The poet on her new collection and what it means to mess with, fuss with, break, and refresh language.
A Memoir of Witness and Resistance.
When the sun goes down / The spirits come out / We huff on a pinwheel / And say it spins of its own accord / Rolling out the bins in saturated air / Oiling the slop to ease extraction / Accumulate, hoard, die, repeat
A CAST of eight: ACTOR, CHEF, COMPOSER, DANCER, FILMMAKER, PAINTER, and siblings: SISTER and BROTHER. If necessary, ACTOR may be played by a PHOTOGRAPHER.
A recording plays from somewhere high, / or low, through the falling dust-light: / I can’t tell you anything new about the river— / you can’t tell a river to itself.
coffee cups / stirrer sticks / napkins and cookies / on the tray top / satellite tv / an office in the air
As we entered Arezzo, the guide pointed out the prostitutes lining the road. The women looked like awkward, flashy birds, teetering in bright spandex and spiked heels, cheap gold jewelry flashing in the summer sun.
Anja skidded down the slope, which was becoming muddy from overuse by feet. It still hadn’t been paved or even scattered with gravel, since Finster didn’t want to admit that the state of the pathway could no longer reasonably be called temporary.
From 1975 to 1979 I grew up in a temporary company town made up of trailers in the boreal forests of northern Manitoba. My father was one of the hydroelectric engineers working on a joint project between the Canadian and Soviet governments to dam the Nelson River at a place called Jenpeg.
The poet and artist invokes ancient matriarchal cultures, Indigenous folkways, and the speculative capacities of language so that we might rediscover our kinship with nature.
The ocean’s iron lungs.
Confronting the violent politics of a homeland.
Tweets, memes, and GIFs tell the story of a Trump-induced apocalypse.
The writer discusses his personal, political, and critical assessment of hip-hop’s golden age.
Sick and smelly / I dip my finger into my belly button / and it seems to go forever // Not a shallow cup this is just / AttemptS just attempts to remember / what it was like to be pastel
Nuanced identity and adolescent angst from Greenland.
The memoirist on her relationship with motherhood, immigration, and psychogeography.
The writer on depicting disenchantment, chasing the imagination, and retelling the stories she collected as a child in Mexico.
What was the earth like?
My sister asks this every night, leaning back on her pillow. The question is part of our routine, along with brushing our teeth, peeing, pushing our legs into the soft holes of our pajamas.
The poet on the physicality of language, making a process to mess it up, and curiosity as optimism.