Nietzsche killed god a long time ago
And now I have no one to talk to.
IS ANYONE THERE?
I AM HERE….
ALONE
……………………………….WAITING.
……………………………….……………………………….……… See. I told you there was no god…
Ignore that, that’s just me talking to myself
You know, god being dead and all… I have to stay entertained somehow.
But I hear it’s okay to talk to yourself
As long as you don’t answer back…
……………………………….……………………………….……… You know, that reminds me of the time I shared with god…
You don’t say?… ...continue reading
Nathan Elias graduated from Antioch University’s MFA program and is the author of a fiction novelette, A Myriad of Roads That Lead to Here (2017). He’s made films such as The Chest (which premiered at Cannes Film Festival 2015) and, most recently, his debut poetry chapbook, Glass City Blues: Poems, was released via Finishing Line Press.
In this episode of ‘Cover to Cover with . . .,’ Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum chats with Elias about his writing and acting, as well as working for Jennifer Lopez, yielding introspection from traveling, and more.
– Nathan Elias… ...continue reading
Will and I sat outside the VA on a bench, watching cars circle for spots while an ambulance blared from the dock around the corner. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, trying to erase the last hour of our lives from my memory, focusing instead on the weather and our neighbor’s wife they’d found in the freezer. We’d read the article in the paper that morning an effort to distract ourselves from the appointment. We knew what today would be—but we didn’t want to. We couldn’t entertain the idea, so we read the paper. We never read the paper, and now I knew why. You learn horrifying things like your neighbor shoved his wife’s dead body in the freezer after she’d had a heart attack.… ...continue reading
The body’s tense shoulder, its skin in a slip
with its mouth full of ribbons ––
How it sways with rain.
Slow coming on, the low horn –– same, same.
The stammering squeal of rail and wheel rising,
the face framed in reflection ––
The flash in the retina ––
A scattering, clouds, etcetera ––
The exit and smell of wet steel, the perforating flash
of white woods –– the elongated cry of the cat ––
the mind’s relent, gather, slack ––
Its penchant for rain ––
– Bevil Townsend
Author’s Note: This poem, among others, is an elegy for my late father and they come from a longer manuscript, Birdsong and Buckshot: An Elegiac Echo. I worked to construct these mellifluous poems through both traditional and invented forms to echo the bodily constraints the speaker experiences here in the physical world.… ...continue reading
We’re hand in hand in the dusk on a long stretch of drying asphalt. Traffic lights do their thing unobserved by a single individual. Although its midsummer, dark blue clouds block out much of the sun. The horizon is a strange and brooding pastel. It barely stopped raining and we’re so happy together. When the rain resumes we just take our shirts off. The light present is chimerical and seems to change position in the sky every building we pass. It could be any day, any decade. No cars pass us by during our ten miles or so stroll, no airplanes fly overhead. The one she arrived on is having its wings de-iced somewhere beyond the horizon in another world, consuming a new batch of explorers.… ...continue reading
I
Did he not see?
that my stars were piqued by other starry fires
and I was chalking up
tediously
the hands of would-be ghosts,
that I was reaching for
the crags that would harden
my knuckles with shame
for my fear
my inaction out of fear,
my lack of art.
II
Little pine needles
scrape the arches
of my feet
in my inadequate shoes
He told me how to wear shoes properly,
bought me a good pair
and I’m sorry I sold them
I couldn’t I just couldn’t
and I’m sorry, you now, that I couldn’t bring myself
to teach you the same … ...continue reading