at the rack

vince's eyes drift up from the map to the photo of president carter--even four years ago, you could see the burdens of choice and fear on his face--and vince knows.

a single moment can sometimes connect you to your time. president carter stares in solemn agreement. it's like this: you're out there living your own life, and then, every four years, they give you a say--a tiny say in how this moment should proceed, and it is both real and abstract, like the black borders around the states, a creation of the very thing it is--a small say in which incremental direction we will go, and sure, it's a cynical process: reactive, reductive, misguided--but goddamn it, if every four years it does nothing more than make you stop and realize that you're part of something bigger, then maybe every time it's a tiny fucking miracle.

--from citizen vince by jess walter

i-pod wars

ballad of lou the welterweight by the felice brothers

that was the year, posy. planted letterys of purposy which could have
been gathered.
our posies are mourning rings then. commuted under carpets.
collections of rheotoric
arch and sweet smelling. grown along river banks. falling at the
fair. a nosegay
descension.