[line] I was attending a yeshiva high school in suburban Maryland when I first encountered Margaret Atwood’s striking poem “You Fit Into Me.” Our 11th grade English teacher, Mrs. Gretsch, was determined to instill free thinking in our class of
[line] I’d lived in the Faroe Islands for several years before meeting Steinbjørn B. Jacobsen. It was the summer of 2008, and we were introduced at an exhibition’s opening reception in Stephansson’s House. Steinbjørn gave my hand an extra firm shake
[box]He was advancing into featherhood. At first a little eiderdown in the middle of his chest. Then some good-sized feathers coming out of his elbows. He wondered if there had ever been a bird in the family; some untalked-about ancestor. Perhaps
There are books of poetry that have played large parts in periods of my life, the call and response of certain life events or challenges. The book that has remained closest to me throughout has been Tony Hoagland’s Sweet Ruin.
3rd ANNUAL NAPOMO 30/30/30 :: DAY 26 :: PETER MILNE GREINER on RICHARD BRAUTIGAN and THE SINGULARITY
[box] All Watched Over By Machines Of Loving Grace I like to think (and the sooner the better!) of a cybernetic meadow where mammals and computers live together in mutually programming harmony like pure water touching clear sky. I like to think (right now, please!) of a cybernetic forest filled with pines and
3rd ANNUAL NAPOMO 30/30/30 :: DAY 25 :: M. KROCHMALNIK GRABOIS on CHARLES BUKOWSKI :: John Fante Was L.A. and Bukowski Was L.A. and I Am L.A.
[box]Editor's note: Sometime early this year, I'd been corresponding with a new contributor about the upcoming print magazine, and invited him to submit a piece for this year's series. This contributor was M. Krochmalnik Grabois, and what was to follow
[box] Unless You Have One Hell of an Imagination* You probably had to be there to appreciate the acrid stench of melting latex and the various grades and densities of the raw rubber slabs we heaved into the smelters of the fine itch of carbon black that clung
When I think of Leah Lakshmi’s poems, I think about femme. I think about hustle, and I think about love. I think of words like pussy and glitter and plum and open. I think about that pretty brown brown. I
So much of the uninteresting poetry that followed him can be blamed on Wordsworth. In the introduction to Lyrical Ballads alone, his insistence on using “a selection of the language really spoken by men” paved the way for a thousand
The writing looks hieroglyphic: all caps. The envelope opens to release a Persian lion; a dancing rabbit; an Ethiopian prayerbook half the size of a matchbox; or, again and again, a handmade quasi-business card with no name, nothing but a