Joe Lynch: 1 Poem

Blight and Hunger

(The Great Famine. “ an Gorta Mór” 1845-49 Ireland)

Hunger first resides in the eyes,

then wrestles it way to the belly,

churning the muscles on its journey,

pausing only to ache,

on its way through Ox Mountain

Failing crops from Dublin to Donegal,

dead fields, costumed in decaying rot,

seasoned by deaths odour,

like an obituary notice of the poorest,

where the mercy of god played truant,

Just like the absentee landlord.

The Mother, translucent skin,

whispering with heavy eyes,

breath slowing, almost fleeing,

memories flickering in an out,

like the country mouse,

joyfully curling in the plots of bountiful corn.

The Father struggles in blighted fields,

cap in hand, his face ploughed weary,

hands raw, raging for revenge,

seeing nothing but his shadow,

destitute by English rule.

The child stood by a turf fire,

a rare moment of comfort,

so, few and numbered,

ribs, like a ladder to the heaven,

almost transparent,

a ghost, just waiting.

Hunger was the blight of nature,

starvation, the might of Trevelyan,

delivered with brutality,

not a kernel of humanity,

Ireland under one sun, ripening the corn

and bleaching bones of a million dead.

Joe Lynch has lived and worked in Belfast, North Ireland his entire life and has recently spent time writing poetry and painting. His poetry delves into themes such as social equality, civility, and human rights.

Carroll Susco: Bean Spiller

What you are about to tell, no one can know.  Since you will tell it anyway, you cannot order the sequence of the memories. You will write it quietly in the order it came.

Three and a half years old, left alone, again, I walk confident by the houses in bare feet down the hill to the park. More of a baseball field, but I did not know that then.  I sit on a bleacher, get a splinter in my thigh.  Staring at the field before me, I feel an angel of the Lord beside me.

And he says, “God created the earth.” 

I look at the grass and up at the trees, the blue with white cloud puffs, the bend in the horizon. I don’t have words for what I feel.  Amazement, maybe. The trees strike me the most, something about each green leaf. 

Put that memory away!  That did not happen!  Just believe me that you are psychotic and you made it all up.  You’re not touched. You’re not special.

Rain on one side of the street.  Sun on the other.  A perfect divide down the middle.  It is a sign.  It is perfection.

Do not say what happened in the other field, the one They told you never to go to. Be angry with God for what he has allowed.

My first memory is of my death.  I am two and a half, and a boy squirts his black squirt gun up my nose.  As I fall I think his face evil.  So rabid was he. And then, I only see dark.  Black.  In it, a glowing old man with big hands that holds an orb that is me.  As he puts my soul back in my body, he says, “The first sound you will hear is your own voice.”  A gasping breath.  My eyes open.  Sky.  And then it comes out, “What happened?” My grandmother is over me with smelling salts.  She is crying and moving the smelling salts from one of my nostrils to the other.

Do not tell the next part.  Never write about us, including your sister, Chris.

Sitting up from my death pose, I look over my shoulder to see my sister, Chris, five years my elder, walking out of the apartment across the grassy area that separated the buildings.  She has a stuffed, green snake.  A very long one.  She is proud of her new acquisition, and somehow the coincidence is not lost on me.

See, this is the thing.  You do think your sister is evil. You’ve never written about her.  Don’t start or we will do something. Why are you tensing? Scared?



There are slugs on the sidewalk on a summer night. I hear crickets, see fireflies, feel heavy, hot air as I sit with a couple of neighborhood kids and my sister in front of our house.  She leans in and so do we as she tells the story of a young girl ghost who hitches rides in cars and gets dropped off where she had once lived before she died. She makes sure we understand that part.  She makes sure we are afraid of the dead.  She teaches us the song, “Never laugh when a hearse goes by or you might be the next to die.” 

Remember the words.

I am in the potty.  My sister, Chris, knocks and says she wants in.  An angel tells me not to let her.  But I do.  I open the door and she and the thug neighborhood boy laugh and stare.  She swore.  I trusted her.  Now the Satan men will be able to watch me pee the rest of my life.

