J. Y. Strain lives and works in Bloomington, Ill. This poem is dedicated “for my brother, regarding his ride.” I’d Like to See You at Thanksgiving ...
“Year of the Grim Light” I was using fewer and fewer words, and then I was using none. Not even a running gag with the dog, or...
There is a big difference between looking for something and simply looking, though travel can suit both pursuits.
A new poem about lies and truth, and the fact that George Washington’s transplanted teeth were not made of wood, but probably came from his slaves.
A poem for when missing someone makes the soles of your feet hurt.
A new poem about the things families say and do during the holidays—when some words mean nothing, and some wreck meals.
A new poem, part confession, part song, about immersion and seafood soup.
A reminder of why banks are terrible places to practice your stand-up comedy routine.
Aril: “an extra seed-covering, typically colored and hairy or fleshy, e.g., the red fleshy cup around a yew seed.”
A new poem in which Descartes is proven wrong, and T. Rex’s Marc Bolan appears in a dream and starts thieving.
A new poem about jockeys, ponies, and golden eggs filled with candy, and how quickly races are won when you’re drinking.
A new poem by the author of Chronic, in which Lady Sings the Blues is intoned, sung, spoken, and hollered.