Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
I wanted to become a burning myth in my hot youth,pined for truth, but owned the largest voice to speak the smallest lies;from the centerof the wheel I ran nowhere fast, said littleof substance to drill through the noisy substrata— darkling days,twilight & dusk,talking shit,the rich, thick gloamof my young dumb life —shouting downfrom the tower overlooking Somerville’sblinking guts, to the Boston skyclose by. I…
As a child I still recall the legends of famed writers and their golden pens, seemingly handed down to them from Midas himself. Writers who inked themselves into the eaves of history while enjoying lives full of fame and riches. For instance, Charles Dickens’ alleged payment-by-the-word or Herman Melville’s hatred of writing (despite his lifelong commitment to it). While Dickens’s word-count-paycheck could explain his lengthy…
i’m a different woman in every room in the kitchen efficient operative as forkquiet in the bedroom tiptoe to avoid discourse the weight of telling youeverything is fine nothing happened in the bathroom confessional thoughts bendinto curve hungry as the dip that concludes my spine the volume of forward ofwoman who stays in the nursery nostalgic i summon the past …
for Louis burrito by starlight, red and green Cholulain the beard. Stuffed to our socks, let us dub this the first formal ritual to the pagangods of guac and fries, carne asada, jalapeño hit the tongue, the joint, tie-dye breaks, the jettywater moonset pacific. Recollecting yule tides, re-collecting gifts that we’ve been given,moments that always felt like ours to keep. Digging toes deeper into this…
It was summer and everything had fallen apart. But I’d not yet lost hope. It was one of those descents where you feel free almost, so long as you can sense some light somewhere to fall toward. Yoon and I had divorced on account of irreconcilable differences. It wasn’t that I’d been diagnosed as autistic. It was that I was diagnosed and thought differently about…