Golden Age Drinking

From some neighbor’s place, “Moon River.” It trickles down the stairs & under our door. It puts chopsticks in my chignon & spritzes you with Youth Dew. In the Mansion of Many Apartments, the 60s is a locked rec room we can’t get into. They’ve changed the code. I guess we just have to stand… More

Our Books, Our Books

The question is whether to quell this profligate book writing. Everyone’s “putting out” books. We pulp our words before pouring them right back in. How many times can we fold the same bone? Dad used to fill our slack with dumb conundrums. He said: Would you rather empty industrial grease traps for a living or… More

“Resolution in Loving Memory of Sky and Gooseflesh” (four selections)

Having begun now to burn bright as the fires that bore it, having, As so many things, become of what it was from the first the apparent Equal, transformed only through atomization, through display, Those distinctive signatures of the miraculous and its window dressers’ Ongoing project–Design’s gentrification of a vulgar, impoverished Real–, Which, on-schedule, over-budget,… More


The instructor said to loosen my knees, to wallow in my pain, to low, even. My head and forearms on her counter, I was shaking it slow for my wife watching with the rest. I felt exactly like a man trying to act like a woman to be thought of as the kind of man… More

I must be honest with myself: sometime

in the future will be violence, sometime a gun will appear in a public place and bodies will fall, for here, where my daughter four days old on my chest sleeps, her fontanel against my chin, is America. I’ve known it all along. Sometime bullets will rip through sheetrock, and someone’s neighbor will enter a… More

Enough Muscular Grace

1. How strangely satisfied I am constructing containment as I assemble my child’s crib. Side-rail A’s tongue judders into the headboard’s groove, and a bolt spins in. Torquing the Allen wrench, I’m godlike: it disappears in my squeeze, burrows another bolt. But step two requires translation. Language—another of so many cribs, the human tongue honed… More

Mazza’s Vignette #101

If the marrow was fireworks and alcohol, the quick promises that never bother to shrug when they run out of technique, then we should have never worried when the last five years looked eerily similar to a dog humping the air to completion. Darren C. Demaree‘s poems have appeared, or are forthcoming in The South… More