Excerpts
MAKING LUNCH
Because nothing I see this morning brings us closer to spring, snow falling out of the Jersey sky into the cloudy river, wet shoes facing toe-in by the stove, the uppers spotted with rock salt and because each sound signifies winter— wind in the wires and the far-off train like the voice of a child …
GREY BIRDS
When I glance out the window three grey birds fly through me and fade as dots in the gloomy June sky. I’m one of them now— maybe all three. Or are the four of us now someone I knew a long time ago, just becoming conscious of the fog?
CATHY PARK HONG. ENGINE EMPIRE.
The existence of ‘‘smart’’ snow that ‘‘monitors you,’’ staring, watching, studying. Being online constantly, 24/7, and merely having to blink your eyes to go off. Flying aerocabs. Antique ringtones that remind one of a time when it was all so much simpler. Everywhere, a complete erasure of the ‘‘old realism.’’ Cathy Park Hong’s latest collection, …
BACKORDERED
Each morning she drank her tea and then stamped the used tea bag onto thick creamy paper. She did this day after day, weeks became months, until she had nine tea bags across, thirteen down. When I understood how long I’d be in bed, I took my time with catalogs, thumbing through pages, folding corners. …
ANGER: THE RAPE
No cruelty is like the cruelty one turns against oneself after being raped one feels covered in slime and shit said the old woman grimly This place used to be a park now it is a parking lot ha ha for which I am in the ornamental fringe don’t tell me I should get over …
Anis Shivani. Against the Workshop: Provocations, Polemics, Controversies. Texas Review Press.
Against the Workshop: Provocations, Polemics, Controversies, a book of critical essays by writer Anis Shivani, unabashedly tackles one of the central foundations of contemporary American literature: the creative writing program. Shivani critiques this literary mainstay that has so permeated the life of American writers that at times it seems absolutely unavoidable. Very little criticism exists …
Fatherhood, Beginnings
Sometimes when I’ve been sitting in a different room for a while I forget I have a child. Then I wander into the humidified air, feel the softness of the blue rug between my toes and place my hand upon his rising chest. What will I tell my son when he asks if I am …
Last of the Cowboy Poets
‘‘You ever written any . . . poetry?’’ Doyle Porterhouse asked. The word ‘‘poetry’’ came out sounding like ‘‘poy-tree.’’ Porterhouse’s head was cocked, his bushy eyebrows all askew; it was as if he were a shy girl asking Lenny Halperin to the prom. ‘‘Of course. You bet I have,’’ Lenny said. That was a …
On a Day That Bombs
On a day that bombs were being dropped by drone aircraft in several regions of Libya, blowing apart fragile bodies, many of whom were living their sincere and momentary lives, it was a perfect day here except for the wind and the flies. The flies were too large to ignore. It was 73 degrees. The …