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Does a poet cut themselves into stanzas or do stanzas cut themselves into a poet? * I am on my knees in a dark closet just like before, where a man who could be disrobed tells me to look to the cross and pray that I change and change to prayer, so I do, chin … Continue reading
Little matters until it matters because it mattered and because you are little compared to the excess of a grocery store in its heavy light and bubbly pop and you are holding two bags of chip trying to figure which you prefer, cool ranch or ranched cool, and you think either is fine because either is … Continue reading
Everything is terrible, because capitalism bought our need and confused it with want; because want was not enough; because enough was a concept defined by people who wanted, needed, and confused themselves before we were born; because we were born; because others weren’t, others who could change and mobilize, not be so lazy to sit and … Continue reading
I’m told you’re a writer. Not really. What do you do then? Some things. Like what? I teach. What? Chemistry sometimes. Do you do chemistry? Not anymore. Then why teach it? I guess because I can, because I did do it for a while. Sounds like an excuse. Maybe. You must’ve not enjoyed it enough. … Continue reading
I am the son of a son of a son of the Sun, which is a yellow blob that blobs yellow in my hair, which is a product of happenstance and mutation and love and anything but, which is an anatomical feature that I have and am lucky enough to share with my family who … Continue reading
Sloan Thill is a man who is hard to reach and who promises to be harder next time. His house sits on a seedless patch of mud off the coast of Yacolt Burn State Forest in Washington, which he later boasts has the highest number of serial criminals per square kilometre. It is a small wood … Continue reading
Are you ready for the interview, Sloan Thill? Is that a question? Yes. Are you? Again, yes. I just wanted to make sure this time was still convenient. I had signed up for it, so why wouldn’t it be? I just like to verify that everything is alright before I begin, if there was a … Continue reading
The following says nothing at all, and so too does this. * Writing a wrong September 20 2012, Published in the Silhouette It’s Saturday night again. Sun-kissed blonde hair sprinkles in front of your face as you sip the cold coffee on your desk. Your eyes hurt but you cannot rub them. Not now. Not … Continue reading
The following is an attempt to immortalize out-of-print words only to have them go out-of-print here. The majority were birthed in the hot incubator at The Silhouette, a campus newspaper in Hamilton. Some were conceived at Incite, an alternative magazine. All, though, are worth keeping. Not because they are good or because I particularly value their arguments – at worst, … Continue reading
In the beginning, there was a boy and a grandmother and they were sitting together in a nearly empty room. Wooden chairs gobbled up little of the free space. Dusty curtains vacuumed out the sun. The boy was wedged on a sofa. Patches of the cushion tickled his leg. Newspaper crinkled under his butt. Each time … Continue reading
