Contributed By: Kevin J.B. O'Connor
So the birds turned to stone mid-air
and fell on the Earl’s head,
is that right? On the oxen’s rumps
and the palanquins.
Or was it the apparitions hanging
in the ice—
shagged osiers that struck
them dead,
a current livid among the roots,
transmogrified by the black sun,
itself frozen—like a dark cherry,
a chariot of unknown souls?
Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.
The nightingale is plucking out its feathers. So what if it pulls them all out? I bought you a flower. You said it had faded. It fades. So what? Are you done judging me or…
8:15 Splendidly beautiful day: intense sun and blue sky. Big cloud of smoke at town hall. Nine guerrillas on the corner. Indigenous Tzeltals all. Nothing on the radio: “They smashed the station to pieces,“ Dora reports.…
prosody + bibliomancy landing at Cendrars = I. why not cut through a rabble with rutting eyes and hands (would he like this?) the man wants to worship the worship of your mouth and his member, II. and i his rhythmic locution— to wake up a prosodic unit and inhale and exhale first slow, then […]
Interviewer’s note: the following interview is the first in a series I will conduct with various indie rock bands of political, artistic, and literary merit. “Ten Questions” will be the series title, as I hope to keep these interviews suitably brief for an online format. Based out of Minneapolis, Cloud Cult formed in 1995 as the […]
One afternoon I couldn’t think straight. I’d just come home and dropped my valise on the hardwood floor when I realized that I’d forgotten to wipe my snowy, muddy shoes on the rough rug in the kitchen. I thought of the rug in that way: “rough.” In what way could a rug be “rough,” I […]
