Get our latest essays, archival selections, reading lists, and exclusive content delivered straight to your inbox.
The beach full of puddles makes the ocean look bigger.
Guilty. The signs posted are turned the other way.
Colors confer. The cloudy eyes of a fish blur and green
while a horsefly rides a red plastic cup. This doesn’t happen
so much as seems newly painted. I subtract the color
from the studio walls. I hold a centerfold sideways
until it is taken by the wind. I guess it’s only fair: another
wave and another wave pranks the beach. The sun
is a killer. Any star, before it can come out, must be
a separate thing from ourselves. If I had a wish: a far castle,
a chain of lights just now turned on, forget it. Picture this
life. I am reminded of you because I seek a rider’s
finality. Language has but one god who made
me slow. What I confess I confess in my echo.
Vital reading on politics, literature, and more in your inbox. Sign up for our Weekly Newsletter, Monthly Roundup, and event notifications.
How would I know / when I’m empty and quiet like breath?
Historian Gerald Horne has developed a grand theory of U.S. history as a series of devastating backlashes to progress—right down to the present day.
Reflecting on three monumental works of modernism—James Joyce’s Ulysses, T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus—a hundred years on.