“With my straight razor, I unmask the lie,” Rainald Goetz read at a literary prize competition in 1983. Then, Goetz picked up a blade and sliced open his forehead, nonchalant.
A bipolar teen on her journey from self-immolation to self-actualization.
Laker gold is how Pops describes it. To Little Man, though, that motherfucker is yellow. Canary yellow and dirty. Little Man knows it’s a Westview Public Works truck, even though the WPW tag was zig-zagged over with black spray paint.
Dr. Nelson wanted me to feel something. In the palm of his hand was a pale yellow mound of powder.
To witness the vulgar, Zap Comix–inspired panorama in Manuel DeLanda’s 1979 film ISM ISM—its blubbering testicle-breasts and segmented-plumber’s-pipe phallus scrawled in marker on the tiled walls of a Manhattan subway station, just to start—is to share in the brief, bewildering encounter a commuter may have had with street art before the soap and cleaning brushes arrived.
A posthumous collection cements the author’s reputation as a master of the short story.
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.
Taking writing to the mat in J.D. Daniels’s The Correspondence
“I think violence is inherited, it’s taught, and some of the characters are born into bad blood. …The characters are raped and so is the land.”
Lucy and Kit sat waiting side by side on a black leather couch, before a long glass window that looked out over Tribeca, the winter sun in their laps. Kit stole sideward glances at Lucy, who hummed, twisting her hair around her fingers in a compulsive fashion.
Around this time I became a frequent visitor to a sex-ad bulletin board. Real-life meetups were the focal point.
Notley’s body of work consists of over thirty-five collections of poetry and prose. To consider her oeuvre, in her interlocutor’s words, is to court “cerebral and sensory overload.”
Brian got up early that Saturday to do his laundry then tracked down a friend who owed him ten dollars and scored some crystal meth in the process.
“My addiction has to do with performance, with creating a very real situation and then dealing with all the physical problems surrounding it.” —Matthew Barney
At the far end of the backyard, nestled in overgrown summer grass, the girls huddled around their private nitrous oxide tank.
Things to remember better: Ferd Eggan entered my life in San Francisco in 1969, the year I dropped out of Berkeley.
Jerry Stahl on fatherhood, pharmaceuticals, and the subversive humor of his new novel, Happy Mutant Baby Pills.
Meanwhile the Corinthians completed their preparations and sailed for Corcyra with a hundred and fifty ships. Of these Elis furnished ten, Megara twelve, Leucas ten, Ambracia twenty-seven—
I met Verne Dawson while sitting beside him at Table 23 at the celebration for Dream Machine: Brion Gysin at the New Museum in New York. Dawson revealed a cosmic process previously unsuspected by me: the genii of the 22 paths of the Kabbalah and their correspondence to the 22 major cards of the Tarot.
You’ve been out two weeks when you audition for a revival of A Hatful of Rain.