We are hopeful not because what is lost can be recovered, but because an irrecoverable loss does not determine one’s sense of self and future.
The Good Place’s finale reminds us of things we never knew — like the impossibility of Heaven, and the reality of our singular, inescapable loneliness.
A poem by Donald John Trump
It’s been a slow news week here in Batavia, Ohio, the taint of America. Apparently the Mueller report (kind of, sort of) came out, and liberals everywhere achieved an unbelievable tantric orgasm nearly two years in the making.
In Shadowboxing: Poems and Impersonations, Joseph Rios evokes the image of an imposing Rocky Balboa as he opens […]
The Gary Soto Literary Museum is, unarguably, the “smallest, cutest, cleanest museum in the country.” In Fresno, California, […]
Reading the April 23, 2017 interview transcript between the Associated Press and the fake 45th President of the […]
Today, Fresno poet laureate Lee Herrick interviews Juan Luis Guzmán, the organizer of this year’s LitHop. The festival is this […]