I left the cap off the toothpaste. The thick paste seeped from the tube onto the ceramic ledge of the sink. It looked like a sea slug, blueish and whole. When it dried it cracked and released the scent of fresh mint into the air like it was trying
Ezra Pound, the enigmatic and controversial figure who arguably did more to change the face of Anglo-American poetry in the twentieth century – with the possible exception of T. S. Eliot – was born in Hailey, Idaho in 1885, an only child whose
New Year’s Eve is deemed as the one poignant day upon which humankind bestows great introspection and reflection on the past year in perspective of their life thus far. “What have I accomplished?” “How have I changed?” “Am I truly ‘o
I’m sitting in English class amazed at the fact that I’m there in a college classroom. At twenty-four years old, I’ve got six years on the other freshmen. They are all just fresh out of high school. For me, it feels like I’ve lived a whole
I know, it’s tough not to. The mobility-reducing skin-tight skinny jeans. The made to look antique brand-new t-shirt. The painstakingly manicured I don’t care how I look facial hair.
Yes, it’s very easy to condemn them. The blasé ev
In “The Brick Moon,” published in 1869, Edward Everett Hale told the story of how humans migrated to space. It came about as a clumsy accident. When a giant brick sphere – built to be a “star” to help maritime explorers chart the oceans