
What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.

What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.
No you didn’t; you watched them grow and assigned plaudits to / yourself. I’m not going to give you garlands.
The weight of the moment pressed against me. I reached with the net. The pole bent. The body sagged hard, as if the water wanted to keep the dog a little longer. I hauled it up inch by inch until it hit the tile with a heavy sound. The smell curled inside my throat.
Books in Brief: Reviews of new poetry collections by Justin Lacour, Emily Bludworth de Barrios, and Siegfried Mortokowitz.
Biffed it. // Boarded, in distress, a trans-Atlantic flight, / bleated from a phrasebook, that or this, / that or this. Overpacked a spliff.
What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.

A friend gave me this poem, the way friends give me a lot of things, the same way most of what I absorb culturally seems to happen almost accidentally, and the same way anyone’s accidents add up to their life ultimately…

What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.

Biffed it. // Boarded, in distress, a trans-Atlantic flight, / bleated from a phrasebook, that or this, / that or this. Overpacked a spliff.

Poetry, fiction, reviews, and interviews, rolled out daily over the month of May, and possibly a bit of June. Check back daily to see what’s new.

The weight of the moment pressed against me. I reached with the net. The pole bent. The body sagged hard, as if the water wanted to keep the dog a little longer. I hauled it up inch by inch until it hit the tile with a heavy sound. The smell curled inside my throat.

This morning a news story: For four years, // a woman thought she was venerating // a statue of Buddha, // when actually it was a Shrek action figure

What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.






















No you didn’t; you watched them grow and assigned plaudits to / yourself. I’m not going to give you garlands.

Biffed it. // Boarded, in distress, a trans-Atlantic flight, / bleated from a phrasebook, that or this, / that or this. Overpacked a spliff.

What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss

This morning a news story: For four years, // a woman thought she was venerating // a statue of Buddha, // when actually it was

Little here has gone as planned. On the seventh day / I tacked Piss Christ over my desk like a Catholic faggot / even though

I know history through my ancestors’ wounds — / I have seen what happens / when language becomes a ledger.

The weight of the moment pressed against me. I reached with the net. The pole bent. The body sagged hard, as if the water wanted

We smothered the memories of flavourless meals, short showers, watered-down milk, mouldy bread, freezing nights without heating, and stuffy colds, flus or injuries without medicine,

I hardly ever post anything on X but I do sometimes leave a comment on someone else’s post after which I always feel a strong

He wanted to forget her now. She had tortured him for years, seducing him with her odour and she often stank. He liked to kiss

The peddler could hardly see the path in front of him, and cursed himself for failing to buy new oil for his lantern. Twice he

No one knows how much the silverware drawer matters. It rattles in Leah’s mind if it’s left unorganized. She checks it often.

Moving between sound and performance, Be is a facilitator of music, dance and embodiment ritual. Their practice bridges dance training with expanded vocal techniques, sound healing, experimental music and conflict resolution.

B O D Y’s art editor Jessica Mensch meets up with Montreal-based artists Sarah Wendt & Pascal Dufaux at their Montréal studio to talk about their recent solo show, Miel du temps, at Musée d’art de Joliette, in Joliette, Quebec.

B O D Y interviews Scott Kiernan, a New York-based artist whose video, photo and installation works interact in ways that address their own materiality and means of distribution.

Anna Hawkins is an artist who works primarily in moving image and installation with an interest in the ways that images, gestures and language are circulated and transformed online and the impacts of technology on the intimate spheres of daily life.

Weaving together disparate references spanning across histories and geographies, German interdisciplinary artist Johanna Strobel explores the entanglement between philosophy, semiotics, and actuality.

Padma Rajendran’s works on fabric experiment with the clash and combination of patterning and storytelling. She received her MFA from Rhode Island School of Design and teaches drawing at Vassar College.

Books in Brief: Reviews of new poetry collections by Justin Lacour, Emily Bludworth de Barrios, and Siegfried Mortokowitz.

A friend gave me this poem, the way friends give me a lot of things, the same way most of what I absorb culturally seems to happen almost accidentally, and the same way anyone’s accidents add up to their life ultimately…

Poet and translator Tom Phillips offers a guide to contemporary Bulgarian poetry in translation

Drew Rollins and James Peake review four new books of contemporary Bulgarian poetry in translation. Edited by Clint Margrave.

B O D Y reviews new pamphlets by David Kinloch, James Appleby, and Sophie Cooke.

Stephan Delbos on the poetry of Tim Dlugos and Danzez Smith, two poets whose poetry clarifies the evolving relationship between American society & AIDS and shows how poetry can follow truth through taboo.








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