Fogged Clarity
Fogged Clarity PodcastEpisodes
Episodes of Fogged Clarity Podcast
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Because, shit, it’s too dry to snow but it’s cold and the crocus is cold under the wind, wind the cat contemplates through the screen, geese out on the river now terrorized by swans . . . But nobody’s bored with this; it’s elegant just being al
I had one of those sinking spells—she was no more than an infant, blue eyes . . . I thought I could smell some reel-to-reel tape So I bought a pill halver . . . Most of the furniture sat fading in the sunshine— The child moved her tiny hand . .
The Austin songwriter discusses finding freedom in between playing his songs "Twins" and "Stone Age". MoreThe post David Ramirez first appeared on Fogged Clarity.
The Colgate University Political Science professor and author of The Polarizers: “Postwar Architects of Our Partisan Era” discusses the 2018 midterm elections, Bernie Sanders, and the media’s inability to save us in an exclusive discussion. TRA
The poet discusses Denis Johnson, Larry Levis, Coos Bay, and the obsessions behind his latest collection of poems, Early Hour. TRANSCRIPTION Ben Evans: I’m Ben Evans and you’re listening to Fogged Clarity. This morning I’m pleased to be speakin
Nothing has changed. Somewhere to the right of the living they still mistake independence for a virtue, a defensive indifference, an Eden of last resort, and now that the War of 8:15 has broken out in the terminal we can see dreamcatcher earrin
We begin with this Rorschach of blood on thigh: first, a gravedigger shoveling earth into our bed, then the rotting barn we once undressed in. Beneath this wet duress, we beg in unison to be born. *** What’s the word for the soft white belly
He faced my mother at the front door with the heat turned off. She wanted heat, like wanting water. The metals in the cellar didn’t clatter. We lived those years in borrowed rooms: his. The grates whispered when the warmth blew. I sided against
In music but there is no music on acreage but no land remains in history but no past will do in the landscape but the orchards are dead the deeds handed over only the rotted sidewall of memory which can bear no weight where we salted the hay wh
Those who sleep, doubt, fall on their faces from lying positions while the dross of street lamps and chatter of night-shift life run on the darkness. Sleep is the ordination of senses. Let the lonely bureau preach it, confident in its bowl of c
Not even the Mexican saints can see how you unbutton your shirt tonight to show me the ghost of a zipper the sawbones left, taking back their staples. All your summer the taking out, sherd by sherd, a kind of dig, the slug he left you with, the
1. Here I am—the annual physical, these days euphemized as a “well-check,” a ruse of language I like in some happy way, much better than “get on board” for “obey.” Still, in settings like this one, I confess I sometimes find myself thinking of
She stared at the sky in the seat beside him as they lapped the miles on cruise, then woke from her fugue at a stop sign in Bliss to see just where they were and how much gas was left, to turn from the blue and give him a kiss. Back from their
he still paints that rockabilly archtop baby blue Megan Denese Mealor has been featured in numerous journals, most recently The Opiate, Maudlin House, and The Metaworker. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and serves as a reader for E&GJ
A premier of the title track off Detroit bassist Betsy Soukup’s forthcoming album, This Disquiet. Betsy Soukup is a bassist active in the Detroit jazz community. She sometimes plays with drummer Cory Tripathy and bassist Ben Willis as The Betsy
You fool, I said, to not look me in the eye. I used to wait for the serenade. Now I’m waiting for some lover who takes pictures of himself alone in his room to notice, beck and call, to thicken my milk. Some nights I go bustle my balling gown f
The sky is not falling it’s failing as the rainband doxes trees in a wiretap wind : seismic 7, the plastisphere swelling, 413 AR. Here’s what little I know about going about it : coldblack city streets in an outage, kinky blowdown a tape on a l
Buying up the bad debt —an edgelands in the air—then returning the ocean to circulation after a fresh coat of paint : circuit bent canary song, petcoke for export, préliminaires2, jetwash out of my aftermarket, hydrofluoro carbon mouth. A
–Rothko’s Phalanx of the Mind Everything is a weapon the glass pane poised in the geometry of its shanks even the shadows when imposed by the brain’s peach-pit wrinkles onto what could be floor ceiling sky but all with t
–Rothko’s Street Scene Perhaps he still had crumbs on his lips, his collar, his lap when he unzipped. Perhaps he was still bound in half-sleep, looking back at his memory pressed into the mattress. Perhaps the streetlamp’s inquisition through t
Cast to the corner like punished women, or girls relieved to be dismissed for now for five days for less for more for body’s unholy action through no willed action, far from Book, Verses left untouched, God’s Pages unsullied with our fingers un
My guide and I first purified before the sacrifice, but can you be purified I asked her without being eliminated or erased? My guide said it’s always but with you, why can’t you just archive the whiteness or curate the liquidity of the city and
What about the dew- sodden morning, eyes open to the already turning earth? Or batter blinking in the pan? Because today we have nowhere to be. These movements are true. They’re made by hands toward a deer in the whistle grass. It is somewhere
Nettles could replace the cabbage, the salt and saffron milk-caps halved and cut with stock, water, proportions intuited and spun wetly over flame. My infant grandmother satcheled to the left hip, warmed into consuming sleep while soup thickens
A softer sound than the crude x-ray chirp of a sparrow or blue-bellied finch. Violet crowned, I can never not hunger for things less tethered to earth. It is through speed and lightness that time slows. Beyond that red-billed rhythm, I imagine
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