Monthly archive November, 2012

Like Coming Home

When Daniel thought of his father, he thought about his father’s peculiar means of making money as a young man. It involved blue jeans, smuggling them over the border from Italy to Yugoslavia. It would be a stretch to call that an occupation, just as it would be to call it a crime, but it...
Witness XXV.3 (Fall 2012) Now Live

Witness XXV.3 (Fall 2012) Now Live

The fall 2012 issue of Witness (Vol. XXV No. 3) is now live.

Yok         ::         Not Existent

in the elation                                     the moon                                     gibbous is funny servant perhaps or standard                                     bearer                                     burnt rosewood                                     bored tree–fin better yet red                                     slate counter                                     functional static the moon stands funny                                     wind                                     function                                     bored in red bored by burnt counter or                                     tree–fin yet                                     better standard bearer standing                                     he laughs                                     gibbous                                     whistle unsettled we know it round                                     mountain gibbous...

Var         ::         Existent

Whether I am stone or iron, I will be brought back to life, sailed in on ships from sea, led in through the gates. To be a tree is to be a tree: green scissored into leaves turning too slow to catch up. The first time was better, two bodies orbiting, depending on the counteracting...

Sonbahar         ::         Last Spring, Fall

I go loud into this shouting stone once for the clock lost in the grass and once until I return home. These briars in my pocket keep spring next to my thigh. When the clouds break to the stars, all this must go into safekeeping. Winter leans in the sky that can only be called...

Ötesi          ::          What Follows, The Rest

one day was the first day                                                  cool and a question of            perspiration on the tabletop                       the new building set stone over stone            among tall weeds next to the river                                    on the ground lost with the bugs                       a daydream of spiders in the snow   one day was the second day                                    dim and windy            blocked by...

This Is Not Attica

This is not a televised sensation flying with spit. This is not the winter of 1943. This is not mud in the mouth or face in the ditch. We are tired of your missives, sent in flowers and toilet paper and fists. This is not a slot machine where everyone rolls a cherry blossom. This...

Groceries. Beer. Liquor. Lottery.

My date studies geography, but not boring geography, hot geography. The kind where they figure the ratio of Jesus to horses. There’s always a ratio. Jesus to horses. High schools to Speedways. Liquor to lottery. All landscape makes me sad. There are always people picnicking near the pond at the end of the park, and...

Experiments in Living Chemistry

The first morning after my last day of fifth grade, Mom informed me that my summer vacation and girlhood were over. Me: Reading A Wrinkle in Time in my room, hoping to pull a Meg Murry and tesseract to another planet. Mom (with a cursory knock while opening the door): “Great news! You get to...

The Test

After the principal’s box of condoms went missing, the boys learned to find me alone, at the water tap, between classes, or tromping through the mopane forest to my flat on the principal’s homestead. Eyes locked on my feet, in the customary way Namibian children defer to elders, they whispered in nascent English, “Sir, help...

Alain Delon Doesn’t Drink Cologne

Here, next to Jean-Paul Belmondo, in the film Borsalino, is Alain Fabien Maurice Marcel Delon, one of the biggest celebrities of modern-era world cinema — and almost certainly the brightest foreign movie star in old USSR circa the time of its protracted decline and slide into non-existence; the idol of two or three generations of...

The Beginning of a Long Road

Earlier today, in a conversation with a friend, I recalled the preposterous little novel I wrote at the age of thirteen: my very first literary work of any sizable scope. The year was 1968; the month was August; the location, Roshchino, a middle-scale lakeside resort community some forty-five minutes away from Leningrad by suburban train....