Month: September 2016

Sweet Lamb of Heaven by Lydia Millet

  Earlier this year, as soon as I heard news of Lydia Millet’s newest novel, I diligently set about reading the last two novels of her recent trilogy (How the Dead Dream, Ghostlights, Magnificence). Even when this author writes a trilogy, it is more like three loosely connected novels, the way some novels are a collection of loosely connected stories. I finished the trilogy satisfied that she had given me three distinct examples of her worldview shown through the eyes of three related characters. As I began to read some of the early publicity for Sweet Lamb of Heaven,...

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I Like Kenny G

  There. I’ve said it And if that makes me whiter than Wonder Bread So be it. His music takes me back To a brief time when I was happy, To someone who made me happy. Don’t tell my black friends Or I won’t have any Or my musician friend Who plays “real” jazz, Chords so discordant They clash with the furniture. Did you know Kenny G’s Real name is Kenneth Gorelick. That should count for something. And he can be mean, too, Like Miles Davis. And he plays a smoking hot clarinet. We’re not talking milquetoast here. I like...

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  The largemouth bass snapped back and forth on the line as Von pulled it out of the water, but after a minute he was able to get his hands around it. He dropped the still-shuddering fish in a plastic grocery bag, shouldered his pole, and began heading towards home. The stocked Prospect Park Lake was strictly catch and release, but the government had taken nine years of Von’s life; he figured he was entitled to take a fish now and then. Von exited the park onto Lincoln Road, a homemade lure bouncing at the top of his pole....

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  Indescribable depth of pain As she defines a new horizon This uncertain home lacks Cats and comfortable beds   19 years, unbridled joy As she flashed That “always” smile In summer solstice sun Or while dancing in the rain Nights I slept on her floor As she eased into dreams   Split family decision Closed her, Few words shared as she viewed An unaccustomed room New moon, no creek singing Midnight lullabies   I recall dance dad days Her pride in reaching pointe That night she owned the stage Spinning, spinning The finality Of a father/daughter embrace Under...

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Test Subjects

  There was something wrong with the self-checkout at Queen’s Grocer, I could tell. I didn’t know quite what it was yet, but I was sure there was something wrong with it. “Insert bills, or select method of payment,” said the robotic female voice. I touched the “cash” button. “Insert coins first, then bills,” said the machine. “I’ll insert your bills,” I muttered. I like to talk to the machines. “Five…dollars,” said the machine, “sixty-three cents change.” A quarter, a dime and two pennies rolled into the black dish to the right of the bag area, I grabbed them...

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