Do you enjoy keeping your opinions to yourself and being seen but not heard? Have you been looking to de-prioritize parts of your life like “family obligations, writing, involvement with other organizations, degrees to be finished, holidays to be taken, [and] weddings to attend in Rio”? Looking to earn a low-level salary while living in fear of “immediate dismissal” if you don’t answer emails fast enough on a Saturday night?  Well then, apply now for a job at Dalkey Archive Press!

Let’s get this out in the open: what are your thoughts on the recent Duotrope Debacle?

To what extent has the Internet ruined your life?

“Laboratory testing for lethal intoxicating substances, stigmata of anaphylaxis, or metabolic derangements were negative.” He choked.

Have you ever led someone to believe you’d read a book you really hadn’t (or straight up lied about reading a book)? In class? At a party? On the Internet? Ever try to make amends? Examples?

Dalkey Archive is having a Holiday Sale! Get 10 books for $65 or 20 books for $120. Awesome deal. W00t.

Fans of artistic exploitation/transgressive cinema should check out the site Moondog Madness, where among other things you’ll find posts on Nick Zedd (including some news about his new film, Love Spasm, and an old trailer for War Is Menstrual Envy), and a detailed obit for Kōji Wakamatsu.

><><>> Calzones, collaborations, and fogbound techniques of waiting gracefully for nothing at the new issue of red lightbulbs

><><>> Astronaut brothers (or not), paradoxical undressing, and interviews about $$$ at the new issue of Gigantic

The thing about the new Disqus system is, when I’m rereading a comments thread and find I want to bump up someone’s comment, I can never remember whether I’ve already clicked ^ or not, so I click it, and then the number goes down by one, and then I have to re-click it.

Finding Something
—Jack Gilbert, 1925-2012

I say moon is horses in the tempered dark,
because horse is the closest I can get to it.
I sit on the terrace of this worn villa the king’s
telegrapher built on the mountain that looks down
on a blue sea and the small white ferry
that crosses slowly to the next island each noon.
Michiko is dying in the house behind me,
the long windows open so I can hear
the faint sound she will make when she wants
watermelon to suck or so I can take her
to a bucket in the corner of the high-ceilinged room
which is the best we can do for a chamber pot.
She will lean against my leg as she sits
so as not to fall over in her weakness.
How strange and fine to get so near to it.
The arches of her feet are like voices
of children calling in the grove of lemon trees,
where my heart is as helpless as crushed birds.