the Newis Glad:

Things to keep in mind:
A secret of kissing.

The first of these aims will result in his being “kissed” or praised by the reading public and his courtly audience, but at the same time can only result from being “kissed” or touched by critical contact. If the poet remains unnoticed by criticism (“vnkisste”) he will always remain obscure (“vncouthe”) in the twin senses of unheard-of but also invisible, unavailable to the consciousness of his potential readers. The one who can provide him not only with fame but, at one level, his very existence, is the already knowledgeable EK.

Back to volume 5.

Actually, having gone back to volume 5 already, I’ve finished the first draft of no. 47, and I’m a couple-thousand deep in the first draft of no. 48, which means I’m back again in volume 6, but today, today we’re doing the cover reveal for no. 47, which is in volume 5—thus, the title.

Anyway: the cover for no. 47, June 29th:

Things to keep in mind:
The secret of bending genres.

Want to make carnitas without all the fat? Bolognese without the wait? Why? Why when there are so many pork dishes that are not confited, so many Italian pasta sauces that don’t require hours of simmering. If “that” is to be avoided for whatever reason, it feels like a failure of the imagination to stay stuck on “this.” We, editors and readers alike, are all drinking the same very contemporary, very American flavor of Kool-Aid, keeping up the charade that we can have everything we want and nothing that we don’t, even as our lives feel harder and tighter.

the most Recent installment:

the Garbage Bag– the Towers, the Hills, the Sun– not yet a Dozen–

The garbage bag’s almost empty, but it sways heavily as she shifts it over by the others, stuffed full but much lighter, there by a half-dozen cardboard boxes. Straightening, hand on her hip, baggy black T-shirt, bit of black lace tied about her throat. The windowless room close about her, lit only by the lamp on the floor. Wild shadows loom up the dusty walls. She kneels by that limply weighted bag, unwinds and spreads it open, and the light that dapples up a spill of softly golden morning reflected off calm water, and her eyes drift shut, her shoulders settle, a deep breath in. Footsteps crackle outside. She twists the plastic shut, a sloppy knot to swallow the light, and shoves it under the other bags.

“Hey, Petra,” says Gloria, there in the doorway, tie-dyed coveralls, the top of them unzipped over a T-shirt that says Skunkguckin in hand-scrawled letters. “Wanted to see how you were settling in. You’ve got power up here, good– are you sure you want this room? We’ve got plenty with windows, you know. If they’re painted over, we can get ’em cleaned. All kinds of stuff we can do.”

The woman all in black straightening, stretching, “I want,” she says, “to hang pictures? My shots, so it’s all, the city. Inside? Sort of?” Folding her arms about herself.

“Do you need blankets?” says Gloria. “It’s still a bit chilly at night– we’ve got a bunch of space heaters. Did Anna tell you about the flatpacks?”