Hemingway

In Genoa, the city where the Mary Celeste never arrives every day, the hour to become a ghost isn’t necessarily noon— it’s when the young American student named Hemingway reads, in the plaza, The Collected Stories of her namesake— reads the story of the white elephant hills again, the story of the bickering lovers who… More

Letters Written Near the End of the Cold War

Michael Tyrell I wonder if you’ve seen them on the hospital TV— children on talk shows who swear live inside them the entire populations of small countries. * Multiples, abreactions— big, formless hands make multiples, it’s like they smash a shark tank and take all the glass, then make something that walks and talks like… More

A Conversation with Michael Tyrell

Long one of our favorite artists and dearest friends, poet Michael Tyrell sits down for a Sunday morning discussion about his new poems, em dashes and Donald Justice. More

Level Entries

Michael Tyrell Casual Fridays I’m promoted to a ghost desk to type in figures in computer grids. Required fields. Expenses. Hewlett Packard. Hellwit Packet. To hell with slim pickings, pack it in son, you backpack bastard. It’s not the heat it’s the stupidity. Leavings, really, no better than condiments, and only when I can get… More

Women & Children

Michael Tyrell The tedium of six-hour drives to a summer house at Lake Hopatcong with the sister-in-law who hates you— no conversation, sometimes music— a song called ‘Satisfaction’ about not getting any, the baby, the niece, cutting teeth in the backseat— the test cry, nothing sustained, no tears. The brother who lives at the office… More

Son & Heir

Michael Tyrell The heirs will not consent—from an 1853 English telegraphing guide, called The Traveler’s Vade Mecum; or Instantaneous Letter Writer. The day I stop wishing for his money—cut myself From his unwritten will—rub out the rainy-day faces From the piggybank riches that can only be mine— Then I’ll be alone with my body—my disinherited… More