The Sadness of Tycho Brahe's MooseFrom the Print
So first of all not a moose exactly.
An elk.
But what an elk.
Moose-like in its magnificence…
From the Print
"Stupid Petals" & Other PoemsFrom the Print
Remark the comparative zip and panache / of those beautiful hammerhead sharks. / Farther down we get into reptiles, / the “bucket of mud club”…
"The Snob" & "Try"From the Print
She watched a boy on the bus with his knee up under his chin. Some people might think the boy would be worried that he was ill-fitted for his undiscovered future, that he already had something like a belief in his own failure…
Review: Javier Marías’ "The Infatuations"From the Print
Javier Marías’ long, comma-riddled sentences are frequently compared to Henry James’, a comparison he has at times courted, though this comparison does Mr. Marías no favors…
Review: Jonathan Lethem’s "Dissident Gardens"From the Print
So, Jonathan Lethem never writes a single novel when he can write three novels rolled into one, and Dissident Gardens is no exception…
Green Screen: The Lack of Female Road Narratives and Why it MattersFrom the Print
Whereas a man on the road might be seen as potentially dangerous, potentially adventurous, or potentially hapless, in all cases the discourse is one of potential. When a man steps onto the road, his journey begins. When a woman steps onto that same road, hers ends…
West of the KnownFrom the Print
My brother was the first man to come for me. The first man I saw in the raw, profuse with liquor, outside a brothel in New Mexico Territory…
"Sedna Married" & Other PoemsFrom the Print
Unhappily it pleased her to take up / with the village dog, having found neither the man / with the biggest canoe nor the man / with the keenest fishing-spear to her tastes…
CandorFrom the Print
It’s not / a functional requirement, just / an interest, something that takes / the edge off, though you pay it back / in other, sharper edges…
Review: László Krasznahorkai’s "Seiobo There Below"From the Print
Hell is oneself. Or, if you like, Hell is other people. Either way, Hell’s Modernist vanguard—let’s say Beckett, Sartre, and Eliot—moiled in darkness long enough to recover the bad news and bring it to daylight…
gloomerangFrom the Print
boomgloomerang, boomgloomerang, boomboomcheroo, / gloom never skips, has no blood and no shoes…
Editor’s Epilogue: Bend SinisterFrom the Print
“Gloomerang” is as playful a poem about despair as you are likely to read: compulsively playful, in a way that might be the cure and might be the cause. It takes its start from the crossing of Bumerang, German (or is it Australian?) for boomerang, and Kummer, for sorrow…
Where We All Slowly DieFrom the Print
More importantly though, they lack that one vital piece of knowledge: how to lift a dead body. How, then, are they any different from that outstretched body cooling motionless before them?
New Poetry Round-Up: Seshadri, Lauterbach, O’BrienFrom the Print
Ann Lauterbach is an experimental poet in the best sense of the word. Erudite yet curious, readable yet uncompromising, her poetry explores the foggy terrain between self-expression and social justice…
Long MeadowFrom the Print
I love retrieving stray balls Kierkegaard / longed to be useful he didn’t feel all that useful in his room thinking / about Christianity and would walk the streets wanting to open doors / [voices] and I feel splendid returning balls to groups of friends or / bounded fields