On the first day of our last week at Camp Lookout, when the summer was coming to an end, and the nights were colder, and every time we sang “Way Up in Northern Michigan” we felt like crying, the counselors decided to do a joint survival expedition.
I’m a bad person and Mr. Bondad is such a good person. I hope he forgives me. Mr. Bondad opens the door and I freeze. I stare at his dark birthmark. He smiles at me and says come on in.
I think creative writing can’t be taught, and so does Clare, probably. And probably so does every well-established writer in Buenos Aires.
An empty stage with two microphones waits behind the proscenium. Two spotlights fade in on C. stage. MONROE and ACACIA enter from stage L. and R. respectively and take their places in each spotlight.
MONROE. (Adjusting the microphone so that it isn’t up so high.) Should we start with the show dates?
On the train by the dim / Lit water blue / With white boats / Sloping in, the train / Too metallic and / Rusted for the soft / Evening, the light inside / Too green, reminiscent / Of death and / Cleaning supplies
I don’t usually assign much spiritual significance to death, but on the 8th of December, when two friends and I went to Potsdam to explore an abandoned cemetery, taking a picture felt wrong. In an effort to make something from the experience or somehow preserve it, I sat down and wrote this poem.
He looked at his hands in wonderas ifmind and body grew apart andreal-izedI can move my hands, my fingers eyes, he looked above and again as if mind and body grew apart he realized I can think; this might be my soul So why do I livehe asked himselfWhy do I live He wondered He
Cabin Fever Months snowed inA man rinsing and repeatingA sweet song played overTea heated on the stove forUnkempt hair and foggy glassesAnd bastard brain bashed inHe left home fast; saysHe never recoveredWhen looking at me through a cameraI was not so sureAbout my presenceAnd what I should be trying forIt comes back to me when