Give us a break! No one will believe you.  Joke’s on you, sistah.

The thug neighbor boy shows me his penis on the porch.  I don’t want to see it.  I find myself in the bushes with who I thought was a nice boy but who says, show me yours and I will show you mine.  Him I simply tell no.  Perhaps that’s the difference between naughty and nice.


I was three.


My sister, five years older than me, makes a haunted house in the shed and only later admits I was not feeling brains.  It was spaghetti. Eventually, I fall asleep.

Blame it on your mother.  Blame it on your father.

My father runs into the house he had to leave because he is “sick” and slaps my mother who is in the kitchen.  On the couch, watching TV, I see him come in.  I see him go where he knows she is. I hear him yell, “You let my baby get sick!” (A sign from God I am in trouble.) I hear her yell, “Dick, no!” I hear the slap. I smile. My sister crouches by me and cries.  My father runs out. I am three. I was three. All this, too young. 

Blame it on yourself.

I’m four or five.  Christ swoops passed as I lie in my bed and says, “What do you want when I come?” I tell him chocolate milk and chocolate pop tarts.  They don’t make chocolate pop tarts anymore.  I blame Satan.

Stop. Now. You’re adding to this.  We told you no.

Chris sends me a text and says I am evil.  She says, “Own it.”  She is very angry with me, and I don’t know why.  I watch her sickness as it starts, intensifies, the way my fathers did, the way mine did…. I hide from her now, at 54, and bar the door.

You don’t even know why she hates you? You moronic imp. Run while you can, sweetie.

My sister sees demons in her smoke, in her photograph, and in lights.  I would hold her tight, but she won’t let me.  I would hold her, anyway.  If I could hold on, maybe I could push her and my demons away.  Maybe I could keep her from wriggling out of my arms. Maybe I could save her, my father, my mother, and me.  If onlys.  Whys and why nots are tiresome.

You can’t love her.  Don’t even start with us.  She’s evil!  You’ll pay for this.

I know. I always do. But, I don’t know anymore what the enemy is: innocence, knowledge, neglect, presence, time, what we see or what we fail to notice, what we do or don’t, when we love and when, when we don’t.

All your spew is impressive.  You are mocked despite your puny fists! And! We get the last word. We always do, mincemeat.

Carroll Ann Susco has an MFA from the University of Pittsburgh and numerous publications, including Cutbank and The Sun Magazine. This entry is part of a memoir chapbook currently in progress.


Angelina Fay: Art for Art's Sake

He opens the door wearing leather loafers, a half-buttoned shirt, and a slightly frazzled smile, but welcomes me in anyway. It's about exactly what I'd expect Art Garfunkel's apartment to be; stacks of books, demos, photographs both large and small. Things are housed underneath desks, in the space between chairs, slid into every corner. A large canvas alive with colored signature reads love from West Choir! and we heart Art.

Artie Garfunkel shuffles around the room, eventually situating himself amongst pillows on a pullout couch. He quips about recovering from a recent trip to Switzerland. He was also just in the greatest, deepest sleep when his doorman called him to let him know that I was there (early), just so I'm aware. At 74, the wisps of his signature curls are still visible on either side of his ears, poking through the lenses of thick glasses.

He checks his voicemail, pleased that his former roommate has just called. We chat about the recent march for gun control, about the weather, and about New York. He makes no secret that he wishes he wasn't here.

"I shouldn't have come back to New York." He looks out the window. "I don't want to see anyone." He brings up Zurich again, where his oldest son had just found him a house, and his face comes alive as he details the mountain peaks and the rolling hills. It is strange to picture him, a Queens native, anywhere but here. But when he talks about the new, "cold" New York, I can tell that he feels out of place.

