Contributed By: Ryo Yamaguchi
The vendor calls the sandwiches by what’s not
on them. We are localized—everything
is at risk; the season hangs in a stiff haw.
As a way of being instituted, I have been copied.
I have been made in the image. O heuristic
of common motion, to where do I walk
when this has all gone to sleep? Will I be known
by what has gone missing?
Return to table of contents for Issue 6 Fall 2012
Mark I can feel their eyes: flicking from clasped hands to clenched jaws and back, and then cutting away. And that’s almost harder to bear, that looking away—it gouges, leaves me less than I was. I never thought that this would be the place: the Tottenham Court Road platform of the Northern Line—hot and sweaty […]
The sun beats down on Paradise like an angry drunk. It cracks the villas’ pastel stucco skin, makes syrupy heat waves roil above the tar roofs, and bleaches the loose gravel driveways into trails of jagged bone shards. It makes the oak trees sag, browns the evergreens’ needles, and turns the air sticky with the […]
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know about is that crumby article I found a few years back. It was a really phony piece, in The Guardian or something and all, written by this very intellectual guy who says he re-reads Catcher in the Rye every […]
