The massacre is considered the largest ever terror act against Jews on American soil. But it is not a book created only for students of Jewish history. The imperative to a general readership calls to mind James Joyce’s quote: that in the particular is the
universal.
Two fingers on her hands rattle like winter leaves on the tree. Words hiss through her head. Do-ga-ske-v-se-gu-hanaugh.I shrug in frustration. How do I tell her even the words of her Cherokee language do not survive? I put her hand to my head but she takes it away. She is not deaf or blind! I see her buckskin gnawed by the teeth of wolves. Her feet trail bits of a comet.
The state, however, frowns on people taking their
brains into their own hands unless they get a cut
out of industrial meatspace readied for recession.
Two Poems by Nikki Wallschlaeger Read More »
The poem is both tender and sinister, simply told and yet deeply bizarre. It is a poem seemingly about torture, affection, and the afterlife ambiguously titled “Seven Rooms,” and, though we decided not to include it in our upcoming Anniversary issue, I believe it still deserves some attention.
From the Archives: Seven Rooms Read More »
I can’t be a pet fish, kept in a tank or pond. It’s a death sentence.
The Story of Ping – Living through Mao & Trump Read More »
It’s true that he wanted to be inside and outside the art world at the same time, but he was on public performance whenever he was out.
On The Grandfather of Pop Art: An Interview with Diane Kirkpatrick Read More »
Hit play below to hear Jacques J. Rancourt read his poem “Backyard Rock” and scroll down for the full text. “Backyard Rock“ is featured in MQR’s Winter 2021 Issue. Backyard Rock It’s 1999, the year I learned to float by filling my body with questions. Swimming at night with my father was the first time since the fog
Perillo is one of the great practitioners of what the Russian Formalist critic Viktor Shklovskii termed ostranenie, “enstrangement.” Under her pen, figuration becomes a way to capture both the immediacy and the oddity of the body one can neither master nor escape.
“Writers long for a new sense of form though they may never know
what it is. The real is released from its concept, light releases day
as a fawn steps over the floor of the world till some of the spots
look spilled…”
