Editors’ Note: Vestiges_02: Ennui
Free to be anywhere, boredom takes the writer everywhere. Free from apprehension, the writer is no longer pushed to panic by boredom, fumbling to alleviate it. What, then, does one do with this liberty? One not simply does but remembers, and detrimentally... Read More
Four Poems by Ashley David
Difficult to locate, my heart bleeds / while they feed at my breasts. Slice / my tongue twice with a sword. Horses / are hungry, the serpent and moon waning, / volcanic sun socks a line to bread and iron. / Water virgin and a cow with one arm feel / a heart that does... Read More
ВѢДѢТИ by Lital Khaikin
To sink entirely into this dark lung, is all. / As land before footfall, earth rests in silence, un-anticipating and significant. / Endless interiours, expanding one into the next – contains an entire history of emptiness. All the world a magnet... Read More
The Cliff’s Edge by Evan Lavender-Smith
That she will fall from the cliff’s edge. That her son’s sweaty hand will slip from her grasp and her son will fall from the cliff’s edge. That her outstretched fingers will fail to catch onto her daughter’s onesie as her daughter waddles out past the cliff’s edge. That her flabby biceps won’t support her... Read More
Editors’ Note: Vestiges_00: Ex-Stasis
Writers are abject beings. Their numbers, like those of cockroaches, are indefinite, and their sight is similarly met with first a grimace of disgust, followed then by scorn. Writing is an art that deals in unwanted gifts, an exercise in the superfluous... Read More
novae by Daniele Bellomi, trans.from Italian by Anton Ivanov
could have stayed away from the observation point, never again to say / a word about the shadowed part with no one, evaluating distances with eyes / used to a hypothetical explosion, to precede like one proceeds amongst variables / and cautions, proximity to collapse, tracing again the once combusted edge / of anything seen... Read More
Fragments from Gnome by Robert Lunday
When you drive, the landscapes slide sharply through the sides of your face. They fill your cheeks, your temples, they build behind the eyes and ears. Soon they’re ripped by the wind or a gawker’s stare from the back of your head, and you’re again in the landscape... Read More
Three Fragments from Songs About Women by James Brubaker
Look to the Lowlands and the women there. Banished, all of them, to this neighborhood, this catastrophe of design, this frozen lake of whispers and half-finished thoughts, hidden from view. As you arrive in the Lowlands, don’t ask when or why the place was built. Don’t ask why the houses share no unifying architectural principle... Read More