Category: Arts

The Selected Sex Lives of Filipina Maids

Outside #01-239, the post office in Lucky Plaza, they leer at her, and she wonders what the three of them are doing there. Don’t Bangladeshi workers belong in Little India?

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ambergris

from far away the scent of amber-greased bodies
under the gray electric blue lights

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I like you best when your lines are blurry

I like you best when your lines are blurry,
and your words melt from mouth to air

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This Could Be Anywhere

Poem on creation and destruction of fiction and reality.

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In the Long-Ago Days of Reagan

The year 1992 seems deceptively recent until one realizes that whole twelve-year-olds have been put together since then, built molecule by molecule into a generation of giggling girls and shaggy-haired boys not quite young enough to be my children but shockingly close to being old enough to have children.

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Milan Kundera: Writer without a Country

A classic from the Nassau Weekly archive

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Our Burger King

We would meet in front of the Burger King in Piccadilly Circus to go to West End nightclubs during August of 2004, me and two Spanish sisters from my old residence hall who shared a love of dancing and cheap drinks.

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Poems

Slug Polaroid ?I.?On a walk through Killarney, I dodge wet loaves.?They would soon stick to sole:?husky bits of polka-dotted licorice,?black pudding gnocchi.??II.?I imagine plasmodial slime mold and black bear cubs?would spawn something like this glossy lump.??III.?At a house near Volx, … Read More

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Self portrait

Frank O’Hara writes a poem about why he’s not a painter, and in it he writes a poem called “Oranges” with no orange. So I’ll write a self portrait without myself. I’ll write instead about what I like: the opera, … Read More

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Stephens Fitness Center

So it is cozy. You might say small. Or even absurdly tiny.
And it is busy. Teeming, if you prefer. Perhaps you stand a greater chance of being struck by lightning while clutching a winning lottery ticket and barebacking flying swine than eyeing an open elliptical machine during peak hours.

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Legacy

I walked into the University chapel with a group of white-haired men in blue suits. I paused in front of an usher who wore a nametag with an orange and black ribbon pinned to it: Somers K. Steelman ’54. I extended my hand for a program. He looked at my unbrushed hair, sweatshirt, jeans, and flip flops.

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The Heady Days of Grade Inflation

Those were the heady days of grade inflation, now long since past. Those were the days of rowdy shouting and whispered promise, vanished now like the morning mist.

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