Category: Arts

From the Land of Bob

A Poem.

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The Wind on Ganja Bridge

A Poem.

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Syncopation

Two days before, I was alone, thinking about what it must feel like to have a heart that beats when it wants, attune to no one and free to roam around the range of time like a novice drummer. Thinking … Read More

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A Study in Atlantic Salmon

The thin strap of a duffel bag cut into Milo’s shoulder as he stood on the front step of the old house where he grew up. He studied a painfully new, gold mailbox that dangled a limp newspaper in its … Read More

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Looking At a Childhood Afternoon, As From a Moving Car

Looking back, I can recount— although perhaps, at times, incompletely, and often, I admit, sensationally—— a brief episode between my four-year-old self and a close childhood friend: a young girl named Mary, similarly diminished in age and stature, a miniature co-star, with whom I shared an afternoon that I will always remember.

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Letters

Characters U S Scene 1 Lights come up on a sitcom-style living/dining room/kitchen set. It is reminiscent of I Love Lucy. U, a large foam letter is sitting on the couch nursing a cup of coffee. S, another large foam … Read More

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Stand Still

I met the faeries in Vermont.

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A Translation by Elizabeth Abernethy

JESUS Either someone plays Mahomet or I quit! MOSES But you’re not taking into account the risks that that imports. If you make an actor incarnate Mahomet you’ll have fifteen thousand fatwahs on your back. JESUS When I do theatre, … Read More

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Ovaries look like oysters, but they taste like halibut

That’s what I used to tell my interns, anyway. It was such a hoot to watch the queasy dubious looks on their faces as they glanced sideways at each other, speechless. They’d grin at each other, sometimes giggle; other times they just looked sick, or nervous, like I’d taken a piss on the preacher Sunday morning at church—Is he serious?

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Hang Up

And imagine my heel a hook around your ear – my other against your chest, the rest of my leg singing. Stay there, crush ripping hair from the bud, the best part thrash: from the shove. or the bouncy ball … Read More

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Narcissus

Jakob’s eyes were a prison for my soul. They were tragically beautiful. They were beautifully tragic. There was sadness there, and a wise weariness of the world, and yet somehow a glint of hope. His eyes nearly broke my heart. A sapphire ocean, sweeping me away in a shimmering riptide of tears and fluttering lashes.

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The End of the Hanging Basket

“Mr. Stone was commissioned by the mayor of London to design a “dry garden” of plants and flowers that use less water because England, widely associated with drizzle, is actually drying up.” “LONDON IS SO DRY,” Wall Street Journal, July … Read More

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