The plane rises eastward and circles south, then west, then north. The neighborhoods are suddenly tiny below. Their tininess seems permanent. All that confusion—how do you know when one village…
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My last month in Malta is curiously vacant. Most of my friends are gone and most of my commitments have finished so while the island fills with tourists I suddenly…
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Then, all at once, the epiphanies arrive. Like circles and arrows in chalk on a window. Like windows in a window, quadrilaterals cut out of the transparent surface to reveal…
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Everyone claps when the plane touches down, as if they didn’t expect it to. Is this standard for Bulgaria? I wonder. Should I assume the plane will explode on arrival…
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My sunglasses snap on the hill up the Citadel. I’ve put them in my back pocket for a second and the whole tight jeans thing, the whole scaling hills in…
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The trip to Sicily passes in a series of singularities. I’ll never replicate the moments, the moods; life is always that way, but we travel to remember the fact. When…
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The guppies flap in the yellow water. Their mouths suck at the surface. They suffocate. Too many fish, too small of a bowl, even though it was beautiful at first…
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Birdwolf is a new year-long project authored by the collective Entropy community. It is a collaborative online epic poem written by the Entropy community on a weekly basis. A different…
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The Multipurpose Room stutters with strobe lights and small bodies jumping and dark music from the underworld of American pop. Immediately I’m back in high school: my first mixer, the…
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The deck of the ferry is a fluorescent white whale in a black night that doesn’t end. Below us the engine hums, the bridge hovers above us, benches that were…
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During a wakeful moment in the middle of the night, I hear the sound of fabric tearing. In the morning I see that my blue and white striped bedsheet has…
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We learn about Paris on the bus north from Valletta. A speaker crackles apocalyptically from the plastic trimming overhead, trying desperately to announce the stops but sounding instead like a…
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I’m tired of making meaning. Every bus sashays by like it wishes it was the one I want, but none of them is. Through the chain link fence behind the…
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The red flags are finally up. I could have sworn the firing range was abandoned, from all my days running through it and seeing nothing but rebar twisted out of concrete walls, but today I hear shots, actual shots, so I keep my run inland, on the road. The shots come in a burst and stop. Then I hear no more. Past the range, I descend again into touristland. I wonder: Which way do they shoot? At the ocean, where they might hit boats? Or at the land, where they know the bullets will stop eventually, but who knows in what?
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