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
Sweet look there, the cardiologist liked to say, waving his hand toward something in the garden, the hydrangea, for example, and when pressed (Is it the silver Mopheads you like? the pale Oakleaf?) he would slip the question. I don’t care about that sort of shit, he’d say, and because he was a cardiologist and […]
Mr. Z opened the door to a preacher of the One Truth: the man in a hat looked around the room.
More than a year into the pandemic, the world remains caught in the grip of a bleak future. That has brought uncertainty, isolation, and, for an unfathomable number of us, the end of everything we have ever known. It has been harrowing and relentless, exacerbated by the fact that we have been severed from one […]