In a conversation I had with a coworker, he said that he thought Garfunkel had "retreated from fame." I realized that this is a commonly-held perception of Art, no matter how many locations are listed on his website as upcoming tour performances. Little about Art is this simple; his story is not just one that he shares with Paul Simon. His story is intricately woven through different art forms, each equally in his limelight; the tale of Art Garfunkel is one of dark pockets of mental struggle, bright sunspots of celebration and life, and the crippling reality of what it means to be isolated. To reduce him to those two decades of Simon & Garfunkel is doing him a great disservice; while the duo's ship has long since sailed, Artie has cast his line out in many different seas, discovering new loves, passions, homes, and reasons to smile.

"We have a way of denying ourselves..." he trails off, and then begins again, choosing his words carefully. "Everyone is wildly in love with being alive - but on the inside."

He laments that we can converse without ever truly understanding each other, that nothing he says will translate correctly into print. I assure him that it will.

Once half of an Everly Brothers-emulating duo called Tom and Jerry, then Simon & Garfunkel, Art experienced the most charmed years a person could have, traveling the world doing what he loves most - singing. By the time he was a senior in high school, he had already been on Dick Clark's American Bandstand. He and Paul were inseparable as friends and eventually as performers. Though they took many hiatuses throughout their colorful careers, they seemed to always find each other again.

"We fall into things," Art says. I can certainly understand; I fell into his music quite randomly. My mother owned the Concert in the Park on CD, and we would often hear "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard" and "Sound of Silence" on the classic rock station Q104.3.

This is how we encounter most celebrities; they are what goes on in the background while life is happening, and before we realize it, they become a part of us. A song that I once knew some words to became something that felt like my mother's car, like a backyard in Long Island, like a younger me with fewer thoughts.

Art and Paul have always fallen back together. Every few years, they reunite for a performance or two, or, if we're on a lucky decade, for a tour. In 2004, they held a free concert at the Colosseum in Rome. Over 600,000 people attended a true testament to the everlasting and international significance of their music. They are a place of respite for many.

Artie calls it luck, and insanity, that students worldwide are still singing "Feelin' Groovy" and "Scarborough Fair" in their annual choir concerts.

"If you eat something that tastes delicious, that's great," he says. "If it stays delicious for 45 years, that's just an extra treat." A pause. Then: "That was good. I'd write that down if I were you."

I do.

A piece of paper taped to his lamp, emblazoned with the Hershey Lodge logo, reads, love is all there is - Art, Kim, Arthur Jr., Beau.

"I'm hooked on Snapple, Angelina," Art says as he offers me one of the two "best" flavors - lemon and peach - and lauds America for this one great achievement of bottled iced tea. After some reflection, he decides that caffeine is a good addiction to have after all, especially since ditching his Marlboros years ago, but not before the damage was done on his vocal cords. He lost his voice in 2010, canceled a tour with Paul, and spent the subsequent four years yelling into empty theaters, trying to force his range to resurface.

Over those four years, before he reported to the Rolling Stone that his voice was back in business, Art let his music take the backseat. He turned to his writing, something that never had the full soil in which to take root and blossom, always overshadowed by his first love. For thirty years, Art had traveled with a notebook in his back pocket, walking with no direction, writing for no audience. He compiled these writings into his book.

"That thing that I've been thinking about, where does it take me?" he says of his writing process. "Where does the rhythm take me? What does it demand?" He calls these micro poems "bits", and integrates them into his new shows. He sings ten songs ("April Come She May", of course) and speaks eight of his poetic bits. And he still writes by hand, even today; he succumbed to a smartphone a few years ago, but still refuses a laptop.

"It excited me," Art says of his new type of performance. While the travel is taxing, he admits his deep reverence for his own performances, claiming that it is all worth it at show time. He does three shows per weekend and spends the rest of the week at home with his family, "being a Papa."

He takes his role as a father very seriously and always has. His oldest son, Arthur, or just "Junior", is 29, and Beau is 12. On the couch is a sixth-grade summer math packet, a reminder of just how young Beau really is. Junior, who now resides in Hamburg, is releasing a new album soon, and the pride is evident in every line of Artie's face. "He's not overplayed with life," he says, and I wonder if that means that he considers himself to be the opposite. He then ponders what name his son will go by since his is already taken.

