He’s losing the lot all over again. New routines do not exist. It is mature. Everything chiseled into stone gets digitized, perhaps. Logarithms asexually inhabit the whole thing—nonplussed. The unnamable becomes ineffable as It’s damaged. We are the fabric, stitched together in storms to be torn asunder, too fast and weak for immortality. At one’s private end being embraces Its self, tumbling into the nakedness of a future dreamed. The babe is gone, but the dog worries the child into hiding somewhere in the street.
A Cow Stood In the Field
by Louise Bierig
A cow stood in the field. Amanda didn’t hesitate, but walked right over. She was paying $75 an hour to hug this cow, why hesitate? It would be her first hug in over a year.
by Iain Britton
resting on concrete on a plank of wood an old woman counts herself lucky * absurdities manifest themselves a boy runs naked up the street a heron plucks white feathers from its plumage weather vanes spin erratically * time is a wooden god is the gull shit on its head is lichen creeping time […]
R. Clifton Spargo interviewed by Okla Elliott: The Lost Chapter
Okla Elliott: You chose the end of Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald’s relationship as the focus of your novel. What drew you to that particular portion of their lives? And, more broadly speaking, what drew you to that particular literary couple as opposed to, say, Vivian and T.S. Eliot or Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, etc.? R. […]