Retrouvailles

It’s as if the rain is falling up, the way lightning is the afterimage of where the light has been— see it rising? like the past or groundlessness or a groundless past, which isn’t to say untrue, for even though I’m stranded on a flooding highway, the sweet delirium of time unconstellated, however unsound, is… More

Right Now

Sure, I want to believe a poem can block a bullet too that a poem could save me at the end of the world, my bug-out bag teeming with “Good Bones.” My friend’s husband sells guns. He’s a republican. His sales boom under a democratic president, and sometimes he feels strange-weird about making money off… More

Donald Trump’s Face

A bank’s clean limestone façade, and inside, just past the marble columns, beneath the perfect glass dome, the carnival frenzies. Everyone he’s known or lost or longed for forced to wear feathery masks. He loves excess, but only in the way a flood loves excess—the destructive miracle of it, so much of what permits a… More

Sleeping Late on Inauguration Day, 2017

Dreams refuse to wake with us. They prefer the easy rewrites of sleep to the alarms and showers of daily routine. And who can blame them? The noise of this daylight, its empty oaths, grind so hard into the skull, the persistent weight of my own head against the pillow makes that weightless world a… More

Inaugural Resolution 2017

I will take joy from wherever it comes. I will wring it out of my grief. I will seize it from my enemies. Joy has no identity, no politics, no beliefs. It is not deterred by my righteous indignation. I will find hope is in its presence, not some bird in my future. God gives… More

Inauguration Day Poetry Contest

As we brace for an inept and obdurate authoritarian regime to assume control of our country, Fogged Clarity is holding an inauguration day poetry contest. On January 20th we will be releasing our “Inauguration issue” to feature a selection of interviews, essays, film, and visual art that stand in opposition to the socio-political forces working… More

Confidence

I want to be the soft padding of bare feet on a bare floor in the afternoon. Or the knotted up-on-top-of-head hair of a braless woman who couldn’t care— doesn’t give two shits about it all. Except her pen. And maybe her man. Hot damn. Her beautiful glorious hard-legg-ed hardworking man— who doesn’t understand but… More