By Kevin Killian
Kylie Minogue, greater than muse, is ok. K.'s aesthetic m.o., his ammo. round her identify and picture, he circulates the debris of his personal uncanny idiom, that's not like something in modern American poetry. Killian works each tool within the band; he sneaks up in the back of that means, and makes it sing. by some means, in the middle of defamiliarization, Killian's voice continues to be companionable and comforting. motion Kylie is a publication i'm going to flip to whilst i would like to recollect that literature can regenerate authenticity in addition to renege it. Killian performs with a number of rhetorics and codes, all within the pursuit of his personal tuition of motion Poetry, during which I want fast to sign up. --Wayne Koestenbaum
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Meredith wore her son Carver’s baseball hat from Choate and her last remaining pair of prescription sunglasses, which fortunately were big, round, and very dark. Meredith turned her face away from the attendant. She couldn’t let anyone recognize her. Connie pulled up the ramp, into the ferry’s hold. Cars were packed like Matchbox models in a snug little suitcase. It was the first of July; even at this early hour, the mood on the boat was festive. Jeeps were laden with beach towels and hibachi grills; the car parked in front of Connie’s was a vintage Wagoneer with at least sixteen beach stickers, in every color of the rainbow, lining the bumper.
Connie picked up. ” “Connie? ” It was a woman’s voice, so familiar, though Connie was slow to identify it. It wasn’t her daughter, it wasn’t Ashlyn, so there was an immediate stab of disappointment to experience before she realized… that the woman on the phone was Meredith. ” Connie said. ” What had she done? Why had she said yes? The truth was, Meredith had been on Connie’s mind for months. The truth was, Connie felt sorry for Meredith. The truth was, Connie had been closer to Meredith than to any other woman in her entire life—her own mother included, her own daughter included.
She’d been permitted to take her eyeglasses, her prescription sunglasses, and her four-karat diamond engagement ring. The ring had been inherited from her grandmother, Annabeth Martin, and not bought with dirty money. There was a strand of pearls from Meredith’s mother, a present on Meredith’s graduation from Princeton, which fell into the same category, but Meredith had no use for pearls now. She couldn’t wear pearls in jail. With a little forethought, she might have pawned them and added the money to the paltry sum she had left.