A Room in the Past

apoemaday:

by Ted Kooser

It’s a kitchen. Its curtains fill
with a morning light so bright
you can’t see beyond its windows
into the afternoon. A kitchen
falling through time with its things
in their places, the dishes jingling
up in the cupboard, the bucket
of drinking water rippled as if
a truck had just…
Domenica Martinello on class, leisure, and brunch with Shawn Micallef

Members of the creative class typically earn less, economically speaking, than those of the traditional middle class, yet they place value upon certain decadent lifestyle activities, unaware of the socio-economic consequences of such activities. After all, waiting in long line-ups, sitting around crowded tables the size of Kindergarten desks, and eating overpriced (and often bizarre) foodie concoctions seems, as Micallef points out, far from leisurely. This paradox demands that we investigate what else might be at work amidst the sparkling flutes of mimosas.”

I, I, I sign my name everywhere, and everywhere is mine. Still I crave. I will never settle. I will never have enough. There is never enough. There is more to take, always, opportunity bends over. One must be present. One must be subscribed. The tentacles of my desire spread exponentially. I take over. I remake. I circle the globe with my eye. I feel war approach and I work harder. I feel my roots penetrate and command. There are a million ways to profit. There are a million ways to split.

– "Every day I dig up. I unbury relics of myself." by Sina Queyras, from Lemon Hound

My life an expressway; my life telephone poles, felled and erected, felled and erected, a great precession of uprightness. My life standing outside the motorcade willing myself to enter the great streets, the ‘sanded paths of victory driven through the jungle.’ My life up and down Yonge street. My life wavering, ‘even my thin legs ripple like a stalk in the wind.’

– "Little animal that I am, sucking my flanks in with fear" by Sina Queyras, from Lemon Hound

vintageanchorbooks:

“We demand that sex speak the truth… and we demand that it tell us our truth, or rather, the deeply buried truth of that truth about ourselves which we think we possess in our immediate consciousness.”
― Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality

Darren C. Demaree’s “Unfinished Murder Ballad: The Only Dedicated Cowboy in Columbus, Ohio, Objects to the Price of His Black Coffee”

Slenderness worn from where muscle once wanted to grow, then grew only to fit the active frame and casting of a man who had no room in his world for the modernity of the city he lived in, he knew that if he was going to have the energy to make it through his day as a chew-spitting communications technician at AT&T, he would need a lunch time coffee. Up at dawn, he has tended to his crop on the fire escape, he had fed all the animals before he fed himself, and all three of his cats appreciated that sort of man. Now, though, the slack before him was demanding two dollars for a black coffee, and that wore on him the way a bad hand would have worn on the Duke. His father had been a tax attorney, and bequeathed him no rifle. He would need to go to the pawn shop again.

—Darren C. Demaree from the Spring 2014 edition of The Dalhousie Review

***

Read my review of Demaree’s collection of poetry “As We Refer to Our Bodies” HERE

theparisreview:

The waves wash in, warm and salty, leaving your eyebrows white and the edge of your cheekbone. Your ear aches. You are lonely. On the underside of a satin leaf, hot with shade, a scorpion sleeps. And one Sunday I will be shot brushing my teeth. I am a native of this island.
—Frank O’Hara, from “Pearl Harbor”

theparisreview:

The waves wash in, warm and salty,
leaving your eyebrows white and
the edge of your cheekbone. Your ear
aches. You are lonely. On the
underside of a satin leaf, hot
with shade, a scorpion sleeps. And
one Sunday I will be shot brushing
my teeth. I am a native of this island.

Frank O’Hara, from “Pearl Harbor”