Selections from the editors' diaries.

The affliction took many forms: one man refused to sit down, afraid he’d shatter his buttocks; another tried to fling himself into a kiln, in hopes of being remade as a goblet.

The roots of the ’60s Black Arts Movement lie in the same period of urban transformation that encompassed urban renewal and the rise and fall of the earlier bohemia. Hundreds of thousands of Black migrants from the south arrived in several waves before and after World War II — and until 1948, racist restrictive housing covenants and other forms of discrimination kept them concentrated in a South Side “Black Belt” and a West Side ghetto where homes were subdivided and increasingly unlivable.

Atlantic city baby....
Dice rollas!

The shiver of regret walks into me
And joy to be Terenti Graneli.
A chasm before me, black fog all around.

A review of Time Magazine and American Family Insurance's Martin Luther King virtual reality exhibit.

If he is still searching he could consider if his two week flirtation with the Bride of Christ had more to do with certainty than he thought it might have. I will be praying for him.

In the age of “fifth generation warfare” operations, educating the Mouse constituency constitutes the best defense.

and time! / like a breech-presented foal’s neck in the birth canal, / it telescopes, / a gentle snap, / to fall dead in the hay and mother’s foam. / “I am the dawn,” it says, / “be grateful. / Few things come so willingly at your call.”

In dividual cells a virus works on wires as well.
It is so easy that once caught it will be common as flesh or stupidity.

Systematic racism and capitalism were also related via thematic arguments to the creation of the canapés. In their “glib” and “hurtful” stance toward death, the little creams had endorsed the city's divergent life expediencies.

But now, in bed, it was too warm to assume the proper posture of grief.

Juneteenth — Fireworks — Fireflies
Southside — Westside — Superfly

Trying to tackle something like ritual billionaire sex abuse through this tiny lens of liberal girl boss feminism... you can't do it.

More of the silent apartment, the enormous window, the light that came and went. Sometimes at night I would cry and say simple phrases like “is this it? Is this what’s left?” Then I read something in the Brothers Karamazov.

Chicago ambulance sirens stretched in time, a speech on racism submitted to a modified noise gate, five countries most susceptible to rising sea levels, layered words of a subaltern scholar.

Fifty wasps got my ass in Malaga, Spain,
So I limped to the hospital clutching my booty.
In the waiting room, our song; I winced in pain.
Some kid said it sounded like Death Cab for Cutie.