President Lyndon B. Johnson, of a pair of pants: Yeah. Now, another thing: the crotch, down where your nuts hang, is always a little too tight. So when you make them up, give me a inch that I can let out there, because they cut me. They’re just like riding a wire fence. […] See if you can’t leave me about an inch from where the zipper [belches] ends around under my—back to my bunghole.
Overheard on whitehousetapes.org
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Thorn
“Her swiping was formulaic. As the ratio of inked to bare skin–the share of pierced to unblemished–increased, so did her interest. She wasn’t attracted to them, necessarily. She was interested in the way they altered their bodies to mark moments in their lives they deemed significant.”
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namo buddha
the other night i dreamed of a door that opened to a hill on a hill with one thousand prayer flags tied to the trees and the sun burning the earth making your lips shine iridescent with spit or something else entirely and you telling me you’re thirsty yes i know but for all the…
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Quiet Soul
I am the empty stadium in your dreams, warmly lit by orange peel flowers, domes flaring. My flesh swells in Quiet bloom. To see the infinitive ceiling while it’s dry, I jump into the hole of the Joyceian dog’s nose. It sniffs the citrus of stars and children, imperiled, Quiet below. I float…
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My Other Half With That Thy Gentle Hand Seized Mine I Yielded
“I lay back in the heap of cords, which spawned and propagated from a bud, a navel, the hub of the Mimir, which still ran hot and loud a few minutes into the cooldown protocol.”
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Letter from the Editor
Dear Reader, Certain scholars have said that we need new literary forms to accurately reflect the anxieties of this generation. If you’ll indulge us in a navel-glance, this week the Nassau Weekly searches for a physical form that better reflects our sentiments. The Nass aspires to represent our age’s varied zeitgeist–this issue, our…
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Post-Post Modernism: Full Design
The Nass is ready to strip off all of this irony. We’re getting down to business.
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After Federal Cuts, Ph.D. student Trajan Hammonds stares down an uncertain future
At 1 a.m. in a hotel room, Trajan Hammonds, a fifth-year Ph.D. candidate in Princeton’s math department, lay in bed, bathed in his laptop’s spectral glow. An email banner swiped across his screen with the subject line: “Opportunity Deleted.” Scanning the automated message that followed, his chest tightened. In early February, Hammonds had traveled…
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Nass List: Forgive me Father, for I have…
worn my heart on my sleeve turned around so fast my butt made a clapping noise fallen off gooned Been a freak Matched your freak Ordered a bride on doordash Been a mail order bride Been a weirdo. I don’t fit in, and I don’t… wanna fit in listened to radiohead. by myself. fuck my…
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It Was Not a Conversation With Naftali Bennett
Thick clouds choke the sky above McCosh Hall. A few students emerge from behind the large wooden double doors. They stop in front of the door and gaze out at the crowd of protestors gathering behind a large white fence. “Shame!” the crowd chants, directing their ire at the event about to begin in the…