The moon is like a contessa. The black clouds, her fan.
Do you recognize the Earth’s Moon when you see it?
The heavens are full of lights and alarms,
longer light, brighter eyes. A bit of guilt might be our prize.
I knew if I touched my mother, she wouldn’t feel it.
Pardon me if I have become too serious but this has been our nature.
Or at least, it can be buried so deep, that nobody remembers where it is.
I slept like a general before defining battle:
can i be that contessa or grande dame with fans and those jewels.
And the moon comes.
Sometimes I want to scratch the skin of a thousand tears off my body and awake in swaddling clothes in your arms. My weeping holds no legacy, no shrift for the poor or helpless, they are only shed for me. We awoke to beastly sounds above Death Valley, got happily lost in the California coast…
They didn’t find the body until weeks later. Its hands chewed off, the rest of it torn through like an old sheet. Naomi said it smelled exactly like death should.
I ate the peach just pulled from the fridge. Its juice ran down my chin, cold, like, “Wake up chin! Wake up!”
My silence, my chewing, just made Naomi talk more. I learned things I didn’t want to. Things people reading the newspaper would never know. I thought of a giant mother hiding the eyes of its thousands of children. I thought, my life should have so many hands.
I’d like to fall
disappear into bottomless ocean.
Into a calamitous cloud, a football flower field.
I’d like to hide in skyscraper grass,
a burst of fireworks,
a jazz lick.
I want to bathe in
gossamer webs,
perfume of an evergreen forest.
Bury into you.
- Continue work…
- Study the masters…
- Do deliberate exercises…
- Regularly enter notes…sharpen that peculiar and forgetful eye…
- Take to sketching…details…exactitude…
- Become steeped in history…
- …the better word…the better word…the better word…
- Figure it will be five years before any…
- Wait…
This is a poem about the way you move when I see you talking to me with words that are made of lines.I do not know how else to explain it. When I worked for the paper all I ever did was smudge oil on my face. I was violent. I smoked as if I were a gorgeous woman.When I dreamed of you…
In Vermont I am always looking out of a snow globe.
Today I am pretending I know what origami snow would feel
like. Watch the bottom of my snow boots, watch them fold
into dirty swans, Chinese finger cuffs. Next term I am running
for mayor of Stowe, Vermont. There are so many signs outside
…
J.E. Reich, of the lovely literary journal Art Faccia, was kind enough to interview me regarding my editorial (fwriction : review) and written work. Why, you ask, would someone waste time talking to me? I give you my honest answer: financial incentive. (Kidding. Or, am I? No, I am.)
What, exactly, does it mean to “rock waffles”? If you ask editor and writer Danny Goodman, it is what good fiction should aspire to. According to the submission guidelines for Goodman’s literary brainchild fwriction : review, the fiction he looks to publish should “melt faces and rock waffles”; the phrase, therefore, seems to speak for itself.
But fwriction : review and its sister blog fwriction are not the only Goodman productions that rock waffles; Danny Goodman himself is an enterprise and entity unto himself. He is also a published writer, and is most notable for his “Ben Stories.” Goodman is currently working on a novel about the relationship between the aforementioned Ben and a character named Roddy, who is featured in his complete novella.
Art Faccia’s J.E. Reich interviewed Goodman. Here is what went down.
A lock of hair from a carousel horse, a velvety shamrock drink coaster, a purple feather boa—presents From the Umberplatzen. My first reaction to Susan Tepper’s tour de force is a personal one. I know Susan Tepper. I know Marcus Speh, to whom the work is dedicated. I know Germany; I live…
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What Naomi Says, by xTx
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