It is gray and frigid outside. I have accomplished little at my desk. I have plans, when I return home, to draft an essay about love. So I want my walk around the lake to go quickly.
While spring cleaning, I came across a crumpled letter I had placed in an old Beatle scrap book in my youth. It made me smile.
new year’s eve. i have slept on a love seat with my feet up and my head down and allergy medication so my head is full of blood and rain and driving roads. i dream i write a brilliant story but upon waking i only remember the words “white” “crayon” and “sky” from the final […]
Why—or more precisely, how—does a corset symbolize something very different when it is worn by Madonna than when it was worn by Victorian housewives?
You pour it all into a poem: your skeleton, your bile, your oozing primordial remnant—your private parts. To be told that the fundamental you is not up to snuff—that’s hard murder.
One of the most difficult things about writing is self-editing. Not just revising and scrounging for the proper word, but eliminating description, exposition, and even whole scenes that fail to move things along.
"Before cops threw the book at him, Jakub Fik threw something unusual at them — his penis. Fik, 33, cut off his own penis during a Northwest Side rampage Wednesday morning. When confronted by police, Fik hurled several knives and his severed organ at the officers, police said. Officers stunned him with a Taser and […]
Joe made plans earwhispering elsewhere with hands in her back bluejean
pockets finding his, his what?, what were we looking for afterall
those barlikely nights?
We’ll always shell out for the latest, greatest sleep aid, and we won’t count off ten sheep before rushing to do so.
A series of motifs in literature allows us to say, as a general principle as well as an experiential possibility, no one wants to be the younger brother. In folktales, the narrative perspective is generally either told from the point of view of the older brother, or else the younger brother is telling the tale […]
The first time I met Allen Ginsberg he peed on my foot. But, that is not the only thing I remember about the vaunted poet of the “Beat Generation.”