My grandmother was a pirate. The other was an astronaut. She would have been, anyway, had she not failed her medical exam due to large traces of cocaine in her bloodstream. She was also a drug runner across the border, much to the shame of my father and uncle.
Billy stands in the stern, chin tilted upward and twenty-gauge at his feet, dipping that pole into the night water like a gondolier and pulling us along in rhythm. My arm muscles are getting sore as I steady the sides so that the boat doesn’t tip us over into the swamp like it did last week; my legs stretch out and brace the gunwales, my feet lie in the caked mud that crumbles off Billy’s boots.
Slug Polaroid ?I.?On a walk through Killarney, I dodge wet loaves.?They would soon stick to sole:?husky bits of polka-dotted licorice,?black pudding gnocchi.??II.?I imagine plasmodial slime mold and black bear cubs?would spawn something like this glossy lump.??III.?At a house near Volx, … Read More
We need a number to plot our love, to propose a first THC, whiskey fake lust romp as love or it would be to us, also, the night a boy walked through a glass door like magic, with sound. When … Read More
Walking through the offices of Clure Concept Inc., twenty stories above the throbbing midtown traffic of a Tuesday afternoon, the scene is typical. Phones purr behind cubicle walls, young execs file out of transparent conference rooms. These hurried sharp-lookers could be selling insurance or optical fibers, analyzing market data or brokering mergers.
About ten days ago, the Nassau Weekly’s editor in chief Jacob Savage interviewed (via telephone) Princeton’s most recent wunderkind, Jonathan Safran Foer ’99, author of the critically acclaimed best-seller Everything is Illuminated, and the recently published Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
The heat veil descends the third week of July and the market vendors feel its suffocation. Next to the stall of spices, a woman holds a cleaver, perched just an arm’s length from the spiked jackfruit shell. She brings it … Read More
