J. D. King

(i love the scent of fresh cut grass) the mower is black mostly with bright orange parts illustration by JD King no engine to cut is to hear the whir of the reel and to smell fresh cut gra...

Bonny Finberg

Take the gas mask off. Take a bath. Take the cake. Take the China exit. Hell is out there too, Other people’s concern, Gods’ voices, at it like grownups In the front seat. Photograph from the Wall Str...

John S. Hall

by This Fuckin' Guy (as told to John S. Hall) Owls don’t seem so fucking wise to me. They look like dicks, usually, With their chests all puffed out and shit, Like they’re saying “Fuck me? No--fuck you!” But ...

William S. Burroughs

Truman Capote once famously said of the work of Jack Kerouac: "That's not writing, that's typing." A decade or so later, William S. Burroughs returned the favor with this epistolary riposte. July 23, 1970 My Dear Mr. T...

Maggie Estep

Last year, shortly after Maggie's passing, we published part one of her tour diaries. Here's part two of her adventures with Hole, The Beastie Boys and more, from Sensitive Skin Number 11, which we dedicated to Maggie. Oc...

steve dalachinsky

on the b-38 what are you waiting for / get covered / start here / a gift of happiness or risky listening? ya never can tell / drivin 26 yrs / 47 / nice humble guy surprised / caught a heart attack / here today gone t...

Anonymous

I have the kind of mind that would kill me if it didn’t need me for transportation. In this case to Ireland. I had no conscious desire to go anywhere near the place but somehow I found myself sucked into the subway,...

D. Scot Miller

Let me tell you how I met Sham Black. West Virginia, Dunbar Jr. High School football field, 123rd Annual Commode Bowl, Riverside Rats versus The Hillside Rams. photograph by Kym Ghee Every Thanksgiving morning...

Margarita Shalina

The morning of the first day in the Dark Zone, I wake, still dreaming in black and white. I am Joan Crawford. I am Mildred Pierce. In the black of night, a storm is raging. I am in a bungalow by the ocean. The white foam wav...

Lynn McGee

Plants at Work Sunflowers bob on a raft near Chernobyl, roots leaching atoms humming with intent to harm, but diffusing like sugar in the slow surge of some big flower’s stalk, its face tilting to follow the s...

Rebecca Weiner Tompkins

AFTER YOU SAID I ALWAYS LOSE THINGS The red birthstone fell out of my ring, leaving its crowned prongs empty, a perfect chip chiseled from my heart’s bones. I dreamed being stopped by the long dark walkway w...

Jenny Wade

During the unusually hot Parisian summer of 1924, 38-year-old Vladislav Khodasevich—regarded by Nabokov as the finest Russian poet since Blok—was suffering from an identity crisis. One of 3 million exiled from Soviet Rus...