The doorbell interrupts us; it's the Silver Star deliveryman with Art's coffee (two extra shots of espresso).

            "How is your day?" he asks the man.

            "Good, how's yours?"

            "I am Scorpio rising."

            I ask him if he believes in astrology. He does not.                                                     )

On the set of Catch-22 in Mexico, 1968, Art began to read, starting with War and Peace. In his apartment, he pulls down a folder of laminated sheets, all with perfect penmanship - "My friend Artie, the human typewriter!" Paul would say -  that list every book he has read since then, with red dots next to the ones he especially loves. One thousand, two hundred and seventy-one books. Saint Augustine's Confessions and Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own are dotted, and he raves about From Dawn to Decadence by Jacques Barzun.  He has one hundred and seventy favorites. His most recent favorite: How to Grow Old by Marcus Tullius Cicero.

Opening up his own book, What is All But Luminous, Artie reads from the middle.

                        Jacques Barzun or anyone

                        who talks to me like him

                           wins my sympathy in this decadent age.

                        What has "learn to earn" meant

                        but a fight against civilized discernment?

                        Is it that "time thins out things"?

                        Does the quality of life lessen

                           with human increase?

                        If it all dilutes through the centuries,

                           then from Rembrandt's soulful portrayals

                                 to Chartres Cathedral

                                       to Aquinas

                                            to Arete

                                                people have seen their better day.

As he reads, he makes sure I'm paying attention, not taking notes or wandering off. He asks me many times if I'm following, if I understand. He says, "nothing is profound, Angelina."

I wonder if he truly believes this, or, as he did often during my time with him, was about to laugh at his own cynicism. His book alternates between a chronological tale of his time with Paul Simon and poems, some only one line. One of my favorites is, you can’t discover fuchsia twice, page eight.

We talk deeply about this Barzun allusion in his own writing, and he tells me that he feels we must go back in time. Civilization is not improving but decaying. We must go back in time to find what matters, and what counts, and what was great.  Forward motion is destruction.

It wasn’t Monet, it was France;

It’s not what we say but the dance we’re in

Therein lies the mysterious glue

And the printed page I paint for you.

May 14, 1998.

“For Kim.”

Art reads this from page ninety.

When he’s done, he shows me an illustrated children’s book titled When Paul Met Artie, by Gregory Neri, which had been released a few days before we met. On the inside cover, Artie had written a message to his youngest son Beau, with all his love.

            We avoid the topic of Paul, for the most part, which was very much my plan. We gripe about the drama of it all - the 2015 Telegraph article claiming Art "created a monster" out of Paul Simon, which is very much not what he said - and rolled our eyes considerably about the need for the mainstream media to find something "juicy" enough to publish.

When I bring up Paul Simon's recent announcement of his farewell tour, I mention that the social media stratosphere is electrified with the idea that a second Concert in the Park could happen. He says, "Again? This is the third time, right?" - alluding to the two previous times that Paul Simon has "quit."

I remember an interview that I read in which Art mentions something that George Harrison had said to him a party, forever ago. "My Paul to me is what your Paul is to you." I bite my tongue as I try to find the right words with which to bring this up, the tiniest of phrases that carry a world of weight. He smiles, makes a comment about how I had obviously done my research, and offers nothing else.

But they are still old friends, which he sings as he walks around the apartment, claiming that it is his favorite song. "Old friends...sat on their park bench like bookends," I ask him what else there is to do for a man who has done everything. What next for Artie Garfunkel?

"I haven't done everything, but what a great thought." He looks off, and I let him. "I don't know how to record now. I'm afraid I'll get lost. Do I make a YouTube? Where do I even begin?" He is wistful, and I am sad.

"When I made Bridge Over Troubled Water, I made it for people. But I made it for art's sake. Capital A." L'art pour l'art. How fitting.

To turn back time, back to 1981, back to the decadence of Simon & Garfunkel. This time without the criminal New York or Ed Koch. This time with a much older crowd, now parents, even grandparents, holding onto these drips of nostalgia that escape their eyes at the opening notes of "Sound of Silence." We cannot just let these memories dance —we want it back, something that was never ours, to begin with: a facade of harmony, deeply cracked in the fragments of a lifelong friendship.

