Prose and Poetry
Prose and Poetry · Student Voices
Tales from my Fisherman Father (If I follow my hands, can I shake the winter fish from the trees?)
In Tiburon, on a Wednesday, I saw a seabird with my father’s face. “Why don’t you get yourself a decent boyfriend?” it cawed…
December 8th, 2009
A Hirsute Affair
At the heart of A Hirsute Affair are the myriad cultural meanings and representations of hair.
October 24th, 2008
En el Bocco di Lupo
I stood with dull scissors
The equivalent of a woman’s tweezers
But used, I think, to trim a man’s beard.
October 17th, 2008
Beauty Salon
My father, a pseudo Beach Boy whose mane in every baby photo is the color of a lemon tart, is the true pioneer of all great hairstyles. His junior high class photos prove that he was wearing his hair straight and at shoulder-length long before Hanson was even conceived.
October 17th, 2008
Trichology
October 17th, 2008
you and he
He owns the leather shoes sticking out from the stall next to you, in the nightclub bathroom. He has that strange glance that makes you fear the stranger. He is your grandson, and you are proud of him.
August 20th, 2008
Rollicking
The shit stained Texas sky
seemed to say, “So what?”
and wafted on towards the Gulf.
August 20th, 2008
The Tokyo Hotel
This mural, see, it’s a big old mural in the alley on the sidewall of the Tokyo Hotel, a big old picture of an ever-devastated Virgin of a Mother, three spotlights spraying down and against her face like some kind of gangbang moneyshot.
August 20th, 2008
Detective Story
You may have realized at this point that you misread something early on—the Detective Story you’ve selected is Defective Story.
August 20th, 2008
A Short Trip for Bread and Toothpaste
It will teach me how to carve a six pack with forty minutes a day and how, with a left turn and hook up, to find the g-spot that gives a woman a superior orgasm; it’s all that easy. And one day you’ll understand, Freshman: you’re better right now than you’ll ever be.
August 20th, 2008
all of it is beautiful
My flesh fell off
and looked like a wet eraser
August 20th, 2008
From The Start
You’ve always kept one eye on the ground, littered with rocks and fish and one to the dazzling blue ceiling. But then, and it’s only natural, your downcast eye begins to creep up to the top of your head.
August 20th, 2008
Ink
Everything nocturnal is better with the windows open
August 5th, 2008
Faking It
Museums and authenticity and the tale of a forged faun found.
February 25th, 2008
Arts & Culture · Chicago · Prose and Poetry
Myopic Devotion
Chuck Stebelton started putting down stanzas on paper, and now we here in Chicago are lucky enough to have his spunk, energy, and devotion to poetry bringing us one to two poets a week every Sunday at 7 p.m. by way of the Myopic Poetry Series.
April 24th, 2005
Easter Sunday
Maybe it was the shiny red F, or Eliot refusing to play Batman and Robin in our underwear, or a brain fever: something made me do it. Before that first math quiz F, my parents had assured me I was perfect…
April 24th, 2005
The Witch’s House: Episode One in a Multi-Part Series of the Adventures of a Young Boy Coming of Age in a Small Town
John Fisher gave me the dead bat in a mason jar for Valentines. I had accepted it, trying to be cool, fully aware that my hands were trembling against the jar glass. I knew that boys were into these things so I tried to be cool. I puffed up my chest and crossed my arms, remembering that this is how my dad stood [...]
November 26th, 2004
Untitled
Poetry by Deborah Brandon
September 15th, 2004
I, you on porch
I can tell by the way you are walking. One foot tilted, a bit of a limp, I’d go so far as to say.
September 15th, 2004
