Haunted: The Drawings of Romaine Brooks

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In 1930, after Romaine Brooks sprained her leg, her doctor prescribed bed rest.  The artist shut herself in her room in her Parisian apartment on rue Raymond and used the seclusion to begin her Memoir, No Pleasant Memories.

The Archimedes Palimpsest

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Our lives recall the textual. For one winter of my adult life, my father and I lived in a farmhouse in Boone County, Illinois. This was 1999. My father, Asel Poole, was dying of lymphoma. My wife and I had separated. The earth wintered; the air turned sharp with cold; the fields stretched expansively in white.

Poetry Feature: Bob Hicok

Featuring the poems:

  • Higher Calling
  • The Quiet Americans
  • String Theory
  • Verisimilitude

Poetry Feature: Sandra Kohler

Featuring the poems:

  • Directions
  • The Garden’s Name
  • Countenance
  • Elemental
  • As It Is
  • Love Poem

The Siege

This story is available  via the PDF link below.

The men on the walls are all dead. The city is ravaged, but still, somehow, untaken. Imagine, if you will, a cachetic dog limping down a street littered with corpses. Corpses everywhere.

“The Siege” by Seth Fried

Poetry Feature: V. Penelope Pelizzon

Featuring the poem:

  • The Ladder

 

A Conversation with Terrance Hayes

The full text of this interview is currently not available online.

And [Thelonius] Monk says, Man, every time you play you’re rehearsing! And I thought, That’s profound. It’s true, every poem is a rehearsal for the next poem, which is a rehearsal for the next poem. The idea of improvisation, rehearsal, movement, experiment–that’s what I’m interested in as an artist.

Gathering Up the Little Gods

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She has always loved motion. When her legs stride beneath her and her hands cut the air she imagines the muscle and bone that produce her forward movement. She pictures them like a diagram from Grey’s Anatomy, a copy of which she keeps on her bookshelf at home.

The Piano Teacher

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My mother came with me; I was about thirteen. The house was sturdy and Victorian.  The woman who opened the door was not Miss Bor but her sister. We went through to wait.

What a Writer Does Best

The full text of this foreword is not currently available online.

One winter evening many years ago, some friends and I were entertaining ourselves with a game of free association.  We were to respond without hesitation to whatever word or phrase the questioner put to us.  Instead about asking about the obvious things– favorite hobbies, best moview, happiest moments, etc.– my friend was being philosophical.  To me he said, “Literature,” and my unthinking response was, “Black and white.”