New York Live Arts presents
I say something about the time and he replies, “I cannot sleep in this lifeless room, I can’t, I can’t. I won’t. You can’t make me.”
In the letter never sent, / the one constructed / entirely from photographs, / Polaroids of moments, or / elements I have been / attempting to suppress.
It was a long period of peace, prosperity, refined sensibilities and national self-confidence. And crumpets.
When he could no longer stand her chatter—in France I made myself a dress of leaves stitched together with stems and I wore it by that river, the big one, the sludge, and that’s how I met many interesting boyfriends from the National Geographic Magazine—he left Nancy on the hotel roof with the chef from Mumbai.
The first thing my Godsent said when I came through the door was, “I think I have this damn thing on backwards.”
I remember your torso locked in a twill shell. / I remember the same rotating body bare. / Is my sadness ever any different?
They say that, for the longest time, Enrique didn’t know he was a superman. What he understood was that men liked his dick.
A boy is burying his sister.
They are playing at being dead.
(I cannot forget Breakneck Ridge.)
“In her twilight years,” as she calls them, / My second mother languishes.
Renee Gladman is the author of ten works of prose and poetry, most recently Calamities, a collection of essay-fictions. Her first monograph of drawings, Prose Architectures, was published by Wave Books in 2017. She lives in New England with the poet-ceremonialist Danielle Vogel.
I was left abandoned, a rectangle in the middle of a square. Dasvidanya, they said, and kicked me on my side. It hurt so much that I wanted to cry, though I’ve also shed a few tears of joy during my many travels.
The canoe is covered in canvas, and something is trapped in the weave, deep under the shellac. A knot perhaps, or stitch.
You might be an heir to the throne,
but I’ve abolished the monarchy
before the sun comes out
and washes away the DayGlo.
I caught Elma licking her front teeth in the rearview mirror. The gap between them seemed to be getting wider, like Jane Birkin, whose teeth spread considerably apart as she grew older, an oral Pangea situation.
A letter from Brakhage to the poet Robert Kelly describing his work on the groundbreaking film Mothlight.
Lee Lai is an artist from Melbourne, Australia, currently living in Tio’tia:ke (known as Montreal, Quebec). Her comics and illustrations are part fiction, part memoir, part emotional journalism.
What language are you now? Blood-fuck blanco-made / on the leaves, (brother was blood in the ears) blood / bitter crop, body-doubt, the poplar rain falling grape-grey
“I need to talk to you,” she says.
My doll had an exoskeleton
I could remove like a dress.