Ginny

Backyard barbecue babes ephemeral like cicadas, air thick and dank with smoke. Chicago people don’t scare easy yet they tread the streets...

“I think our country sinks beneath the yoke. It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash is added to her wounds.” — Macbeth Black...

Ah, humanity: the headless hitchBOT on a Pennsylvania park bench.

I’m unsure what time of day it was when my headlamp started to dim. I bellowed for help in Spanish and Dutch to a vibrating echo. I knew...

I lay awake in bed late one night, frozen in the shadow of a figure in my doorway: a six-foot three amigurumi man. I made him, tediously,...

I met you on HAM radio in the 90s— you snatched a butterfly off a birch tree and showed me the powder from its wings on your amputated...

Ideally, I’d like someone anonymous I can send art that makes me laugh, like Frank O’Hara’s poem about Lana Turner collapsing. We would...

Harrowing as the day I was born (I think??), you lamented about how you briefly forgot the love of your life--like driving a small pin...

I wonder what you looked like today, the day when I erased you from my mind. It didn’t emerge from bitterness; not an eviction but a slow...

I'll wait: not like some fanged or taloned thing, but like drumlins lain regiment on cold plains, the last bullfrog rasping in the wood,...

To trust the writer of tidy endings is to trust the painter of perfect faces. I’d rather follow those who explain the gridlike struc-...

I like working at the Pyg, because it reminds me of a sandwich shop in Lincoln Park near DePaul University called the Bourgeois Pig. They...

An anvil did not drop on your head today. That is one blessing you can count, I suppose. Though you may have still felt gripped in vices...

No one told us we would have to  mourn the day of our birth,  because it really was only one day,  and so it didn’t last that long. No...

You were not some steppingstone.  You were not some era nor a blemish; not some dybbuk  in a filthy box that collects dust and ire in the...

HYPERDOC PIECE (click words) An aging art critic shuffled through the Tate, stomach rumbling, seeking something to chew on. Maybe the...

An early memory of my Lithuanian  grandmother blowing the warmth from an egg with a straw My longing for simple crayon-waxed caresses...

Sweetened-up strings hold fast to your fingers—you hear resonance like a false harmonic when they unstick. You hammer wrought-iron...

AI can never be as alive or as culturally deviant as we endeavor to be. It can never achieve our lived experiences, and so it does not...

All the dreams I had for other women Are coming true for me, today: Seated neatly against a white background, Like a word printed for the...