Life

When James Wright wrote that he’d wasted his he was talking about ego. Rilke, too, considering Apollo, knew the game was light—what you spread once loss’s heft becomes as natural as a wallet’s. Say I’m foolish. But I’m sure of …

Read More

[22101 – 22200]

Heavy-hearted & auricular, her etymologies spank with gristle the lorgnette sternum of the islander, Carabao. “Ugh,” snorts he, at the uncalled-for jab, his kinetic masculinity undiluted. How pleasingly shaped is this trickster, Melancholia, her acrobatic mammalian periodicity, her mementoes that …

Read More