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
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?
Absconded, in the dead of the heat just two nights ago, enamored of darkness, two unremarkable syllables, neither one a word or capable of turning a word
Joshua Young is the author of six collections, most recently, Psalms for the Wreckage (Plays Inverse, 2017) and the chapbook, Weekends of Sound: 764-Hero Mixtape (Madhouse Press, 2020). His novella, Lit
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
A hummingbird quivers near the open window— a brown violetear, Colibri delphinae, flashes glimpses of its emerald throat, dips into flowers—buries itself in a trembling bloom while I answer the phone.
Enter La Basílica de la Sagrada Família Past the glories of art and color and light There is a tower It is dark inside, and the path is difficult
… 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
The Tale At Ali’Shan we witness what’s left of skeletal rare red cypress Nippon clear-cut an aeon ago.
I am writing to tell you what it was like for me the days I sat beside you, holding the phone on speaker
