18 years of photos and the eventual erosion of us all

This one was taken on the day I was born.

Photographer: Jamie Livingston

Go to the site here:

Gothamist blurb here: A Life on Polaroid

This reminds me of that movie Smoke where Harvey Keitel’s character takes a picture of the same corner outside his shop everyday at the same time. For years. And he can’t stop doing it because then who would? Talk about painting yourself into a purpose.

Subtle, subtle. Shading slides.

We’re pretty in pink

Join us?


Friday, June 6th from 6-10 PM
Kellen Gallery @
The Sheila C. Johnson Design Center of Parsons
The Corner of
Fifth Avenue & 13th Street

Featuring readings by…


Come eat, drink and be merry, surrounded by gorgeous art in the brand new Kellen Gallery! Come to say goodbye to LIT’s departing prose editor, Scott Dahlie! But most of all, come for the memories.

Reader bios:

Noelle Kocot‘s first two books, 4 and The Raving Fortune, were published by Four Way Books in 2001 and 2004, respectively. Her book, Poem for the End of Time and Other Poems, was published by Wave Books in 2006. Sunny Wednesday is forthcoming from Wave Books in spring 2009. Noelle has won grants and awards from The Academy of American Poets, The American Poetry Review (The S.J. Marks Prize), The National Endowment for the Arts and The Fund for Poetry, among others. She lives in Brooklyn, where she was born and raised.

Will Comerford has worked as a music journalist and a medical writer. He lives in Brooklyn. His stories have appeared in The Greensboro Review, Zone 3, and Fourteen Hills.

Heather Christle is the assistant editor of jubilat and blogs for the Kenyon Review. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Review, Fence, NO: A Journal of the Arts, Skein, and Tarpaulin Sky. She lives in Northampton, Massachusetts.

Irina Reyn‘s first novel, What Happened to Anna K., is forthcoming from Touchstone/Simon & Schuster. She is also the editor of the nonfiction anthology Living on the Edge of the World: New Jersey Writers Take on the Garden State. Her short stories, essays and book criticism have appeared in such publications as One Story, Post Road, Nextbook, Ballyhoo Stories, The Forward, San Francisco Chronicle and The Moscow Times.

LIT 14: Available NEXT MONTH! Featuring poetry and prose by…

Seth Abramson * Paige Ackerson-Kiely * Kim Addonizio * Michael Aird * Jeanne Marie Beaumont * Caren Beilin * James Belflower * Wyatt Bonikowski * Heather Christle * Will Comerford * Nicole Cooley * Rhiannon Dickerson * Chris Edgar * Joshua Edwards * Elaine Equi * John Estes * CJ Evans * Jennifer S. Flescher * Jamey Gallagher * Regan Good * Ian Grody * Kimiko Hahn * Christopher Harris * Anne Heide * Megin Jimenez * Karla Kelsey * Amy King * Noelle Kocot * Lance Larsen * J. Michael Martinez * Karyna McGlynn * Amy McNamara * Joe Meno * Robert Miltner * Sally Molini * Carol Novack * Idra Novey * Irina Reyn * Anne Marie Rooney * Mary Ruefle * Jerome Sala * Peter Jay Shippy * Bronwen Tate * Greg Wrenn * Mark Yakich

Art by…

Gregory L. Blackstock * Tiffany Matula
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A Semiconductor Flaps its Wings

Today the water in my Poland Spring

bottle tastes like hot sauce. When I walk

outside it starts raining. I think about you

& groan silently to myself. My catalog

of discrepancies hovers over the picture

of the knife-holder that I found, the one

where the knives go through the heart

& through the leg & through the pelvic

region. I mentally chain-smoke as I watch

the lights go from green to yellow to green

again. The water from week-old flowers

would taste better than this. Paige doesn’t

return my messages & no one else sends

any even though I am sure I deserve at least

one which accurately describes my sensibility,

the coveted glove & the way it is politely

removed. We all have ideas about the way

people are. I can’t go out some nights because

I have too many. I’ve walked at least five

blocks today with an upturned umbrella.

My personal submarine may never resurface

& the noise of fish faces bumping up against

my little window might be the only thing left

to lull me to sleep. Everything already feels

crafted, combed through exacerbation like glued

together driftwood. How does this represent

the after now or the before? My expository

glands are already sweaty in anticipation.

My least of all, my at most. I don’t know

who I think I am, stop asking. Go prop

yourself up against the depth of the yard

& the reach of the grass, over there where

the worlds ends. I’ll take the sample-size

exaltation please. You can analyze my face

from behind a well lit counter while I push

an empty cart from entrance to exit.