Howie Good 1 A man jammed fistfuls of earth into his mouth. And why not when nations sell weapons to their enemies? The weather arrived late, a funeral with only four mourners. All his life he liked to wander through cemeteries. If everyone is doing it, someone said, it must be OK. 2 Probably the first paint was animal blood. He asked for a razor. Born on a cold day, he took with him a heart always about to break. He was found, years...

Allyson Paty By what grace can two men stand in equal stillness while each minute settles like exhaust when it rises and drifts to the edge of the city. There is the man who musters his snake limbs. There are the stones that he shakes against his chest. Then you, Raimund. On what nerve do you undress for a crowd. And with what can you lie while you wait for Snake Limbs to place his stones along each ridge of your spine as though...

I have often found myself wishing my life were dramatic enough to make a great narrative. Moments in it were that way, but only to the extent that they offered material for a self-indulgent, episodic piece or two. Until recently, there had been no great adventure to my tale that could hold the threads together long enough for me to weave them into a tapestry. That all changed on my recent vacation. I was asked to sail from Rochester, New...

Jameson Fitzpatrick All week I’ve been drinking in the morning instead of reading the news. Now a pretty shorthaired girl says we’ll be bombing Libya by tomorrow— but tonight there’s a rumor of fireworks, and a burly blond’s chosen my waist to wrap a bulging arm around. He’s a tank of a man, with thick, callused fingers that could kill or cover, depending on his mood or mission. Soon we’re on to the other room, to whiskey...

Jameson Fitzpatrick Years later, I ride my bike past his house and he’s washing his car in the driveway, the garden hose coiled at his feet, suds running up his arms. (Is his shirt off, or do I imagine that later, in the shower?) I’m surprised at how handsome he is. I’m eleven now, which must make him twenty-one, old enough to buy a girl a drink when he wants, which I imagine is often. When I’m twenty-one I won’t remember the...

When living in New York City, I met many writers. Some came into my MFA program, some I already knew, and some I just happened to meet. Advice of theirs sticks to me, all of it, but there are certain bits that haunt me. Two of these persistent thoughts came when I did not expect them. Through friends and friends of friends, I ended up going out to breakfast with a screenwriter. He looked young, was no more than thirty, but seemed to be...

Saramanda Swigart 1. Twins, Age 34 Small One-Bedroom Apartment, East Village, Manhattan The knocking lasts an hour and forty-seven minutes. As always, the neighbors stay quiet. I lie still, listening. It begins timidly at 1:32 a.m. and ceases at 2:49 a.m., according to my bedroom clock. I keep the clock six minutes fast, so truly the sobbing begins at precisely 2:43 a.m., and it savages my heart. I chew at a nail. I chew two or...

The Gay 90’s: Old Tyme Art Show featuring the work of Mark Ryden opened on April 29th at Paul Kasmin Gallery in New York City and runs through June 5th. If you're in NYC, this exhibition is not to be missed. Ryden's beautiful works framed in immaculate hand carved wood invite a good look and promptly challenge with rich symbolism...

I went to hear the New York Philharmonic last week with Tatiana because our family friend was singing. They did three pieces by Stravinsky. It felt classy as shit stepping out of the train with my lady, dressed up and going to hear some art. The music was something else! The sounds of the orchestra shook my soul, and I found myself wondering, “How many sounds can I hear at once?” Or “How many ideas can operate in...

Michael Tyrell Continually, as October weeds out the majority of false Edens, the hollow Eve finds us sweet teeth bobbing for apples. Scratch us so we can start over, so we can turncoat through iron-maiden turnstiles. Crosstown ride where the Lord give uth and take uth away, flasher whose jimson got jammed in slamming doors. We might miss an apocalyptic eclipse, but the river-frontiers burst in the Eerie Canals. House and Garden...