V. Penelope Pelizzon & Patrick Rosal at Bowdoin College
V. Penelope Pelizzon & Patrick Rosal recorded live at Bowdoin College, April 19, 2007, made possible by grants from Colby, Bates, and Bowdoin Colleges, and the Davis Family Foundation.
admin
John Struloeff Q&A on the genesis of his poem
John Struloeff, author of the forthcoming poetry collection, The Man I Was Supposed to Be (Loom Press, Fall 2007), talks about the genesis of the title poem to that collection.
John Struloeff Q&A with advice for young writers
John Struloeff, author of the forthcoming poetry collection, The Man I Was Supposed to Be (Loom Press, Fall 2007), offers some advice for young writers.
Nathaniel
Whatever it was that made the Reverend Barker stoop that way, it meant no matter how much he screamed at my friend Nathaniel for being late, for not raking the leaves, or for raking the goddamned leaves the wrong goddamned way, he could only ever scowl at the tops of his wingtip shoes or at […]
My Lovely Assistant
After the episode of That’s Incredible! in which a whole family of Armenians in sequined shirts ate fire and spewed blue, burning plumes, my brother tied a cottonball to a bent coathanger and dipped the end in gasoline. What made us who we are, one crazy, fearless—one always afraid? I stood by the ping-pong table […]
What Happens
1 What happens never happens on its own. The future and the past collide. I’ve known a radio to go on playing the song that it was playing just before my father’s Pontiac began to slide— the past so stubbornly persistent even Jimi Hendrix would not stop wailing just because my face was broken and […]
Look
I’d like to ask my mother why I’m here, straddling one thigh of her bell-bottom jeans, listening to her whisper look look sweetie in my ear. But I can’t stop staring at our fat cat Walina, ancestor of every cat that ever roamed that house, as she blinks back at me, licks between her claws, […]
Fever
It is the year the sky reminds us some mistakes cannot be mended. The year, dime-eyed and listless, a fever came to kill him. Imperceptibly the windows creep towards the floor, the black bay whitening, widening with the squall. It is the night the lights on the far shore hurtle backwards: the drugstore, the hospital, […]