Literature
blink twice, because you’re in / love. It is springtime, the merry / etcetera, look ahead, where we’re going / there’s a clearing and in the clearing / stands a boxer who must have slipped / his collar on the path running through / the field. He is panting, drooling, is all white / except for the pink of his exceptions– /
A novella of warranted paranoia.
Sixty years of writing about language.
The writer on Swedish Nebraska, the lyric essay, and brevity as a superpower.
All monuments commemorate the same / falsehood The gilt is genuine and we feel it right / at the surface of our discontent / Anger like so many lustrous mounts softens / in the rain And stallions and generals must periodically be / re-gilded recommitted to as if / as an abiding law of man / Though if we are honest it is the law that fails us / along with what we can abide
Stories that magnify what it means to be black in America through a satirical, uncanny lens.
The writer discusses what Laika, the first Soviet space dog, can teach us about companionship and loneliness.
A novel about queer rage, the 1990s club scene, and the intricacies of healing.
on up the mirroring woodpath that is mirroring from / the glaring lake to the right as towards us 1 beautiful wanderer / and over the roots of the mighty trees I strayed / while the clanging sun that is the high midday light / dusted through the vaulted treetops that time in Altaussee
On writing about performance and relationship paradigms.
The writer on surviving assault, deepening our standards for justice, and resisting forgiveness as the only way to move through pain.
A two-sided novel and a psychological road narrative, both books explore contemporary culture by channeling iconic literary traditions.
The author on teenage malaise, mental health in South Korea, and globalization as Americanization.
The poetics of the microdose.
Recognizing a forgotten Argentinian writer.
The writer on working across genres, exploring the nuances of transnational identities, and resisting the expectations of a single, Chinese American narrative.
The poet on the virtues of improv, the cost of solitude, and having deep conversations with other texts.
The citizen investigator as poet.
The playwright on exchanging letters with the late poet Max Ritvo.
Yunes were human once. / They nursed babies and baked bread and made love beneath the shade of the willow tree. / Then they were drowned in the bog on the edge of town. / The marshlands kept them flawless. / Their skin tanned tight as a drum skin, sealing their spirits inside like caged dogs.