Arthur Jekyll was a doctor. Of course he was, how could he be otherwise, when both his parents, and their parents before them, had been doctors? What other options did he have when all the terrors and comforts of his formative years had been acco
Keith loved Eugene Chadbourne records, hand-rolled cigarettes with Drum tobacco, winged-tip shoes, and his six-hour stint each Saturday night playing jazz for radio station WUOT. And for a year or two, he loved Laura.
Laura was painfully
A Flowers Sanitation truck with faded petunias on its hopper rumbled down the street, a short stretch curving into dead-end. Ours the only trash pick-up stop on this lane, the driver made the curve, then backed up to our r
I don’t want to say I suffered a crisis of faith. But maybe there was a moment, somewhere in the beginning, when it felt like the whole Zygote in my Fez poetry festival was doomed. Maybe doomed is too strong a word. But it did feel, especially i
Dena Rash Guzman’s latest poetry collection, Joseph, was published by Hologram Press just before the inauguration of Donald J. Trump: a timely coincidence. This is indeed a book for our times. The poet has undoubtedly drawn on her own d
CAN WE ACTUALLY TALK about an actual problem I actually have? (It must be my problem, actually, and mine alone, since I am the only one who ever actually complains about it.) It’s actually the word “actually.” It’s actually driving me bonk