No one could dine with the king without sacrificing a small part of his health, this was to be expected, the price that everyone knew but never talked about.

Whatever Walsh says, there is no viable alternative the internet offers to art and politics. Though I suppose it is entertaining to think otherwise.

History is irreversibly written as a laceration upon the body

only to realize that works of art have become assets, mere vehicles of investment and speculation...

His speech thrills with all the pleasures of the horror tale.

Texts are places where the past is passed on.

The end of style, when it ends, is a post on a dejected, impassable frontier. It is the beginning of something wider and colder, and it will have no name.

Staging a Civil War battle in a field five minutes from a Long John Silver's might seem farcical, but it forges a temporal disjunction, a glitch.

We talk to Ryan William Lackey about his piece, “Finding a Way In: On Michelle Zauner and the Cultural History of Infinite Jest’s Forewords.” DFW, Japanese Breakfast, GTA, the foreword-to-the-reissue-

Let it go to the dogs.

he's compelling enough to be worth listening to

This flashing back and forth from lived experience to its abstracted digital shape is one of the characteristic rhythms of contemporary consciousness.

dusk comes loud with everyone singing dissonance is the truth about harmony or something

Life's white machine has been replaced by one in technicolor.

The largest mining accident known to man. Carbon monoxide in a hole. Cup it with your hands

The effort is longstanding, and we toil together.

None of them had wallets or cell-phones or any ID. Just Viking stuff.

All forewords are, in part, efforts to sell, rather than illuminate.

But what they do demand, as Hero does of Ivy, is "someplace where every time we turn around we don't see that damn machine staring at us."

The knock had happened on one of those other days, where the date reigned over its little space on the calendar's grid, no appointments, no holiday, a day that had entered with morning and frayed into...

The knock had happened on one of those other days, where the date reigned over its little space on the calendar's grid, no appointments, no holiday, a day that had entered with morning and frayed into...

Whereas hope gloms onto a time, witness is timeless.

It was big deal when I saw Chicano Batman. Because of what we were singing together. Thinking together. Organizing together. Celebrating together.

95 years ago, on February 18, 1931, Chloe Wofford was born on the shores of Lake Erie in Lorain, Ohio.

Narrative threads are less linear than they are synaptic.

Well not only did this coffee cost me more than the other Subway and not only was it a smaller cup but look at how much they filled it.

Me and the other jerks scrolling on the train, we're not summoning anything.

When the smell of blood spreads out here, it's bound to spread out there.

Here is Woolf at her most unvarnished, obsessed, her most playful and silly and unpolished and free.

"I prompt: A Black woman's hand near drawer" (onscreen, I receive three fingers, two thumbs, a foot made of fingers lurking, an unseen crouching body on top of the dresser)

In the effort of poetry to communicate, it must always deal in the dirty commodity of the word.

A million-acre wetland of towering oaks, six-foot-deep mud, wolves, and malaria, northwest Ohio was arguably the most inhospitable piece of land in the world.

from left to right, From A to Z, from high to low, from generation to generation, from all of us to all of you,

A million-acre wetland of towering oaks, six-foot-deep mud, wolves, and malaria, northwest Ohio was arguably the most inhospitable piece of land in the world.

How do you deal with marrying someone right before they die?

The Real is not the stories and laws which we think make up reality, but the raw void that appears when those stories and laws collapse. An abyss just out of reach, forever.

I apologize in advance for any errors in memory or judgment.

I apologize in advance for any errors in memory or judgment.

The Real is not the stories and laws which we think make up reality, but the raw void that appears when those stories and laws collapse. An abyss just out of reach, forever.

The Real is not the stories and laws which we think make up reality, but the raw void that appears when those stories and laws collapse. An abyss just out of reach, forever.

Ben said Christmas is really sad considering the outcome of the life of Baby Jesus

"Forgotten" is written in the calm register of a lecture instead of a scream, which does not diminish its authors' agony.

One regurgitated Astrodome drop in a barrel, wounded [is majorly internal], dies later—that’s nostalgia:

to my knowledge this poem is the first poem of any length to be written about cleveland in 150 years.

Time moves fast, and slow, and bent. Mostly this is an effect of the new authoritarian gravity stretching and clumping it.