The premise of the student’s story was simple enough: deteriorating marriage, husband having an affair. These characters were never named, referred to only as Husband and Wife. They had met in a café where Wife was reading a book about adultery, and in a series of flawless, inevitable movements, the story concluded with the sense that this fact of the book’s subject matter had colored the couple’s life, producing, years down the line, the inevitable betrayal. Though stylistically it needed some work, conceptually, the piece was masterful.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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For Lorne

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.

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Kendrick Lamar’s
“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.

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Five Deprivations

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.

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The Digital_Suitor

A suspicion stirs your mind:
did the Digital_Suitor really write that?

Part IPart IIPart III


And so, when you have working eyes, and are desirous only of beauty, sex with a beautiful woman is doomed to be empty.

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“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.

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Bird People

“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.

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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.

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“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.

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Mister Prescriptor

A. write:

B. realist fiction

C. from the perspective

D. of a woman

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Natural Order

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.

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