Contributed By: Ron Czerwien
Night in infinite decline,
it doesn’t matter. Stooges club each other
for joy, while a scale of ascending
bleats weigh the peripheries. From border crossing
to interrogation cell, a split hair.
I feel the urge to lift this curtain between us
with my teeth. I’m a jokester
and a terror. To think some agitated
dust would rush to revise my footprints.
And then there is you, unaccustomed to this cold
red smoke curling out of my sicknesses.
Return to table of contents for Issue 6 Fall 2012
AGAINST EXPRESSION: AN ANTHOLOGY OF CONCEPTUAL WRITING edited by Craig Dworkin and Kenneth Goldsmith Northwestern Univ. Press 656 pages reviewed by Richard Kostelanetz One of the curious cultural phenomena of our time is that radical epithets developed in the rather small audience for visual art acquire a prestige that makes them glibly applicable to arts […]
There’s nothing less than a relationship at stake, when one opens a package of LED white star lights on green wire from Target, and another opens an identical package, and both get frustrated trying to untangle the strings.
where I believe that it was the goddamn fault of the night willow, that if it hadn’t been so blacked out like it was, bowed so brushy and low, you could have seen your way around it. Could have driven a clean road home like you do every night, except this one.
