New World Writing Quarterly

Observations on Capitalism Written on a Postcard Bearing a Reproduction of Painting, 1950 by Joan Miró

Forcing need where none exist­ed before, it repeats the trick again
and again, invest­ing and rein­vest­ing in itself, build­ing, redefin­ing and
widen­ing mar­kets, and, in a pow­er lock appalling to some and making
oth­ers gid­dy with glee, –more

Negative Capability

I don’t actu­al­ly want to fig­ure out pho­tons. We have named the thing that was con­fus­ing us, and that can be enough. Light is both par­ti­cle and wave; love is both glo­ry and pain. Keats could have been a physi­cist — he had the right tem­pera­ment. –more

The gold­en pothos was left in the front of the chapel when my father’s cas­ket was loaded and tak­en away. They took the wreaths of wilt­ing yel­low ros­es and Assorted Seasonal arrange­ments. They took the flo­ral foam cross­es weighed down with ball chrysan­the­mums –more

As the road fell into dis­re­pair – crum­bling at the edges, and then sink­ing and buck­ling and crack­ing up – the trees crowd­ed in for a look. One of them must have tak­en a step for­ward, maybe just half an inch, and the rest fol­lowed. When trees got –more

Pleas

What once was appre­hend­ed in pas­sion sur­vives as opinion.
—“Hammer” by Frank Bidart

Eager for learn­ing, hope­ful for a chance
to make some­thing of him­self again

in school, Richard shook my hand
and sat beside my desk in the office

the prison pro­vid­ed –more

1. Haunt

I paint ghosts, Basquiat told at least one col­lec­tor who remem­bered it after. The client thought he was smart, dri­ven, cre­ative, and so what if he was moody. To Repel Ghosts, the artist scrib­bled once in oil stick, and young –more

Mr. Smink, each time we met, told us the his­to­ry of the high school band, which boys had faint­ed in Memorial Day parades, which girls had soloed to applause dur­ing end-of-the-school-year con­certs. Once, after we smeared anoth­er try at “Camptown Races” –more

She dreams of bears. Her par­ents’ snores become growls. The bears’ nut­ty, grassy scent hangs heavy in the night air. Their big, fur­ry bod­ies warm her cot in the kitchen.

–more

That night we are jump­ing on the twin beds in our room. Everything is flow­ers in our room, climb­ing up the wall­pa­per, creep­ing over our bed­spreads. We hear our moth­er call us to come and say good­bye to our father. My par­ents’ room is dim, and my –more

The back­yard oak, branch­es that lad­der to the clouds. A cere­al aisle’s bright col­ors, your mother—for a moment—lost, and you for­get how to breathe. The blind man across the alley who knows your name. A red-haired boy who mocks your words. The –more

Thrusting one creased pant leg in front of the other,
can­ter-leav­ing ankles, knees, thighs, my leather shoes
clack­ing slate as I amble toward and away,
in one motion. Steel, sheets of glass, ruddy-tinted,
the high-ceilinged –more

A Struck Moose

A struck moose slumps in the grass.
A cop pre­pares to shoot it.
Thick hairy men are quarreling
over the rack. We pass by
this tableau with a shudder.
Although this acci­dent occurred
while we were eat­ing break­fast
–more

1. The hard­back book, The Old Man and the Boy, by Robert Ruark – red and white cov­er, set on an end table by the rock­er in the front room, next to a brass lamp with a parch­ment lamp­shade imprint­ed with maple leaves.

2. The rock­er, the Boston rock­er, –more

1. When you are a small child tell every­one in your fam­i­ly that you absolute­ly must have a pair of tap shoes, because the mag­i­cal click­ing sound you heard when you watched Singin’ in the Rain filled you with a great pas­sion that you don’t –more

Campaign

Mother’s stone qui­et as she smooths and straight­ens and tugs at the lace table­cloth. Her lips tight­en as she sets, then resets, the cut­lery. First she does x, then paus­es. Then she undoes x. Then she tries y and undoes –more

The Jews of Łódź and Warthegau

“Here there is no why.” If This is a Man, Primo Levi
Moonlit quar­ry. Cratered shaped sky.
How long has it been since cried? Perception’s fool.
Nose wipes on stripped shirt sleeve.
“Onwards to life,” rumi­nate, “a –more

A Thinking Reed

It’s a rainy morn­ing with a sweet odor of petrol –
like a gob­let with wet screw bolts and lin­den pollen in it.
We have nowhere to hur­ry: no one is wait­ing for mankind.
Good and evil dis­solve in each oth­er, like a knife in acid,
–more

At the cor­ner of a small path as nar­row as a porch
A grave­yard of cry­ing fire­flies spread silently
At the end of a long tun­nel where sum­mer is leaving
An umbrel­la is thrown away at a desert­ed station
An origa­mi crane in a trea­sure –more

Let this rhetor­i­cal exam­i­na­tion of a woe­ful­ly over­looked lit­er­ary mas­ter, work­ing with the most crit­i­cal of mate­ri­als, begin with a sim­ple state­ment: The first nov­el in The Mod Squad series, based on the pop­u­lar tele­vi­sion show, is titled The Greek –more