We want it back. This is the way we escape reality through music; that if we can immortalize ourselves in a September rain in the middle of Central Park, things don't have to change. We don't have to change.

Maybe, moonlit in the park with a half million people, Paul and Artie will emerge anyway, just over a half million heads, luminous in memory. But even then, in 1981, that harmonious front was cracking as Art struggled to learn Paul's guitar bits, as he realized that his partner had rewritten the lyrics they had penned together, as he found himself desperately clinging to the 60s-style concerts that had fled his grasp before he could realize.

We claim ownership over those that have carried us through our own phases. In letting go of our rose-colored heroes, as fans and as people, acknowledge that time has passed and that we, too, are not the same as we were. This is not to say that the pedestals we carve for our icons are wholly dangerous to us. But to recognize that our heroes are also in flux, are also fluid, are not the people that we make them out to be, is a heavy thought. To humanize our heroes past what they meant to us means shedding our own selfishness, means knowing that they do not belong to us - that they never did.

Even then, in a perfect 1981, those angelic sounds were recorded onto tapes that would end up in landfills; the songs that would dissipate into the tabloid drama that, unbeknownst to us, is layered with discord and distrust. And would it even matter, would it even really, truly make a difference, for the two to perform in a feigned lust for their music? What would we gain?

On the one hundred and forty-first page of Art's book, of which he is so proud, he wrote:

To Paul, from Art: We're out under the stars now, the harbor we came from is gone from view.

Amidst the books, demos, tapes, papers, photographs of his children, other people's handwriting, and vases upon vases of freshly-cut tulips, I think of one of the first things he said. "That is all a woman or a man wants - to be whole, balanced, full." Out among the stars, a writer Art, a father Art, perceiving his past as the light of an ocean liner far on the horizon. Dim, but still there. Still alive and beating with the pulse of a thousand moments of love.

There are other selves that inherently live in our favorite heroes. Letting them live in harmony with our pedestalled love is an acknowledgment that time is passing, that we cannot stop it, that we never could, and we never will. I, then, discover Art twice. This is the least I can give him; the favorite voice that has always been in my ears, embodied: a writer on a page, a poem spoken into a crowd, a delicate frame in a soft chair reading to me like the sage I knew he would be.

I watch him move around the apartment. A man that, in his fragile frame, embodies generations of art, of transformation, and of love. But still just a man. He sings scat and whispers about old friends.

Angelina Fay is a writer at New York University in the final year of her journalism and creative writing undergrad. This private interview with musician, Art Garfunkel, was under the direction of author and professor, Ta-Nehisi Coates.

John Ashbery: An Interview

In honor of what would've been his 91st birthday, The Weekly Degree takes a moment to reflect on the humbleness of Mr. Ashbery, one of the most prestigious poets America, and the world, has ever seen. 

American poet John Ashbery talks to TIME about fame, poverty, art criticism and why he hates the sound of his own voice

Greg Leonard: Art Gallery

To kick off the Kennel-born pre-sale, here is an art gallery by the immensely talented, Greg Leonard.

A self-taught artist, Greg Leonard creates weird if not slightly disturbing surreal images. He works mostly in the dry mediums of graphite and color pencils but also experiments with different mediums and substrates in his collage pieces including novel pages. Greg has been a contributing artist for both Thirty West Publications and Out of Step Books. His work has been featured on several online galleries, most notably Cross Connect Magazine. He is a lifelong resident of Pennsylvania born in Philadelphia. View more of his work on Instagram

Laura Ingram: A Response to the Return of King's Article "5 Reasons to Date a Girl with an Eating Disorder"

5. She is better in bed.

                She sterilizes herself with Chanel No. 5. Her clavicles bud with bluebells at the brush of your fingers.

                In the time of tuberculosis, when a man wanted to impress a woman, he would learn the language of flowers.

                Most of the perennials were meant for apologies.

