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(Click the audio below to hear Miriam read her poem) Teenage Girls Read Bukowski This one ant, same one, I am positive, Runs up and down my bad arm, In circles, In summertime, And I’ll have to kill it sooner Or the quick ones and the dead tickle My feelers—I admit freely, I don’t Know how it all works. I admit to you that I think you’re full of euphemisms. What a wrong-sided…
Read moreThe Backstory – “An Attempt at Feminism” Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: I’m three to four months into the legal drinking age, and feel so deeply betrayed by the intensity of my sexual impulses that I contemplate suicide. The guy I tell myself I like has been driving me around in his mom’s minivan since the fall term, explaining how badly he wants to live on a root-vegetable farm in Idaho and…
Read moreSeduction Technique You can call me crippled so long as you don’t try to kiss me, And go ahead! kiss me under the Mulberry tree so long as You wait ‘til dark. I have nowhere to be ever since last spring when a bad hand Lost me my savings, a sack full of mismatched-misshapen Buttons and a postcard from Tulsa addressed to one “Marie with the limp~” Romantic that I am,…
Read moreWhat I say to myself after a series of ordinary, boring, and cataclysmic mistakes.
Read moreThe moral is,
Inside every Edward Norton
There’s a Brad Pitt laying him flat.
I have no harrowing story related to the events of 9/11, no personal tragedy. Seven-year-old me was safely tucked away in a classroom at James M. Brown Elementary School. That’s in Walhalla, South Carolina, notable for some suspect Southern hospitality and their annual Oktoberfest. It’s also just a twenty-minute drive down the mountain to the schoolhouse, versus the winding half-hour it takes to reach North Georgia. And though my mother is originally from Long Island, New York and I have extended family in Connecticut, on that Tuesday morning in 2001 as we pulled out of the driveway of our farm, I was more preoccupied with the well being of my puppy than impending terrorist attacks.
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