A Home on the Plains
Meg Kaizu
A boundless region extends from the east to west, from the south to north. There are a few trees, dwellings and ranches that stretch out over the horizon. Many travelers drive very fast. This place is nothing more than unwan...
Two Poems For Fall by Rebecca Weiner Tompkins
Rebecca Weiner Tompkins
ANOTHER AUTUMNAL
Sometimes I imagine
parking lots are water, dark seas
no longer dry ground
but not either anywhere to drown.
Sometimes all the trees in the park
are radiant yellow
in the end of November twiligh...
Bob Dylan Deserves the Nobel Prize for Literature
Bernard Meisler
Bob Dylan just won the 2016 Nobel Prize for literature. Many are angry. But they're wrong. He deserves it.
Joni Mitchel says Dylan is a fake. I take her critique with a grain of salt. Certainly Dylan is a confabulist—in...
The Sex Pistols: The Dance Band at the End of the World
Drew Hubner
The Sex Pistols: The Dance Band at the End of the World
A tall girl in a yellow ostrich feather top and red Bettie Page bangs, simulates oral sex with Sid, who says, Now that's the kind of girl I like and the band starts ...
What I Think Historians Will Say in 20 Years about the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election
Eliot Katz
What I Think Historians Will Say in 20 Years about the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election
How crazy it was that America’s elders nominated the two most
unpopular major-party candidates in U.S. history. On the Democratic ...
untitled—a poem by Marina Tsvetaeva
Karina McCorkle
А следующий раз — глухонемая
Приду на свет, где всем свой стих дарю, свой слух дарю.
Ведь всё равно — что говорят — не пон...
A Visit with June Leaf and Robert Frank
Erik La Prade
On a particular February 2011, afternoon, I spent part of the day in June Leaf's studio, watching her work, and listening to her talk about her work. As I sat in a wooden office chair, I watched Leaf busily untangling some s...
The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams
"The Red Wheelbarrow," a classic poem by the great William Carlos Williams. You don't need to say much to say a lot.
After the Ash-White Wind
Robert C. Hardin
9/11/01: 8:54 a.m.
My shift has ended and I’m sitting at my computer, finessing a letter to Swedish musician, Tomas Pettersson. Looking out of an eighteenth-story window off Maiden Lane, I notice what might have passed ...
Four Poems from Child of Storm
Michael J. Wilson
Tesla is Born
The sound of a shell at your ear
in an expansive void
that is the mouth of the universe
Lightening across the curve of the eye
A crack in the spheres
allowing a peek at the undergarments of God
And...
