Publishing writing you love is the greatest pleasure of editing a literary journal. It’s hard to believe B O D Y has been around for 10 years and I’m astounded by the quality and variety of writing in our archives. Herewith some of my favorites.
Publishing writing you love is the greatest pleasure of editing a literary journal. It’s hard to believe B O D Y has been around for 10 years and I’m astounded by the quality and variety of writing in our archives. Herewith some of my favorites.
I was the last place on the planet / where astronauts slept / my last customers were the planet’s / last people
You either believe Kent Johnson exists or he doesn’t. Neither is true. In his poems, translations, conceptual acts anchored on the page, Kent Johnson is there and not there.
The bus stopped, I think, and people poured out, / baffled by their heavy hearts, / and not one of them, not one / thought of the kite.
WE WOULD renounce the self completely, if only we knew it would take. / We are willing enough to be nothing. We don’t want to be a residue.
Go out, pretend that there are men / who would obtain you and not then // abstain, refraining from the skin / that’s split with rust
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