January 2012
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The liar lives in fear of losing control. She cannot even desire a relationship without manipulation, since to be vulnerable to another person means for her the loss of control.
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This is why the effort to speak honestly is so important. Lies are usually attempts to make everything simpler—for the liar—than it really is or ought to be. In lying to others we end up lying...
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I must keep from breaking into the story by force for if I do I will find myself with a war club in my hand and the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun, your nation dead beside you. I keep walking away though it has been an eternity and from each drop of blood springs up sons and daughters, trees, a mountain of sorrows, of songs. I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north...
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December 2011
6 posts
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XLVI. Lord, goes the prayer, increase my bewilderment, which really means allow me to question everything, but not be lost within that stance to the small flowers of common sense in season. Increase, Lord, my discontent. XLVII. But keep me from resentment. Reason as well has its season, although we don’t believe it, or put too much faith in it. It’s true that one and one, on occasion,...
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because there are seven kinds of loneliness the receptionist keeps a basket of candy by her desk. I keep my hair long out of some poorly sublimated need
for tangible accomplishment. on Tuesdays, the local crackhead calls me Miss America. most afternoons, the jobless gather in pockets
to shout compliments to each other across Sheridan. it sounds a great deal like seagulls calling other...
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Tom Waits | Hoist that Rag
We stick our fingers...
November 2011
12 posts
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The first etymology given by the OED suggests that religion comes from the Latin root religare, “to tie or bind together,” and thus religion shares its origin with the English words ligature and ligament. Augustine recognized this usage. This derivation suggests that religion somehow binds our lives together in a meaningful way, just as our ligaments hold our bones together and allow...
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7 p.m. Rumour was loose in the air, hunting for some neck to land on. I was milking the cow, the barn door open to the sunset. I didn’t feel the aimed word hit and go on in like a soft bullet. I didn’t feel the smashed flesh closing over it like water over a thrown stone. I was hanged for living alone, for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin, tattered skirts, few buttons, a weedy farm in my...
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October 2011
6 posts
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Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy | Cows
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WatchJim Yamouridis | I Want to Ride
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Carina Round | Motel 74
September 2011
24 posts
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ná fan rófhada liom mura dtagaim sa samhradh bán uaireanta meallan an fharraige mé ar an mbóthar fada chugat níl inti ach mo dheora féin slánaigh do chroí ná habair gur thréigeas thú abair gur bádh mé /
don’t hold out too long if I don’t come in sweet summer sometimes the sea has her way with me on the long road to you she is swollen with my tears salvage your heart never say I left you say I...
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On the one hand we have a political notion of love as “love of the same,” which functions as a kind of racism, a kind of nationalism, etc., and it does involve love it seems to me. It’s important to think of it that way. But, it’s horrible. It’s “love gone bad,” let’s say. Whereas, we can think of using that as a caution or a warning: a political notion of love that is not only open to...
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http://www.alligatorzine.be/pages/101/zine113.html →
In the poem “Ode or Nearly There” from h.j.r. a line wrote itself: [To] “caravan / atoms into lines of flight.” The oddness of that line was brought home — wherever that may be, if ever caravans do get there, which is neither here nor there — when my French translator queried it. Though French certainly isn’t home either, as no language is, despite our desire to make it so. Language,...
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Various qualities of darkness have fallen on the vicinity of these, asleep or awake, who take their consolations where they find them, who deplore the drift of things, of those who have made the same mistake before, who no longer fear their fathers,
of one who exults in his fragment of night, and one for whom night is a looming ambivalence,
of one who reveres the space his psyche...
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Bill Callahan | America!
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Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself. So, a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift. Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain; then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train. Pray for us now. Grade 1...
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