                She insists you scrub the dirt from beneath your nail beds before she slides under the sheet.  You didn't know love was something with prerequisites.

                She doesn't have to know you only kiss her pelvic bones for practice. She won't remember the alias for alarm you whisper in her ear.

                When surgical students are training with cadavers, the fat comes off before they open up.

                She will love you and love you until she is empty, behind closed doors and beneath open palms again.

4.  Probably has money of her own                                                       

                She picks up the tab when you take her out for sushi, taps the tines of her fork against her teacup, cleaves her lettuce into crescents while your friends stare, and when she gets up to go to the bathroom, they ask you what is wrong with her and you pretend not to know.

                She comes back to the table, eyes red and whirring as the evening news, leaves a generous tip.

                When you lean down to kiss her goodnight, her mouth has been replaced with a hotline number.

3.  She is fragile and vulnerable.

                Her doctors worry she will fall and break her hip. She worries you will remember she is only ulna and aspartame, and leave her in search of something more solid.

                She never leaves dishes in the sink, but her hair is falling out, and her sweater isn't clean.

2. She will probably cost less money

                Her nightmares are the color of magazines.  She trims diet plans out of Women's Day in hospital waiting rooms, laminates her frontal lobe, cancels her subscription to the cerebellum. You watch her rustle into a backless paper gown, wonder if, as a little girl, she ever sliced supermodels from the pages of her sister's seventeen, snipped off bits of their legs and creased them into chairs at Barbie's kitchen table.

                You take her to a dietitian, a psychiatrist, a holistic healer. The bills grapple with her pill bottles for space on the countertop. 

                She apologizes when men with small eyes and large hands tell you she is dying; they do not.

1. Her Obsession with Her Body will Improve her Overall Appearance

                She knows the reflection she flushes down the toilet is distorted, but she looks smaller here than in any of the mirrors. 

                She stares at herself in the flat side of the spoons when she rinses the silverware, organizes the knives dull-side down, but you still worry that she will hurt herself with a salad fork.  

                She never leaves the house without makeup, always rinses her mouth before cringing from your kiss.

                Date a girl with an eating disorder.  Watch her ghost from the body in your bed to a body in a box.

                All that's left is a life of hospital corners and cereal getting soggy.

                Both of you on your knees.


Laura Ingram is a tiny girl with big glasses and bigger ideas. A sophomore student, her poetry and prose have been published in fifty-four literary magazines, among them Juked Literary Journal, Jet Fuel Review, The Album, and Allegro Poetry. Laura's chapbook has recently been published with Desert Willow Press and she has an upcoming middle-grade novel with raven publishing that she penned as a cocksure fifth-grader. Laura loves Harry Potter and Harry Styles. This poem was previously published in Forest for the Trees

Darryl Graff: Fresh Flowers

Every Saturday I go to the florist on 116th Street in Rockaway and buy five stems of white daisies. The florist is an old Jewish guy from Far Rockaway, who wears gold wire-rimmed glasses. He always proudly tells me that he is “hung over.”

“The price of being popular,” he likes to say.

I say to him, “Five daisies, no fruit,” which means, no baby’s breath or greens. This makes him laugh.

When I was a kid, my father would take me downtown to restaurants with red-and-white checked tablecloths.  I guess he figured, taking his young son to a restaurant to drink was better than going to a bar where I would have to sit on the bar stool with my little Converse feet dangling in the air.  At the restaurants, I got to sit in a regular chair with my feet on the floor, and have a small plate of salami with a Coke.

My father’s order was always the same: “a martini straight up, no fruit.”  The waiter would nod and say, “Yes, sir.” When my father said, “no fruit,” he meant, no olives or lemons, liquor only. When I tell the florist, “no fruit,” he knows exactly what I’m saying– and where I’m from.

Most times when I’m at his store, the florist is busy, blowing up balloons with a helium tank.  Balloons that say something like “Congratulations to the Grad,” or “Happy Easter,” or “It’s a Boy.” He always has a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes lying on the table next to his pruning shears. I have been trying to quit smoking cigarettes for five years.

