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.
To our knowledge, Ezra Pound never saw a donkey show. Here’s updated cantos for drunk backpackers in Madrid and jerks on the Dead Sea.
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.
When Allen Ginsberg stayed with my family, we played video games and read together. But the harmony was broken when the yoga began. It wouldn’t be the last time.
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.