Dear Reader,
I recently began getting the morning paper delivered to my house on the weekends. I wake up, make coffee and run down the stairs to find the New York Times wrapped in blue plastic on my stoop. Now you must be wondering, why the waste of paper? Well, my reasoning is twofold. One, I enjoy being offline on the weekends. I am known to succumb to a good bit of doom scrolling, and any opportunity to switch off my phone is welcome. Two, I’m a sucker for nostalgia, and there is something romantic about sitting in my reading chair with the news spread across my lap.
After getting the news like this for weeks, I wrote a poem about the experience. Enjoy!
-Ryan
The Sunday Times
Dead bodies and weeping mothers
suddenly
one, two, three: pasta made easy
then
more corpses
and weeping brothers
interrupted by
bare breasts barely covered.
Then its the market
who to buy
what to buy
when
then more dead,
funerals:
who died
and when.
A final photo—
bright,
gay,
blue and green.
What's an eight-letter word for dead?Recent Publications:
Check out my poem, The End Is Nigh, featured in Ekstasis Magazine.
Reading Recommendations:
I’m currently reading Karl Ove Knausgaard’s The Morning Star. I’ll report back with a review as soon as I’m finished. (It’s quite the tome)
Writing Updates:
Final edits for Skipping Stones are in. All we have to do is finalize the cover art!