My new sounds:
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

ellievsbear

â
YOU ARE THE REASON
occasionally subtle
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Peter Solarz
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

tannertan36
almost home
Sade Olutola

Kiana Khansmith
One Nice Bug Per Day
DEAR READER
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Aqua Utopiaď˝ćľˇăŽĺşă§č¨ćśăç´Ąă

oozey mess
d e v o n
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seen from United States

seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from Canada
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seen from China
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@ericmrwebb
My new sounds:
Here's a recording of "The Bottoms at the West End of Kentucky." It first appeared in the Fall 2013 issue of Pea River Journal, and you can follow along there.
You can read along over at Pea River Journal.
Best of the Net 2014: our nominations
Best of the Net 2014: our nominations
emrw:
So, my poem âThe Bottoms of the West End of Kentuckyâ is nominated for annual Best of the Net. And thatâs exciting!
Originally posted on pea river journal:
We publish a small slice of each issue online, and that small slice tends to come from our favorite-of-favorites list. Of that small slice published between July 1, 2013 and June 30, 2014, we nominated seven pieces for Best of the Net:âŚ
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american psycho by mimi cabell and jason huff
this book was made by sending the entire text of bret easton ellisâ american psycho between two gmail accounts page by page. we saved the relational ads for each page and added them back into the text as footnotes. in total, we collected over 800 relevant ads for the book. the constellations of footnoted ads throughout these pages retell the story of american psycho in absence of the original text. this retelling reveals gmailâs unpredictable insensitivity to violence, racism, and sex. it serves as a blurry portrait of an algorithm that exists in our everyday communication simultaneously forming a new portrait of the lead character, patrick bateman.
jason huff/mimi cabell nyc 2012
here you can download the pdf for free
[via]
Interesting project
Over on the Ploughshares blog...
A Challenge / Project
Send in your War.
Your writing your poems your remembrances. It being the anniversary of Sept. 11th, we should recognize all aspects of this mess we find ourselves in.
We will collect and post.
Who knows, maybe weâll do a special issue.
Send them to: [email protected] as an attachment. Keep it under 750 words.
We will keep taking submissions through December 31.
The plague you have thus far survived. They didnât. Nothing that they did in bed that you didnât.
- from Frank Bidartâs âFor the AIDS Deadâ in Metaphysical Dog: Poems (via nobullshitreview)
money I just think that those done that He knows they've got -tend much much worse Here they Would you take one of these thing If I read one more up on The912Project.com which is kind Why would someone why would liberals Uncle Glenn why have I done Why have I done this What fact I feel bad for...
The Voyager 1 #spacecraft launched 37 years ago today, and is currently traveling at about 11 miles per second through interstellar space. Though Voyagerâs primary mission ended in 1980 after observing both Jupiter and Saturn, it is expected to continue traveling until 2025, when itâs power supply runs out.
And still they moveâŚ
[Your life is yours alone.] Rise up and live it.
Terry Goodkind, from Confessor (via the-final-sentence)
Indeed.
You are lost. Are you lost. Are lost you. You lost are. Lost you are. Lost are you...
Putting together the August issue
October Issue Cover Up for Grabs
Weâre looking for a Cover image for the next issue. B&W.
Send it to us: Submissions
Send in artwork! We'll take cover submissions until the 19th.
For me, the last few years of the postmodern era have seemed a bit like the way you feel when youâre in high school and your parents go on a trip, and you throw a party. You get all your friends over and throw this wild disgusting fabulous party. For a while itâs great, free and freeing, parental authority gone and overthrown, a catâs-away-letâs-play Dionysian revel. But then time passes and the party gets louder and louder, and you run out of drugs, and nobodyâs got any money for more drugs, and things get broken and spilled, and thereâs cigarette burn on the couch, and youâre the host and itâs your house too, and you gradually start wishing your parents would come back and restore some fucking order in your house. Itâs not a perfect analogy, but the sense I get of my generation of writers and intellectuals or whatever is that itâs 3:00Â A.M. and the couch has several burn-holes and somebodyâs thrown up in the umbrella stand and weâre wishing the revel would end. The postmodern foundersâ patricidal work was great, but patricide produces orphans, and no amount of revelry can make up for the fact that writers my age have been literary orphans throughout our formative years. Weâre kind of wishing some parents would come back. And of course weâre uneasy about the fact that we wish theyâd come backâI mean, whatâs wrong with us? Are we total pussies? Is there something about authority and limits we actually need? And then the uneasiest feeling of all, as we start gradually to realize that parents in fact arenât ever coming backâwhich means weâre going to have to be the parents.
David Foster Wallace. (via the-library-and-step-on-it)
Something to pay attention to.
Review: Let the Body Beg by Tara Shea Burke
Review: Let the Body Beg by Tara Shea Burke
Disclaimer: I know the poet.
On to the important bit:
Iâm always hungry. My dreams show blood
- from âImagined Farmsâ
These poems, as the title of the collection telegraphs, are about hunger. Real, raw, human hunger felt deep in the chest and body. This is not the hunger of âoh, Iâm a little late for lunch,â or âwhereâs the waiter with that food.â This is the hunger of first heartbreak, of aâŚ
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Untitled # 125 / gif
re: Untitled # 125 / gif by Isaim Lozano, a villanelle
 I do not know exactly where I am, nor who,
whether I should rejoice or pray, this is difficult,
a blurred lens I cannot quite place, cannot share with you.
This is the hard part, in which I wear out my news:
I am both you and I and itâs nobodyâs fault,
but I donât know what I am, nor can I say who
you may be meeting if you follow me through
this vague movement and dark space and burned welt
are you the lens or subject, does it matter if you
finger the film or short the exposure just blue
enough to convince a prayer to fly full in result
or do you know this space, can you whisper me who
I am, rejoice my name among the stars, into
the network dust filled lenses, intone he shalt
be seen naked unplaced, share with each of you.
How will you rejoice me if I do not move?
How will I know to pray if you do not find fault?
How will I know exactly where I am, and who?
How blurred a lens I carry, can I share it with you?