Saturday, August 30, 2014


Friday, August 29, 2014

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Silver Shoes by Diana Bloem

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

cherry bomb: 0043

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Victoria Williams: 0264

You were always the one most likely to end up living in one room, with some out-of-work man, nursing his dreams away with your defeatist socialism.

And you were always the one most likely to end up living like a bat in a belfry, up in the rafters, running your bony fingers through the choir boys’ hymnals.

Sunday, August 24, 2014


Friday, August 22, 2014

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Take the Ginger Out by by Diana Bloem

The ginger rhizome was placed carefully in the fridge. I examined it. At first it looked like turmeric and then cardamom. It smelt like the Frenchman I met in South Asia. Mother clustered the Asian buds in white plastic bags. She wanted to sprout the yellow sour figs. Father was landscaping the sherry and mother was washing the sliced oranges. She used subtropical vinegar for fragrance in the kitchen. I had to scrap my reed buds before they withered. Mother began to peel the flesh from the lemons. She brewed lemon juice, palm sugar and ghee to make soup. I added lentils and father removed the frozen wine from the cookie stand. The ginger oils egged the plums and the aroma mildly tasted like clotted fish. The ginger rhizome began to ferment and looked like black salt in candy boxes. The type of candy box the Frenchman gave me in India. The box left him with a cataract.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

cherry bomb: 0042

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Victoria Williams: 0263

People discover their destiny in newspapers,
Send their fate to the recycling bins...
But I couldn’t make up an answer
To this question,
Of what we will be.

Sunday, August 17, 2014


Strange Things On A Saturday Night by Gary Cummiskey

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Södermalm Sinner

cherry bomb: 0041

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Victoria Williams: 0262

At the supermarket again. This time headed down the aisle behind the checkouts swinging a gladiola. I’m going to the photo booth, I say to the security guard. This time, you pay for the flowers first, he says.
I skip and hum, a gladiola, over my shoulder…

Sunday, August 10, 2014


Friday, August 8, 2014

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Eva Jackson: 0082


cherry bomb: 0040

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Victoria Williams: 0261

Archives may be the placebo for the worrying sensation of running out of time. This is intended to become a collection wherein a dense concentration of words will eventually reveal a bigger picture. Some sort of archive of notes and scraps. I won’t have to worry about polish or neglect, and in time we can see where the dust has settled and we’ll have a record.

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Reading Is Meaning

Friday, August 1, 2014

Poetry Is by Gary Cummiskey