Brett Wilkins: This P*ssy Grabbed Back
Daniels says she’s undaunted by the prospect of facing Trump in court. “I’ve seen him naked,” she explained. “There’s no way he could be scarier with his clothes on.”
Abby Zimet: Banning Eagle Song, Dragons Love Tacos, A Thai Lullaby and Pink! To Protect the Children
The nationwide rush to “protect the innocence of children” from the perils of thinking for themselves accelerated last week…
Video: Homesick
An absurdist thriller about an unhappy man who attends a retreat offering adults a second chance at a happy childhood.
Abby Zimet: Proud Boys Get Beat Up At NYC Drag Queen Story Hour
“Nazis are a real problem,” said one New Yorker. “Drag queens are not.”
Barbara Hamby: My Translation
I am translating the world into mockingbird, into blue jay,
into cat-bombing avian obbligato, because I want
more noise, more bells, more senseless tintinnabulation
David Kirby: My Girlfriend Killed James Brown
“Yeah, I got bumped up to first class, and when I saw who
my seatmate was, I went back to economy and told my girlfriend,
and even though she had the flu, we switch places, and three
weeks later, James Brown is dead.”
Arlene Weiner: Another Art
Put it on eBay, ka-ching, ka-ching—
keep nothing but the things that give you cheer.
But so many objects seem to want to cling
Richard Horan: Notes from Il Campo
It’s carciofi (artichoke) season here in the Eternal City. Everywhere you go, those fat-stemmed, strongly evocative of Bacchus, violet-and-green buds are still-lifing the display tables out in front of every osteria and trattoria from Prati to San Saba.
James Davis May: Hot Sex
she asks him,
resigned panic in her voice, Did you
slice one of those serranos into the guac?
Barbara Hamby: Reading Can Kill You
Yes was Da, which is so much more Yes than Yes
but with a twinge of Nyet, and it was winter, a freezing Siberian
blizzard with days that began at ten and ended at two
Jason Irwin: On the Road to Bushmills
Because of a parade, the road to Bushmills is closed.
It’s the only road that leads to Portrush, a town
less than nine miles away, where we’ve been told
there’s a laundromat.
Barbara Crooker: Nearing Menopause, I Run Into Elvis At Shoprite,
The bass
line thumps and grinds, the honky tonk piano moves like an ivory
river, full of swampy delta blues.
Gary Fincke: Headcheese, Liverwurst, a List of Loaves
Our refrigerator
Opened to liverwurst,
Headcheese, a list of loaves:
Luncheon and Luxury
Jose Padua: Feasts, Reincarnations, and Other Elegies for Days Gone By
Now we live in the age of vapors, gasping
for breath, running for the exits. In the middle of
dim rough days and cruel centuries, let our love
be electric, and our home a movable foundation.
