Ginny

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

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 deprived longing for her simple caresses which she expressed only with crayon wax, controlled, gliding strokes across an ostrich eggshell While watching her adeptly  etching with  all her affection Diasporic Lugan with knowledge of Easter eggs sharp as needles with which she afflicted their plump promise, she could relate to them: she had been stuck and  drained, too. But she had surv

Sweetened-up strings hold fast to your fingers—you hear resonance like a false harmonic when they unstick. You hammer wrought-iron fingertips into its long neck’s ebony; the vibration through your knuckles rings familiar and mechanical. Punctuating your collective frustration, you draw the bow in a quick chop in front of the bridge. You peer through its f-hole (you’re intimate).  Amidst whisps of dust hides a deceased Czech’s last name and a serial number tracing to an old to

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 have the power to take our voices away. It doesn’t understand. It sets a higher bar for all writers linguistically, but it will never take away the souls of the living. In the real world, it reveals ever-darkening corners within corporations' greed. When it comes to independent artists, it could advance us, at a cost.  AI, like most artists, i

All the dreams you had for other people Are coming true for you, today: Sat neatly against a white background, like a word printed for the first time you experience Nothingness and its peace, like stale public air in the back of a Crown Victoria or behind a locked aluminum door. from snitched pulpit, watching them all spin to self-wished future emblazoned with bitten tongues on fire, you wonder with anxious burden what you have, in ignorance, stolen in the high-viz night, and

Hey! split the night with razor feathers lap and tear the damp forging onward, no face, indeterminate flourishes and endless collision, cold and warm fronts eddying and whipping  in frigid vortexes, famished for being vacuumed words  suspended in pregnant air, operators vibrating, functions print(“saltando!”), keywords col legno; a waterfall of arithmetic plucked like a cat-gut. it dances in place, sinew wound tight to stone pegs and a liquid neck.  it can’t paint secrecy wit