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sumana roy

That is peace, the house’s morphine/for which you pay the bank interest.


Welcome, everyone, to the first weekly installment of TheThe Infoxicated Corner. I've chosen to begin this conversation by curating Bradley Harrison's achingly beautiful poetry alongside stunning visual art by Trista Dymond and Jennifer MacBain-Stephens's curious-and-curiouser, deeply-felt review of They Talk About Death (chapbook by Alessandra Bava). To me, these are all works that, by their individual natures and by working in concert, set an ideal tone to begin this collaborative project of displaying, sharing, enjoying, and discussing poetry and art.... in the most Infoxicated of ways. What is Infoxication? It's a little bit like getting drunk on poetry and art -- perhaps a bit more reflective or purposive, but no less celebratory. It seems to me lately that the internet fosters/festers a lot of rage. Much of it is righteous, [...]


We are here to “stare at our beautiful corpse of a poem,” and Bava generously allows us to dip a toe in the afterlife. If we are lucky, we can grab for a stronghold in the cliff and hold on.


Now I know the light in Vienna as one sings/coming towards me/I know worn-down houses/in the gutted industrial in the decapitated/envelope/morning rages/ from your clavicle


The leaves/are shaken by visitations/The only verification/is shit.


You have to be able to look your piece in the eye and tell it you aren't afraid of what internally it may represent, that you actually love it no matter what.

Laura movie still 7

The "night-world" of eternity


There are roach motels/Set out around almost every portal to heaven/Watch for them but do not beware, my love/For when the sweet die/The adhesive turns to honey on their feet.


Brian Fanelli concludes his discussion on Langston Hughes.


Brian Fanelli continues his discussion of Langston Hughes's work, Jazz, sound and Harlem.


Poet Brian Fanelli explores Jazz, laughter and sound in Langston Hughes's work and world.


"Vow" and "The Blue Rental" both act as visionary texts, railing against the nothingness that surrounds us and will eventually consume us.

whale of desire

"Whale of Desire" is large enough for all loves, from belief to fidelity, and each poem rings out as a hymn.


Gillian Conoley’s new book of poetry seems to aim at a kind of reconciliation: with the self, with family, with lovers, with the digital world, and with larger abstractions such as death.

Death like a shadow of black silk unraveling/after an atomic blast, your arms outstretched/in the background a curtain surrenders in the wind

There is a freshly-made bed next to mine/that I don't touch/There is a hum in the room, a hymn/in the sky/That evening two animal gods stood mountaintop/and I sat below in the sunset, my body rooted.