time seems… Continue reading
i. The boon of air: dry, cool, moving. Today, nothing on the calendar except the garden. I should seize the day. The breeze picks up, lifts leaves, rustles through boughs. Maybe I’ll weed… Continue reading
Click Images to Enlarge *** Petra Lea is a professional artist based in the UK at The Electric Picture House Artists Cooperative. She exhibits throughout the UK and USA including New York, London… Continue reading
“My generation” Isn’t something to say anymore For me. For me. A better generation Bloomed out below I hate them They delight older people Older as in my age Who will I delight… Continue reading
I’ve played through this idea for a video game a dozen times at least, maybe close to a thousand, but because each run-through was distinct and only in my head, the number of… Continue reading
[apertif] FATE A virtual tour of the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art housed on the fourth floor of the Brooklyn Museum quickly brings us to its permanent installation: Judy Chicago’s The… Continue reading
Her Left Knee, His Cerebral Hemorrhage Now comes an apoplectic bongo beat, this rumbling, honey- buzzing bee-burning beneath sunken & blued cheeks, his chest heaving as he gurgles & gargles & gags, Is… Continue reading
The tables were quicksand. The chairs quicksand. The coffee and the coffee pot were quicksand. The car was quicksand. The cat melted into the cat, then the floor. The floor melted into the… Continue reading
Ahab is forever Ahab, man…I am the Fates’ lieutenant; I act under orders…I feel strained, half stranded, as ropes that tow dismasted frigates in a gale; and I may look so But ere… Continue reading
Our washing machine started spewing smoke like an old car engine, so my mother dragged a five-year-old me to Soaps & Suds on South Main, where over a month ago, senile Mrs. Dell,… Continue reading
“Why Can’t I Have an Atom Poet for a Message Boy?” —Halldor Laxness, The Atom Station Build a bomb on your tongue, then build a universe. Creator, destroyer. Tell me the news is… Continue reading
an elegy The sun stood still and the shadow of the horse along the lane and the shadow of the hand along the ledge. The birch that was always swaying stopped its backbone,… Continue reading