…………………………for John Kander Music plays in my head, and I listen. Sounds and rhythms, echoes and vibrations. This is how I move through space, how I comprehend my world. Long, long ago, when I was a baby in Kansas City, I caught tuberculosis. In those days, there was no cure. Isolated on a sleeping porch, I learned to match the sounds of approaching footsteps with the ones who made them. But footsteps go both ways. A residue of loneliness lingers after all these years. Music is the antidote. Anne Whitehouse’s poem, “Outside from the Inside,” … Continue reading The Composer by Anne Whitehouse→
I just bought an eight-pack of bony Jesuses, an Amazon special, to be sure Jesus remembers this little lamb if I run a red light or ease through a stop sign as an 18-wheeler rolls through I also bought eight fuzzy rabbits’ feet on fake gold chains in case I need good luck when stopped by a crotchety cop who had a serious spat with her husband this morning when she discovered condoms in his back pocket I will hang a dangling Jesus on my rearview mirror on even numbered days and the rabbit’s foot … Continue reading Equal Opportunity by Claire Scott→
In the empty lot across the street they graze on ground scrape and grind — diesel sculptors of land and sound that rumble words shatter lines I try to write take up residence between my shoulder blades and teeth. Then it’s quitting time and quiet unfurls through air. Into this gap this negativity of sound — an echo, insistent: how the backhoe’s motor idled, revved, and whined how metal screamed when it hit rock how workers’ voices floated like dandelion seeds windblown this stillness opens silence then words asking to be heard. Cindy Buchanan … Continue reading Still Life with Bulldozer and Backhoe by Cindy Buchanan→
The worms are writing a song in my garden, rustling their slick bodies through the leaves in a rising crescendo, inspired by the rain. If one were musically inclined, they could accompany these worms but only softly, because if you’re too loud, you’ll scare them and they’ll stop. They like flutes. They don’t like cellos. The worms hear my footsteps across the yard and grow silent just as I approach pick up their song again with verve and zest in the wake of my passing. If I were musically inclined, I’m sure I could pace … Continue reading The Audience Beneath by Holly Day→
Studio by Katy Nicosia. CC license. When we first enter the Robert Rauschenberg retrospective at the Tate Modern, my parents’ eyes brighten as if they’re greeting old friends. Before they suggested we spend their last day in the UK here, I had no idea who Rauschenberg was, no idea that he was such a major influence on their own work. Dad gravitates to a print of a tyre track that spans an entire wall, Mom to a monoprint of two figures in a field of blue. I split myself between them, not wanting to miss … Continue reading The Rauschenberg Retrospective by Ingrid Jandrewski→
Not thinking about it doesn’t make it go away. Recollection makes sense of it, invents details from the misremembered: as with open carry and its fine print—no one flinches when the guy walks into McDonalds, a large pistol strapped to his waist and orders a Big Mac, hold the pickles, and the young man at the register says it always has pickles. When you’ve got a pistol strapped to your waist you can’t help resting your hand on its polished blue-black handle with faux pearl inlay on the grip, and the young man at the … Continue reading How Pain Matters by Mark Simpson→
The fear of losing you torments me. Krenshaw’s roommate, Annie Alessandra, was dating Tommy Stalwart. Krenshaw had introduced them a few months back and it seemed like things were going well. Krenshaw was happy for them. But she was also sad. Seeing the two of them together reminded her of what she used to have with Memphis Jericho. Krenshaw had fallen for Memphis after dating him for a few months. Then, he broke up with her, saying he wasn’t as physically attracted to Krenshaw as he hoped he’d be. Krenshaw was confused by this. She … Continue reading Krenshaw and the Tale of Memphis by Karys Rhea→
If you want a free lunch, All you have to do is smash, bleed, and work for it. Would you like some peanuts for lunch? Free sample, the sign on the wooden box says. Take one. Inside the box with the sign, behind the broken glass holding them in place, the peanuts lie stacked, delicately pressed and balanced against the edge ready to tumble on the first move. To eat them, you must first smash the glass, and hope your hands don’t bleed. Disturb the system, and hope none cascade onto the floor, so that … Continue reading Trick of the Eye: Fresh Roasted by Richard Elliott Martin→
Richmond, Va. artist Lizzie Brown paints vivid and dramatic portraits to show the beauty, resilience, and strength of African Americans. Brown remembers her own first portrait at age five. “I was standing with a blue easel before me, a white sheet of paper, crayons in the easel tray, and I wanted to be sure to use EVERY color. I was in the zone, drawing my brown skin, black hair pulled in a ponytail with strands hanging to the left and right. I had red nail polish and chose to put myself in a long blue … Continue reading Lizzie Brown’s Vibrant Portraits→
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