New York City and the Axis Mundi in The Taoist Online @ Medium

History runs through St. Mark’s Place in the East Village like dirty water — Federal-style mansions and celebrities like James Fenimore Cooper and W.H. Auden. Ada Calhoun, who grew up there in the 70s, writes in The New Yorker, “Gone were the days of Thelonious Monk playing the Five Spot Jazz Club, Andy Warhol hosting the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, and the New York Dolls ambling down the street in hot pants.” Yes, those days are gone, but something always takes its place. Like the kids with rainbow mohawks and tongue piercings. It’s always the epicenter of something bubbling up from the ground.

Collapsing Star @ Hypertext

I met a man at a French bistro on Atlantic Avenue. Very tall, dark curly hair, parted in the middle. Black eyes. He sat next to me at the bar – how did that happen? He was so gorgeous. I was dumbfounded. I had Peach Bellini’s and thought, you should marry me tonight. We bonded because we realized our shared phone company had this algorithm — that whenever we walk in to lower the bill, we walk out paying more. He said he was going to see the Grateful Dead in Chicago, and I said be sure and pack some hallucinogens, mushrooms or ecstasy. At some point, a very drunk man fell backwards off his bar stool and crashed, headfirst, onto a marble table.

The Art of Homeostasis (for Stevie and Myles) @ The Nervous Breakdown

In quantum field theory, in my imperfect understanding of it, gleaned from YouTube, a physicist can make an atom vibrate on one level, like a violin string, as well as a neutrino on another level, and so forth and so on. But apparently, Higgs Boson, a subatomic particle with no mass whatsoever, moves everywhere, on all levels; fluid, like a body of water, like a river, appearing and disappearing. This is why it’s called the God particle. It’s omniscient and omnipresent. It doesn’t move through time, it is time itself.

AFLW East Coast Salon curated by Lillian Ann Slugocki and Michele Raphael

Angel’s Flight * literary west is based out of Los Angeles– a lit mag that features some of the best writers on the west coast. We’re proud to present some of the best writers on the East Coast on May 30th at KGB The Red Room, NYC

Wreckage of Reason Book Tour: Elizabeth Bachner talks to Lillian Ann Slugocki

EB: I love the brilliant and playful way your feminist deconstruction of A Streetcar Named Desire approaches these questions. What are your ways of thinking about autobiography versus fiction, “real” versus imaginary or invented? How do you use yourself in your work? How does your work change and shape your life?

5 Cantos in Late September @ Atticus Review

I think he fell out of bed at the nursing home because he was really at the beach in Ft. Lauderdale, just north of Las Olas Boulevard, and south of Sunrise. This was his favorite spot, old school Florida– the Jolly Roger Hotel, and the Parrot; a tiki bar for locals. He was at the shoreline in a hospital bed, just as the sun was coming up, facing south, and sitting up. Instead of being in some institutional nursing home, he was at the beach. And he just got up, and walked away, headed north. On earth– his body fell out of bed. And that was the end. The rest was pro forma. Maybe his heart kept beating, but — really, he was at the beach, smoking a Marlboro Light, and a having a coffee. And he knew he was dead, and said, glad that shit’s over.

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