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Meanwhile, a Sanford Wife Burns Bacon

The Eggshell Parade brings you a reading and interview from writer Catherine Lacey. Catherine reads her short fiction piece "(Grew)," which appears in issue 12.3 of DIAGRAM.

Ko’ dóó łeeschch’iih [Fire and Ashes

The Eggshell Parade brings you a The Noisy Reading Series reading and interview from poet Katharine Coles. Katharine reads her poem "Tempo for a Winged Instrument," which appears in the July/August 2012 issue of Poetry.

I pass the cemetery in Elizabeth where all the revolutionary war heroes have a mixer with the homeless. I am vast. A book is under my coat. The stars are out.

This

Tables proves a raw, every-which-way roaming collection, an enterprise in full creative recall and exposure.

Whitman has more listings than an anal retentive suburbanite.

____________________________________________ Alina Gregorian's poems have been published in Sink Review, Boston Review, GlitterPony, and other journals. She curates a video poetry reading series at the Huffington Post, co-curates Triptych Readings, and co-edits the collaboration journal Bridge. She teaches creative writing at Rutgers University, and lives in Brooklyn, NY. She is here.

Ode to the Beloved’s Hips

The Smoke that Settles

The Eggshell Parade brings you a reading and interview from writer Woody Brown. Woody reads his short fiction piece "Sillyhead," which appears in issue 12.3 of DIAGRAM.

New Year’s in Corfu

The Eggshell Parade brings you a reading and interview from poet Neil Shepard.

After Rapture I am found kneeling beneath the last _____blasted tree. Winter on my shoulders and a sparrow's red skull lodged _____in my mouth. I have cut my hair to feed the fire. Remnants of a city _____dusting my lips. No nations left to die for or hide in. Only this voice— _____woven through the cracks of a halved piano: that sound a doe makes when the arrowhead _____replaces the day with an answer to the ribs' quiet hollows. I reach _____for the charred branch and push. Blood dots the dust beneath me. My wet face titled _____skyward. I push until he starts to crown, my name already dripping from his lips. He writhes _____through me, scraping for that precious shard of light, where the wolves _____have already gathered— their [...]

I try to rely on composition as much or more than instinct.