Plummeting toward the gutter of sleep, I scryed / us missing school, huddled in a dank culvert, / dowsing for each other, menthol tongues working. / Only that once. Shit, you whispered. My mistake.
On Oct. 14, the Autumn Leaves Project presents an evening of intergenerational storytelling and art at Baltimore’s Area 405.
Pleasant Hills, East Hanover, Manada Gap. Deep rumble of roadway spindling off behind us, a shup-shup-shup of mile markers flickering in the slipstream.
It took my father nearly four decades to commit suicide. One thing you can say about my dad: he was persistent.
The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death are chilling because they force us to confront how little we know about the way the world works. Each tiny crime scene challenges our assumptions about human relationships.
A lone swallow flutters against a low line of clouds. A stubby finger finds a bloody button in the steaming slickness of a squirrel’s stomach. What does the water say? What do the stars? Fuck the future. Just tell us what to do, what not to do.
A gallery of images glimpsed while walking the tracks of the labyrinth.
In which I participate in the Someone Once Told Me project and break a cardinal rule of Zen Buddhist practice: never reveal what your teacher told you behind the closed doors of dokusan.
The Atlantic’s pics of animals in WWI are heartbreaking because they show how the cyclone of war not only devastates human beings and their creations, but pulls up all manner of other life into its deadly radius.
Stepping into the Kelmscott Bookshop is like entering a womb. The atmosphere is close, the sounds of traffic on 25th Street are suddenly muffled, absorbed by the rows and rows of volumes that stretch from floor to …