Once I asked the florist, “What does your doctor say about the unfiltered cigarettes?”

He calmly replied, “My doctor told me to quit smoking, or I’m gonna die.”

I said, “So, what happened?” 

“My doctor died,” he said with a big smile.

The florist is my hero.

I give him five dollars, and leave the shop with the flowers. Then I walk down 116th Street to the Rockaway Park Deli and Grocery. The guy behind the counter is from Yemen.  His name is probably Abdul or Akmed, but here in America in Rockaway Park, we call him “Mike.”

The store is full of Budweiser 12- packs stacked five feet high. It’s an alcoholic’s maze. I work my way through the maze-like a laboratory mouse until I make it to the back of the store where the cold twelve-packs are.

Rockaway has been a dumping ground for all of New York City’s mentally ill for fifty years. Any other neighborhood would have one or two homes for the mentally ill; Rockaway has at least thirty or forty. There is an oversaturation of half-way houses, too, all filled with slack-jawed overly medicated zombies.  Not just regular zombies, Diane Arbus zombies. All smoking generic cigarettes because New York’s Mayor Bloomberg has decided that all smokers should be taxed, even the crazy ones. 

One day at the Deli, I said to Mike, “I really hope you have been to other parts of America.  I would hate for you to go home to Yemen, thinking that Rockaway Park is America….” 

My wife, Regina, and I live in Chinatown in Manhattan and come out to Rockaway only on the weekends. Even though we are not Chinese, “Mike” likes to call us “Mr. and Mrs. Chinese people.” If Regina is not with me in his store, he greets me with: “How is the Chinese Lady doing?”

And Mike assured me, “Don’t worry, I’ve seen America. I’ve been to the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia and Niagara Falls, upstate.”

I think to myself, Allah is great, God is good, thank Jesus for the Liberty Bell and Niagara Falls. Otherwise, someday, when Mike returns to Yemen, the children in the village will gather around him and ask Uncle Abdul, “What is America like?” 

Mike will tell them, “It’s all slacked-jawed, overly medicated, generic-cigarette-chain-smoking zombies. And then there is “Mr. and Mrs. Chinese people, who buy Budweiser beer and the pro-Israeli New York Post every day. Children, always remember, America is a very, very bad place…” 

When I get home, I give the flowers to my wife, Regina. She clips, and snips, and even talks to the flowers. She says, “You’re so beautiful, yes, you are,” as she arranges the flowers in our thrift-store vase and places it on our yard-sale table.

Darryl Graff is an NYC construction worker my stories have appeared in Akashic books, Gravel, Empty Sink, and other journals.

Walt Whitman: Song of Myself reading

The Weekly Degree ends May and enters June with a reading of one of our favorite poets. So what better time to praise his work with a poetry reading? Listen & watch the video below (read by Tom O'Bedlam). 

As seen on

Walt Whitman was born on May 31, 1819, the second son of Walter Whitman, a housebuilder, and Louisa Van Velsor. In 1855, Whitman took out a copyright on the first edition of Leaves of Grass, which consisted of twelve untitled poems and a preface. He published the volume himself, and sent a copy to Emerson in July of 1855. Whitman released a second edition of the book in 1856, containing thirty-three poems, a letter from Emerson praising the first edition, and a long open letter by Whitman in response. During his lifetime, Whitman continued to refine the volume, publishing several more editions of the book. Noted Whitman scholar, M. Jimmie Killingsworth writes that “the ‘merge,' as Whitman conceived it, is the tendency of the individual self to overcome moral, psychological, and political boundaries. Thematically and poetically, the notion dominates the three major poems of 1855: ‘I Sing the Body Electric,' ‘The Sleepers,' and ‘Song of Myself,' all of which were ‘merged’ in the first edition under the single title Leaves of Grass but were demarcated by clear breaks in the text and the repetition of the title.”

The first two sections of Walt Whitman's seminal poem. Whitman sees himself in everything and everything in himself becoming what he observes, the "kosmos".