when we no longer live in our bodies do we inhabit the spaces between voices cupped in bedspread folds hands around a match winter kitchen cookbook stains unmarked keys missing teeth tufts of feather and bone?
You can smell it like a snake, from miles away— this Eden made of benzene, naphthalene and gasoline. The smokestack garden never rests; it works through day and night like any forest does. It turns the blood of earth into the fuel that makes it sing this dusk chorus of whistles, bells, and whooshing
Gaudí tapped me on the shoulder in the nearly-finished Casa Batlló and asked me if I liked the center atrium. Having been raised in a farmer’s stucco house, I thought I’d say it was beautiful. Artists always seek beauty, right? Before I could remember how to say beautiful in Catalan, he started up a
… something beyond themselves, beyond words. -Celan- There’s a scent that can’t be defined like breathless painting, music, dance unplowed yet into sentient fields, graphic grey-mists hovering water, that won’t be read or turned to tongue
Rougarou, a Journal of Arts and Literature, aims to publish an eclectic, resonant selection of creative writing by emerging and established writers. Founded in 2007 by the faculty and graduate students of the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, Rougarou is published biannually, with active columns updated regularly. [+]