All night long, Elena tossed and turned on her thin mattress and listened to . . . the coughs, the laughs, the sobs, and the whispers of all these poor people who had the same hopes as they did.
(fiction)
So they invoked God to bless their spreadsheet. Some said God said those words were His . . . And others said God never really said that.
(fiction)
Greek amphorae sprouting branches in the toboroches / and Dante’s whole paradise embodied in a dragon fruit (poetry)
dark people mark a place as dangerous or destitute, the word / jawn marks a place people gloss over on their way to DC
(poetry)
Easier to say, there / are too many poets and there aren’t enough rebels.
(poetry)
with an empathy so fatal #21 we have teeth we show them to politicians ✶✶✶✶…
“Noir fiction is still responding to The Maltese Falcon,” writes reviewer Matt Meade, “still trying to figure out how to formulate that strange alchemy of crime, post-war malaise, sensitive street tough, and existential dread.”
(review)
The men frequently give aliases; as simple as John Smith or as attention-seeking as Carlos Danger. She guesses that they believe her name to be an alias too.
(fiction)
In the city that some used to call the Seattle of Italy, nowadays you can only overdose on poetry.
(nonfiction)
“Whether V’s and June’s story is your or my family story,” writes Chelsea Biondodillo, “it is still our story and it should rattle and anger even as it hollows out a soft spot in the heart for these fierce and sorrowful unsung stories.”
(review)
