texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to Volodymyr Bilyk at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
We’ll again be able to
walk from here to the Netherlands. I just don’t know exactly when. Sex is also
a great form of exercise. Yeah, every day. And it doesn’t require a lot of
foreknowledge. I should close my eyes. I should. But, instead, we just go,
“Wow.” If you think it could be, but then say, “No, it's not like that,” go
with your initial instinct. What's most challenging is seeing the same story
repeated over and over again. We’re not inventing anything; we’re just stealing
from others really well.
Friends I haven’t seen in
years have told each other I died in 2012 under sordid circumstances –
debt-ridden, detested, abandoned by everyone, communicating only with pigeons
in a Boston park. Actually, I still have feeling in pretty much every part of
my body. We used to wear cufflinks and tie clips. Now there are flash drives and
meth cooks and what sound like gunshots. People need to be careful. Autocorrect
can take you only so far. Do we even sleep? Sometimes we erase a memory here
and there, but that’s it.
When the police arrive,
chairs and tables and cups are flying everywhere. The police have dogs. They
have helicopters. I stand on the sidewalk, just trying to seem normal. Some people
are dealing drugs; others, dumping bodies. I see something big floating. At
first I think it’s a dead cow. Then it flips around and looks at me, and I say,
“Tiffany, it's a bear!” We all start laughing because it’s hard to believe.
It’s like getting a blue hug from the sky.