Tags » American Literature

James Richardson

Is Memory,
as they pretend,
mother of the Muse?—
or Forgetting,
who says My friend,
I know
you’ve told me before
about love, death,
solitude—and what… 15 more words


Aaron Shurin

Transfixed to the, by the, on the congruities, who is herself a vanishing point coming to closure — dusky flutter — trilling away like a watchdog on drugged sop, channeling her mother and grandmother who’ve engraved on her locket phrases in script: “glide on a blade” and “rustling precedes the shuck.” This is not my teeming fate, my rind, my roiling ellipsis or valedictory spray of myrrh. 91 more words


Sabrina Orah Mark

where I fold and unfold my left arm into November, my hair
         into my sister,
where the black-gloved woman plays my heart like a crumpled… 88 more words


Kenneth Rexroth

There are sparkles of rain on the bright
Hair over your forehead;
Your eyes are wet and your lips
Wet and cold, your cheek rigid with cold. 103 more words


Well, It's Over!

The Bookish Affair 2017 just wrapped, and before the Crazy Squirrel and Kahlua kick in, I must blog about a book our outstanding keynote speaker Robert Wilder mentioned.  551 more words

26 Days of Jest: Day 26

Today we are reading pages 949 to 981 AKA the end AKA we did it AKA thank the baby Jesus WE HAVE FINISHED THIS GOD DAMN BOOK! 458 more words

David Foster Wallace

Master Class

Perhaps you suspect you are about to read about F. Scott Fitzgerald.  Good guess, but no.  I will write about that incomparable work soon, but here I am going to write about a book I fell in love with when I was fourteen years old–William Goldman’s… 696 more words