courtesy of Tibor de Nagy Gallery, New York
I will look at . . . , a poem by Pascalle Monnier,
translated from French by John Ashbery
I will look at
the windows of my house . . .
Kenmore Square, 1968, a poem by Adrian C. Louis
My old horsehide head,
stitched together with red
thread, is fungo-thumped beyond
all green monsters of memory & I
can smell the reefer in your hair, . . .
The Einaudi Primer, an essay by Guido Davico Bonino,
translated from Italian by Yvonne Freccero
To my newly graduated students, who are preparing for their plunge
into the next century (as we used to say), I always wish the boldest of
fortunes. In fact I believe that a young preson's professional future
depends as much on the favors of the blind goddess as on natural gifts . . .
The Engineers, a story by Rebecca Rukeyser
The day before Belinda left for Korea, Ray Tino had sent a one-line
e-mail: "Don't get lost in the chingity-chong out there." The e-mail had
been offensive for many reasons, not the least of which was the choice
of the word "out." It was true that she was traveling west, but she was
going to the East, which was always going "back." . . .
Mercy, a story by Anna Lidia Vega Serova,
translated from Spanish by Jacqueline Loss
The dark house. An apartment like all the rest in Alamar, a bedroom
community, the chaos of buildings, the predominance of gray—a cubicle
of concrete below, above, and among other identical cubicles, divided
into subcubicles. Ester's bedroom, Mommy's room, the bathroom . . .
Moscow 2013: Reveries of a Solitary Walker,
an essay by Genevieve Piron, translated from French by Jay Milton
At the end of the bridge, a silver-plated cupola shoots up, its lines pure.
It's the Oudarnik Cinema, a prodigy of Constructivist architecture. Literally,
"shock worker," its name memorializes the Soviet "shock brigades," workers
who exceeded production quotas and therefore received the toughest,
most essential assignments. . . .