<?xml version=”1.0″ encoding=”UTF-16″ standalone=”yes”?> <ego autocorrect><a poem by david moscovich> <language name=”English: USA”/> <wordpairs> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovitch” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscowitz” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovitz” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscowit” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscobit” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovite” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscowicz” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovion” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovice” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovign” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovicm” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovigm” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscovine” corrected=”moscovich”/> <wordpair misspelled=”moscoving” […]
Prose
Katt Lissard: Phone Call 1983
It’s 11 o’clock at night and I’ve just gotten home to the floor-through apartment I share with two other comrades in Brooklyn. We live on the edge of Park Slope, where it’s still mostly Puerto Rican and where it’s impossible to find things we’d gotten used to in our old place in the rapidly gentrifying […]
Jay Duret: Honeydipping
For a brief period – the fall after I graduated from college – I worked for Crow Brothers Construction Co. In those days, Crow Brothers was the dominant septic cleaner in the area. Their bright red pumper trucks were constantly crisscrossing the suburbs, pumping out accumulated sludge and ooze. I got the job because the […]
Hillary Rea: Power
I’m standing in the middle of six lanes of traffic. Cars, buses and taxis aggressively trying to enter and exit the Holland Tunnel. TriBeCa no longer stood for the “Triangle Below Canal”. No. It was the “Triangle of Belligerent Cars”, with all of its points leading to my death. It is 100 degrees, I’m standing […]
Sarah Freligh: A Review of Teresa Leo’s Bloom in Reverse
In The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus suggests that the “only really serious philosophical question . . . is suicide.” Sisyphus is condemned to push a boulder uphill only to see it roll back. In the wake of a loved one’s suicide, the living are left to puzzle over unfathomable loss, the metaphorical rock that […]
Ellen Geist: Poor Us
We were very poor. By choice, you might say. Some of us were from Scarsdale, Shaker Heights, and Georgetown, but we never talked about that. I wasn’t from any of those places. My father always said we were “lower middle class,” growing up, but we were more in the middle than he cared to admit. […]