The Bookends Review

At first, the grief was bare, an unsheathed sword,
its presence sharp. But then it turned, slowly,
into a faded tattoo on a hidden part of my body.
I tried calling your phone last night.
I don’t know what I expected, but I was scared.

When I’m dripping in too much darkness,
that same profound, welling of sadness finds me.
It appears in the strangest places; in the back
of my throat, at the roots of my heart. These moments
are punctuated by the smell of oolong tea, memories

of getting drunk off Blue Wave Vodka at Brian’s house, hiding
from the cops in your car. But you’re gone, you’ll never read this.
When I found out, I ate an edible and laid on my couch for 20 hours,
trying to wrap my mind around it, but it was just you,
swallowing lemon seeds, presenting your empty mouth,

tongue drawn out toward me, the pride you had in that moment,
the laughs that filled our empty stomachs, the crows feet on your
face when you smiled, like footprints in the snow.… ...continue reading

• No matter how long you’ve been painting, you learn something new with every canvas. Every single dang one.

• All colors go together. Some just go together a whole lot better than others.

• Art is the deliberate attempt by someone to make something he feels is beautiful. That’s all art is. You’re not required to like it … to like it at all … but respect the time and effort the artist took to try to convince you otherwise.

• If black ain’t a color … what is it?

• Folks will like your art better if they like you. I know that thought might be repulsive to some artists. Some artists believe that the work should stand on its own. I don’t necessarily disagree, but if you make art and you’re the one personally selling it to prospects … and not your agent or the nice lady in a gallery … then being likeable sure does help people like your art a whole lot better.

… ...continue reading

I finish book drafts,
a dedication, footer-pagination. 
I tuck and roll
a few final arrangements

neatly justified.  Suburban life
similar in its style
manuals stream-lining formal
editing and copy.  Writing

a respite with current
change in the air. 
Shrinking margins offer burial
and discounts on ritual

exorcism.  I frequently overuse
words – blood, song, “light” –
sometimes cradles the unborn
fragments of memory dimmed … ...continue reading

Dear Mr. Emperor,

Sorry to bug you with a letter, but I couldn’t find a suggestion box at your original 32^nd Ave location, and I didn’t want to trouble your devoted employees, who were busy offering samples, filling waffle cones, and making change. Not that you need any help from us peons: you’re the Emperor of Ice Cream!

And I’m your No. 1 Fan. Seriously. I was there at Ground Zero during the soft opening, followed by the grand opening, then two or three times a week, more often six or seven, for the past however many glorious years. My doctor has some concerns about my diet owing to my weight and cholesterol levels, but only because he’s a worrywart who’s never tasted two scoops of your Almond Brittle with Salted Ganache in a sugar cone.… ...continue reading

These bitches didn’t even know I was ready.

“Just give me a reason to defend myself.”

I repeated this as a mantra in the parking lot of the Lauderdale Lakes Point Café. 

We were at the breaking point. Another week. Another battle.

I took a moment to consider my triggers. There was Ray. There was me being pregnant. There was obviously my mother. Which.

I wasn’t going to do it.

I wasn’t going to do it this time.

I wasn’t even going to bring up my mother.

I was the only one who ever brought up my mother.

Bringing up my mother was entirely in my control.

Even though, of course, as usual, she was driving me crazy.

But I wasn’t going to do it.… ...continue reading

Why do I cry?
I saw a jewel.
No heart, no bones
and nerveless in
the pink postcoital light—

I am nowhere near done,
so you say
imagine an animal—
and I am taken
to the white core of
the Cambrian explosion,
bend in the heat and
emerge with an apple—

and we have bobbed in the tropics,
bobbed in the icy polar seas
and mindlessly scoured the floor—

stingers drawn
head and tail aglow with
Jamaica Farewell,
you catch a swell.

– Josh Lipson… ...continue reading

For me, non-fiction has to meet a lot of requirements in order to be classified as a good read. I’m a curious person. Even a nosy one. I want to eavesdrop on the writer’s experiences and secret thoughts. I want to know what happened to them. I want to understand how they felt. And, most of all, I hope to discover profundity, some kind of wisdom about what it means to be alive. It’s a tall order, but I’ve found a book that fills it.

Relief by Execution: A Visit to Maunthausen by Gint Aras (Finding the Moon in Sugar, The Fugue) is one of the best non-fiction books I’ve read in a long time. Lyrical and gripping while sparkling with wisdom, Aras leads his reader through darkness and despair to epiphany as he ruminates on his experiences of abuse, racism, ethnic identity, and the long-term effects of generational trauma.… ...continue reading