From the Editors
Forever 30, Forever Nass.
His Ink and Pad’s Quiet Might.
Always a little better than he pretends
And a little worse than he wishes, my friend,
Saying words that should be written down,
Displaying a smile that is often a frown.
Untitled
As soon as the words strolled
Across the doctor’s lips,
She realized the cold waste –
Two Hundred and Six Bones
When Nelson dies,
All two hundred and six
Of my broken bones
Will ache for you.
Accidents of the Present Time
The grass is trimmed like my father obsesses over. It’s green as Heineken bottles, as my mother’s eyes when shining with tears, and the white lines that frame it up and down stand out like Claire’s porcelain skin at Ricky’s son’s baptism.
*Bright Star* starring John Keats
*Bright Star* starring John Keats
John Keats rests his head as angular
as two racially white blades of hay.
*Life Story* starring Jeff Goldblum
*Life Story* starring Jeff Goldblum
The mystery has a name, Jeff Goldblum.
Sydney’s Blog
Rob Madole is composing a creative thesis for the Creative Writing Certificate. This is an excerpt from a larger work.
Art
This semester the Visual Arts Department Seminar, “Issues in Contemporary Art” sought out to not just learn about the tides of new art, but also to take hold of it as curators, theorists, and writers. For the next few weeks, an exhibition of the works of established contemporary artists like Nikhil Chopra and Joshua Kirsch will be displayed in 185 Nassau and the new Butler gallery as a curatorial project of the visual arts department. Open to the school, these projects bring a bit of the contemporary art scene to Princeton, NJ and allow us to understand and explore questions of self-representation, technology and the consciousness of space through the medium of art.
–Saba McCoy for Visual Arts 392
Northward
y November you already thought of returning,
rubbing Vaseline into your palms and the crevices
of your cracked heels. No napalm rained down in a foreign land,
no birth dates streamed across the screen to push our brothers into war.
The Stone House
There’s a house a half an hour south of town, built of stones my father hauled from down the road in his old Ford Fairlane. He built it for my mother when she asked. A rare man sees the monument to his life rise before his death. A rare man sees his own headstone. By […]
