Table of Contents
Share: Her Chair My mother must have been tired of being mother, wife, some patient’s nurse, tired of a house of dust and abandoned appliances drained of their usefulness, of house keys, doormats, throbbing of my father’s TV and ringing telephone, his primitive remote slipping beneath easy chair cushions.
Share: The Idiot Anthem It was a time of great fanfare, unfair to many, loud and full of old wind. We stepped out onto the balcony as the motorcade went by. In the crowd we saw a premonition of our own funerals, each of us distinctly, individual nightmares. Those who stayed inside were dying inside, their words as lax as exhalations.
Share: King Opah King Opah, Moonfish, Lampris Regius, I hope your life, Before drifting solo up some immense Pacific seamount In search of squid or other of your own nourishment you Were hooked by a curious entrepreneurial longline, Was as good as the dark, dense orange steak The expert butcher cut from behind your head Suggested it must have been, that your silver flanks, That your steely, dark blue dorsal skin or scales Sporting irregular rows of big white spots And your orange or crimson fins all navigated Midnights of fantastic bathypelagic spawning, That your large eyes circled with gold, vermilion jaw line, And the thick, rich oily fat beneath your 200-pound iridescence Quivered with sweet salt as you conducted your pectoral fins Through oceanodromous wanderings so rarely seen.
Share: Miss Much as I’ve failed, for all I lack, alone as I may look without the phone I left home, bring me more wine, nice man, and please don’t call me that. * * * Jilt Juliet, Jillian, harlot Jill, in French jillet, the flirt, unfeeling, felt, who flung her don into the dirt, having fanned his flame, the abrupt slut who ended it.
Share:Having Bummed a Smoke Outside of the National Gallery, Though I Have Quit “And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess.” –Eliot The trees stick out their tongues at all of us squatting at their trunks while wild onions fall limp at their tips like month-old mohawks.
Share: Dear Reader, This morning the world tried its best to tuck me back in. I’ve been writing from the demilitarized zone Of my chest and the weather is almost always clouds. Who can recall the sun with all this posturing? I heard a woman say, “We ought to live more real life.” The next morning I climbed a stool in my kitchen And cried for a little more normal.
...the road that reeks of eeriness and seems to go nowhere.
excerpted from All The Sluts Were Virgins Once, a memoir
Anicca, illusion, relativism, dualism, epistemology...
Share:Our essays editor, Derek Alger, passed away in late October. As a tribute we are re-posting all of his contributions to Ducts over the years. We hope you’ll enjoy his passion for writing and, more importantly, his love of people, as much as we have. We will miss him. For more on Derek, please read The Editor’s Note.
Share:For several years now I have had the pleasure of watching the evolution of Kim Celona’s work as a visual artist. I first started to follow Kim’s work when she was a graduate student and it is fascinating to see how some things about her work have changed, while others have remained the same.
Piecing Communities Back Together: The Creators of The Quilt Story Exchange Explain Their Work. | Art Gallery
Share:Ashton Page and Claire Fredrick are community artists based in Baltimore, a city known for having more than its fair share of violent crime. With violent crime comes, of course, people who have been traumatized. Both artists have decided to embark on a unique quilting project that will create spaces of peace and healing in the city.