The blaze that engulfed my hometown began before I was born. It began with the first dry leaf from the first almond tree they planted on the side of the town hall road. My mom planted it as a child, around carnival time, the year when her dad the Mayor decided that the town would grow.
Frank O’Hara writes a poem about why he’s not a painter, and in it he writes a poem called “Oranges” with no orange. So I’ll write a self portrait without myself. I’ll write instead about what I like: the opera, … Read More
More Weight (April 26 – June 22, 2014) was Sam Moyer’s first solo exhibition at Rachel Uffner’s new Lower East Side location, her third with the gallery after receiving her MFA from Yale (2007). Works were divided between three rooms. … Read More
I can only feel “settled” into a new semester once I have designed my walking routes in between classes and extracurricular activities. Knowing which paths I will take, which arches I will cross under, and which familiar faces I will pass all remedy the inevitable, stressful shuffle of a new time of the year. I like being able to gauge how much time I must leave myself to get to a class or a meeting on time. But there are two places that I have yet to smoothly integrate into my walking routes: 185 Nassau St. and New South. This is very unsettling.
In fond memory of the Persian and Andalusian poets Dear, you are the hottest of all living men. Your eyes are brilliant as the puddle of oil in the parking lot, You caper like a plastic bag tumbling amid the … Read More
Writer’s note: I typed this thing before seeing Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and then after I saw it I felt scooped. So don’t get hung-up about it, just be fascinated by how much all this stuff is in the ether, as they say.
In His bone-white palace, abuzz all night, Sits George Bush, hedged in by Left and Right. And He thinks of freedom, justice and His Ranch. His dreams, now becoming overwhelming, Send Him down to a secret cubicle delving. A single … Read More
