‘Syllables are excised by / X-Acto, fed into a shredder / for good measure.’
Blank’s destroyed, gap
buried at sea, rendition
ordered for empty space,
a lacuna waterboarded.
Syllables are excised by
X-Acto, fed into a shredder
for good measure. Then,
the sheet’s copied, cleared
for release. These chasms,
like shoots that furl along
cement’s cracks, seek sun,
hiss of the particular—
broken noses, heels rubbed
into watery blisters, razor
wire girding the horizon
like flocks of dark birds.
Image © Ken Brown
‘I think there should be a National Service of Hospitality. The best way to see the true face of humanity is to serve it a plate of chips.’
Camilla Grudova on bad-mannered customers.
‘Anyone who has ever worked night shifts will understand the vertiginous feeling that comes with staring down the day from the wrong end.’
A.K. Blakemore on working nights.
‘I was constantly reading job ads, trying to find my holy grail – a job I could stand to do, and someone foolish enough to hire me.’
Sandra Newman on learning how to play professional blackjack.
‘I loved being a receptionist. What I loved about it was playing the part of being a receptionist.’
Emily Berry on being a temporary office worker.
‘Every part of you would swell, including your eyeballs, and no matter how much water you drank, you were always dehydrated.’
Junot Díaz on working for a steel mill.
‘in the Huangma Mountains, everything rots readily’
A poem by Zheng Xiaoqiong, translated by Eleanor Goodman.
‘When and where does the crisis of war begin and end?’
Y-Dang Troeung on the longevity of war.
‘Words only point to experience, they can’t replace it.’
Vanessa Onwuemezi and Colin Herd discuss UFOs, relation, and the search for an inner sense of home.
‘He chopped his way down North La Salle, pared the night air as he strolled along West Eugenie, peeled and julienned until at last he’d reached the dogleg at Sedgwick and Menomonee.’
