September 2011

The centerpiece of our September issue is an hour-long discussion with musician Will Oldham. I believe this interview offers a rare and unique insight into the mind of one of contemporary music’s finest. Our September edition also features a stream of the moving compilation album “Burning Heart: Songs for the Gulf,” and we’re pleased to… More

Cider Garage

Christopher Keller The garage is full now. Glass apple trees, a great flood of fermentation and an aroma of old tools fawning over tannin. These sweets breathe through the foundation, their sugar cocooned and ready to emerge in industry, or wilderness – whatever makes the taste best. Our acidity is threefold: that of abandoned Oregon… More

Stuck in Waco

Nanette Rayman-Rivera When I want to be in Eretz Israel— And the intermission, the maybe-tomorrow that I felt everlasting, the antipathetic, the affirmative action that made lightning rods out of me, after months in beige flatlands the seam between the worlds cracked and I ceased to be. I become the intermission, my intractable-alone affliction hidden… More

Little Miracles

J.S. Simmons The ad in the back of the paper claimed she was twenty-three. As she climbed the stairs and smiled, chin lifted toward the landing, Jack saw the lines in her face, the gray strands at the crown of her head where roots showed beneath the bleach job. He tried to tell himself it… More

Torn

Allison Grayhurst I know the vines that pin a desire to the dirt. I walk the miles of compulsive destruction and the weeping despair that laps all light from the stream. I sit bound to the spot. In and out of days with blood under my fingernails and hands that can’t stay still. Have I… More

Flipping (Bulimia) with Isaac Murphy

Jacob T. McCall They say my hands are strong enough to draw blood on the bits in a colt’s

 mouth. They don’t notice
 how I will only eat collards 
 for a month before the post-date.

 As trainers pace chestnut geldings and smoky colts over   the Kentucky clay, training them for the derby, I… More

Lament

Carl Swart Night has carried her breath from her Like gypsy moths dancing in snow, That floated down the lattice while she dreamt Of pink-tinged canna lilies opening at sunrise, And out in the field a hollow bell rang, Its song drifting over the red wheat. By the moon’s dim lantern, her mother’s Storm-filled throat… More