Sunday Light and Word - The Last Time

Sunday Light and Word – The Last Time


July D


The last time I saw you I was walking to a burrito place. You popped off the sidewalk joy streaked into your curling black locks. Those days we’d coerce scribbled numbers onto cross country phone discussions that made loneliness a pressurized conceit. In California, your freckles just iced  into me in a way your voice never had. Those days I didn’t own a car. Sometimes I’d borrow…

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Piss Queen

I DID NOT GROW UP to be a Piss Queen.

After a month or more complaining about my unrequited baby lesbian love, I was set up on my first blind date by my patient friends.

She was slightly older than me, Butch, kinky, smart, funny and above all not looking for a serious girlfriend—according to her text message.

She met me at a prearranged bus stop and stood with flowers in hand and looking dapper.…

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Away With Dusty, or The “Supreme Fiction”

Away With Dusty, or The “Supreme Fiction”

This summer Timothy Braun has taken to the road, traveling the US in search for larger truths, re-enacting (of a sort) Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley. You can read his earlier adventures here and here.

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is…

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They Sing in Ancient Green, The Rainbow Reader Part IV

They Sing in Ancient Green, The Rainbow Reader Part IV

Over the next month we’re excerpting Tessa Laird’s social history of the spectrum A Rainbow Reader. Last week in Part III she wrote of yellow, the color of Van Gogh and desert raves.

IS GREEN THE color of love, or just the color of my love?

Green is the color of the heart chakra, Anahatha, which is Sanskrit for unstruck, like a gong or drum which sounds without force, resonating with its own,…

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THERE IS A row of large rusted yellow dumpsters. People in blue coveralls scale the sides and dive in. They root around and toss their findings out to others standing on the asphalt. There are cries of triumph and delight emanating from within the metal bowels. A man with a megaphone shouts encouragement: “Very good, Maureen. That’s Chicken Tikka. Hot bar stuff.” Nearby, a converted school…

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Gabriel Wins

I SAT ON the toilet, thinking about how Mrs. Gloria Stroller, widower and president of the Wisner Stroller Arts Foundation, loved my story collection Trees. She thought it “original.” And “courageous.” She’d told me less than an hour earlier, greeting me in her tri-shaded inlaid marble hallway (oyster, mauve, and coral), next to an entryway table adorned with silver-framed photographs of major…

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Rock On - A Life (So Far) In Music

Rock On – A Life (So Far) In Music

When I was 14, I became a musician to get two things: revenge and girls. I did not seek to shape swirling emotions, or to express levels of experience so deep that mere language cannot access them. No. In time, I would stumble on aspects of music that make it what philosopher Immanuel Kant called “the quickening art,” i.e. the art by which a listener connects to the soul, but in the beginning,…

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Sunday Light and Word - Civic Edge

Sunday Light and Word – Civic Edge



July C




We rode the bus into the city. I hated the bus. For years, the bus the bus the bus, my mom told me. The bus was a lima bean. And there we were, stewing with it. And suddenly all of it was gone, the dreariness replaced by a spark that might last two more decades until the bus descended into marriages and children and alcoholism and defeated the one chance it had to erase the…

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Hey Slut: The Pressure to Come

Hey Slut: The Pressure to Come

Hey Slut,

I’M ALMOST 18 and have yet to have an orgasm. I find it nearly impossible to arouse myself on purpose, with touch or otherwise, so when I do find myself aroused I try to take advantage of it and masturbate. However, it rarely escalates, and in fact quickly decreases regardless of what I do. I have used lube and vibrators but they don’t do anything for me at all, it just feels odd. Do…

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Bated Breath


WHAT THE INTERNET said wouldn’t happen, happened.  My mother started dying, not slowly from complications like pneumonia or a broken hip but quickly from the Parkinson’s she’d been suffering from since the Clinton Administration.

She was barely alive by the time my wife and I made it from New York back to the house where I grew up in Virginia.  Doped up on morphine and Ativan, she lay…

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