Having finished the Blue-plate Special
And reached the coffee stage,
Stirring her cup she sat,
A somewhat shapeless figure
Of indeterminate age
In an undistinguished hat.
When she lifted her eyes it was plain
That our globular furore,
Our international rout
Of sin and apparatus
And dying men galore,
Was not being bothered about.
Which of the seven heavens
Was responsible her smile
Wouldn’t be sure but attested
That, whoever it was, a god
Worth kneeling-to for a while
Had tabernacled and rested.
July 1947
by James Vernon
My cousins grew up in New York. I met them once in California, where I lived until I was seven. [...]
by zantine
Doo-Dads, Vignettes, Bake Sale... It's a party at the Whitney Museum and we would like you to come.
by Thomas Beller
Blood on the street next to the fruit man
by Trevor Laurence Jockims
I was running late for a new faculty meeting at NYU.“411 Lafayette,” I said, jumping into a cab. The driver [...]
by Thomas R. Pryor
The author recalls nascent sexuality in a Catholic school, complete with choir singing and overtones of masochism
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