in soft squares, you try to neglect / your worries and shut down / the war-voices.
(poetry)
Tag: Another Chicago Magazine
There is no such thing as old water, but when I answered, “I’m as old as water,” my son’s eyes grew wide. He says that because water cycles, it’s all super old. (fiction)
“People are not who they once were but actors in the great drama of life, informed by what they have seen on the screen,” writes Peter Valente.
(review)
it’s still spring in Rome, a perennial incitement to live. We meet in Piazza Cavour, me with my selfish FFP3 mask, Luisa with her altruistic blue cloth one.
(fiction)
Each day the quick kick of the dream / empties another body / and the ghosts move through unkempt streets / named Lincoln and Delaware.
(poetry)
they are the ones not allowed the roles except / maids and gardeners and gangsters and prisoners.
(poetry)
California has weathered him with sun and heat. Michigan has begun to change me, too. We’re two birds . . . both singing variations of the same song.
(fiction)
at recess the innocent school / children play and gambol in / pure non-denominational play
(poetry)
from their beacon hands / glow worldwide welcomes and a thousand smiles.
(poetry)
The rose bushes lining the sidewalk leading to the front steps appeared like sentinels at the Mughal court, waiting for a decry from the Indian parent at the parapet.
(fiction)
“How and where women and minority groups get the shaft is only half of the lesson this book imparts,” writes Bean Gilsdorf.
(review)
I dreamed the sun, very low, / painting me a mustache of sweat and coal. (poetry)
I wondered aloud / if on those odds days / where I felt like a hunted squid / that what I was actually feeling / was Light Cerulean Blue.
(poetry)
I see that the innocent face / beneath the long-brimmed, straw hat / does not seem to know it is raining.
(poetry)
All the other cool calm quite sensible terms had stable gigs in respectable stories.
(poetry)
I can ring you up for / what fits in the bag. The rest is your responsibility.
(poetry)
20th century monk / High Priest of Art / The Legendary Master— / in his bare immaculate altar of a studio / in the heart of New York City.
(poetry)
I know what it’s like to be had, to be misused and unused.
(drama)
Humanizing the effects of Chicago gun violence, editor Chris Green chose a form for his latest anthology that mirrors the way a semi-automatic weapon fires. Interviewed by Donald G. Evans.
I look to the nearby hill, past her and the highway, and watch it blacken. Its lines are clean and honest.
(fiction)
ParaGard: [thank you student health/insurance] a type of long-acting, / reversible, contraceptive, intrauterine / device.
(poetry)
Ghosts stories/told around the campfire/predicted my future.
(poetry)
Perhaps they found another way. Perhaps they could stop. Perhaps they just go to church. What I wouldn’t give to possess their simple freedoms. (nonfiction)
Our government only practices against a sunset bleeding into the cradle of tactile landing.
(Poetry)
Merely archaeological, the images of strewn masks take on a symbolic meaning for America’s ambivalence towards public health.
(The Loop)
the city’s landmarks / are illuminated / by your stopover in my thoughts
(TCTC translations/poetry)
I pledge allegiance to no man, / let alone some fucking flag
(poetry)
We’re whiter and more rural which means we don’t pick the president—we just narrow the view.
(poetry)
content warning: discussion about suicide
Can’t lie to anyone here. Prophets—all of us. Could baptize any guy with your spit.
(Drama)
Eyes reflect the distortions / of a whitewashed mind.
(poetry)
Another Chicago Magazine 