The student steered the Great Writer down the floors of the university parking garage, past a booth where she inserted a white ticket into a mouth that spit it back into her hand, under a wooden arm as it rose, and onto a wide, black road streaked with perfect, white lines. Maples bloomed in full. The Great Writer marveled at the flatness of this world, and its cleanness. Of course, he had been to such towns before, many, many times for his work, to lecture as he had just done, to wide-eyed batches of aspiring writers who had not lived anywhere near enough to understand a word he was saying.
Gracing the bottom of the book’s final page is the voice of Alvarez: “I dedicate this book to my son Ramon, who is here with me always.” Here: a book as complex as the times we are in. A book that lifts us into the beautiful oblivion of art, reminding us that there is always somewhere else, hovering just beyond our reach, but still there. In the land of dreams, maybe. Or just some other, better world. In times like these, it is good to be Here.
August Evans takes a good look at artist Ellen Rothenberg’s SHADOWED!, published by Chicago’s Green Lantern Press this year as “a book that is far more than a book”; within its pages are documentation of performance- and photographic-responses to Rothenberg’s 2015 Sector 2337 exhibition, elsetime, by 12 artists, activists, and musicians: And there’s duende! And Brecht!
SHADOWED! is a 2018 afterimage of
Ellen Rothenberg’s 2015 Exhibition
In reading SHADOWED! I bear this fact of Chicago 2015 here in my current home of 2018 Seattle, where bodies, more cloistered than Chicago’s, do not march out in droves to face the summer, because even in June here the sun still fleets.
But Lorne, feelings are tawdry, aren’t they? Accessible to everyone. We have one word, and we agree together on what it means. How often in trying to praise you do I curse the vehicle by which I express my love.
“The Blacker the Berry”
Let duende guide you to Kendrick in real time: his hot breath in your ear, his hot spit on your skin. His voice about to shatter. Do not let him. Let instead his air become yours every time you listen.
Stand cold and barely clothed, dark moon touching you through the window. Think of your new walls, their bare sockets aching for bulbs. Consider your every possession.
And so, when you have working eyes, and are desirous only of beauty, sex with a beautiful woman is doomed to be empty.
“Figs” in the Spring/Summer 2015
Issue of Isthmus
Now, it had been decided: Billy would have the insulin coma therapies. After all, he was getting serious with a woman, the summer touring season was over, cold weather was on the way: the timing was right. Just two months of injections, and Billy would be normal.
“It’s a spa day!” Barbara cries, as sparks of beak whistle through the air and the bird’s eyes open wider than the whitish web that surrounds them.
An All Too Real Reality:
Green Lantern’s Ghost Nature
For those who see nature as a friend, let alone a guide, Ghost Nature offers such a triumphant dismissal. No, the fact of climate change is evidence enough: we were fools to perceive the natural world as a shepherd. We were fantasy-makers, idealizers, privileged mythmakers slapping a happy ending on the circuitous “circuitry” of chaos.
“The Mythology of the Wife” in Volume 7 of The Delmarva Review
2014 Pushcart Nomination
She couldn’t stop thinking about a sentence in the book. “What did you say?” she asked, after discovering he was standing over her, talking to her. “What is that you’re reading?” the husband repeated. The wife stuck her finger in her page and held the cover out to him; he began to laugh. “What’s so funny?” she asked. In his hand was the very same book.
2010 Pushcart Nomination
At last. Extends her pointed foot and spins around, cyclic, motoring, a pinwheel, deep rubies and violets, manic rush, arms flow like wings; kaleidoscopic bracelets clink, plunge to elbows as arms undulate overhead, roving gypsies. Hair a cantering horse’s mane. Spins a small, persistent circle, round and round. Carnival. All of it, I shoot it all. I shoot it all, even as she falls.