Heiner Horlitz‘s poem takes me back to moments when a certain memory of a loved one – through an object or place associated with them – was so vivid that I almost had the feeling that the person was there and I could touch them, although they’d been long gone. This makes such an ability
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I met Kevin Dublin when he was 22 and I was a little bit older, I think at some university poetry event he’d invited me to in Wilmington, N.C. Me, practically still a rookie reporter but already on the verge of a burnout, a caustic combination of neurotic and hard-partying, running a newspaper-hosted poetry blog
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Journey through Córdoba, Spain - an ancient city that has stayed close to his heart in its hybridity, faded glory and simple pleasures.
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So it’s April Fools Day. I was thinking what to post today; preferably something silly and comical, no? Perhaps some e-cards, but they’re all over the Internet anyway. And I’m not in the mood to play along. Not finding any kinds of lies or joking lies or jokes about lies funny at the moment, as you
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