“My love, The tide is poised. Between you and I the end of the world where an abandoned crane will either spit blueblazing desert from its graffiti lips or smashthe crow-bedecked tenements in search of a trumpet…“—from “The American Dream Writes to Orpheus” which appears in the Spring 2017 issue (Volume 58, Issue . . .
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“On a recent list of top ten composers, my moody Chopindidn’t make the cut—the critic said he’d never truly lovedthe Romantic mode. It’s too personal, a biometric lock. Too magicianswallowing the handcuff key. The mystery of a list like this is lessof content than of order—I could tell you dark-horse Verdi here,hipster . . .
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“That morning, I had not exactly been spying on the Christian girl taking her bath outside in the strange area my father had rigged up for her, because though it had been permissible for him to get by the women of the house the idea of this young girl who lived with . . .
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“What will survive of us is love, or so Philip Larkin famously asserted — and believed no doubt since he’d never been to Boonville and, of course, never made the acquaintance of Rose and Edwin. Everybody in Boonville knew they hated each other, but there’s always a chance love conquered in the . . .
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“NINE YEARS AFTER my mother died, I saw her in Berlin. She was Turkish this time, religious too from the look of it so there was a headscarf. Her skin was slightly darker but it was her, no doubt. The same shocking blue eyes, almond at the edges, and the same huge . . .
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“The x could have beenanything at all, the sound of wind chimes,a gong, a choir, a cantor, a mermaid, a schoolman,cathedral bells…“–from “Variable” which appears in the Winter 2016 issue (Volume 57, Issue 4). Tell us about one of the first pieces you’ve writtenIn general, it takes me ages to write a . . .
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“The mouse pup moves in anguish but its screams are ultrasonic, heard only by its mother. The fingers and toes are clearly defined–each one finishing in a delicate nail. Round, black eyeballs are visible underneath translucent eyelids: it’s a miniature alien nestling in the palm of her hand. Ziggy drops the pup . . .
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“Fantaisie Impromptu. That’s Chopin, of course. The record–held in a pink sleeve (or it should be pink)–was a pirated copy: ten yuan apiece, or nine if you buy more. It wasn’t mine though. It was lent to me by a high-school classmate of my classmate from primary school. They were attending an all-girls . . .
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“LISTEN: MUSIC IS BORN from the human mind, but it also appears naturally, like the smell of malt, like the taste of celery. Humans desperately try to precent it from slipping through their fingers. They fasten it to the score, to instruments, to commentaries, to theory books, to records…”–from Perfect Pitch which appears in . . .
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“Fingertips ready at the page tipwith the vigilance of a physician.An executor of Chopin herself,she knows the crests and tidesof the Revolutionary:“—from “The Page Turner” which appears in the Winter 2016 issue (Volume 57, Issue 4). Tell us about one of the first pieces you’ve written One of the first poems I ever wrote was . . .
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