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 ...

Bernard Meisler

The Bouncer, a novel by David Gordon The Mysterious Press, New York, 259 pages Legend has it that when criminals and others in "the game" would read Elmore Leonard's novels, they always assumed he was a crook who had don...

Jürgen Schneider

Amy Winehouse staggers in shortly before midnight. It doesn’t go without notice how unwell she is. Amy will be DJ’ing. There is a yellow shimmer to her skin and her skinny body looks more fragile than ever, her hands ...

Max Blagg

I was introduced to John Ashbery's poetry in the summer of 1971, by a beautiful young American poet living in London. We met at a church jumble sale in Belsize Square. Her flat was across the street. I woke up on her couch l...

Patrick O'Neil

There is nothing easy about turning sixty. The days whip by in a whirlwind, kids look younger, and you can’t understand what they’re even talking about. Cops, bosses, and doctors could be your daughters and sons. Films a...

Marc Olmsted

It was the end of the 80s into 1990 and very hard for us to find a good rock n roll dance club in San Francisco. Everything was disco electronica and it all sounded the same with that amyl nitrate bass beat. The more inter...

Vincent Zangrillo

In 1969, Duane Allman founded the Allman Brothers, recruiting his brother, Gregg, on keyboards and vocals, a second guitarist, Dickie Betts, bassist Berry Oakley and a set of drummers, Butch Trucks and Jaimoe Johansen. In Ju...

Jack Hirschman

VLADIMIR MAYAKOVSKY You, thunderer and swirl of the flag of blood and roses, kneader of the bread of poem, deathless comrade of dithyramb and liberty, you whose suicided life I carry as a forge, ...

Rebecca Weiner Tompkins

IN THIS DREAM We are always dancing: you lift your arms above me like a bird in a summery place. Sometimes there is music and the softest shadows; other times the air carries us through the rhythm of tall, flat buil...

Peter Orlovsky

Snail Poem Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired & handsome felt, Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at blown up clowd. Ear turnes close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound o...