Bell brings together vast, apocalyptic worlds in some pieces and plumbs the depth of characters’ obsessions or anxieties in others.
Writing poetry in general is one way to make sense of it all, to break up what is vast and essentially unknowable, into smaller, more digestible pieces.
It was a neighborhood of loose cats, sprinklers that fitzed up at dawn. Motorbikes would tear by too fast, Sheri said. She and Will were settling in. Everyone was genuinely happy for them.
The Reporter Who Knew Too Much: The Mysterious Death of What’s My Line TV Star and Media Icon Dorothy Kilgallen by Mark Shaw 336 Pages Post Hill Press, 2016 ISBN: […]
But let this be a kind of fuel. If you cannot be sweet, be mild like quince on a tree. If you must shear jagged, burn slow.
There were pears in the blue bowl in the kitchen, the early light fell in a warm rectangle, and in the bedroom the sheets were rumpled, still warm from your sleep—I had missed you by minutes. I set my suitcase by the door and lay down in the warmth you had left behind. I didn’t call.
“Residents are asked to remain calm.” Isn’t that what we are still being asked to do? Medicated with Netflix binges and cheap goods from Amazon, not to mention all manner of mind-altering substances.
Don’t think about how false it felt to be less than open with each other; how you both drifted into silent gravity you could neither escape nor acknowledge lest it draw you too close again.
When Natalie came home to Omaha, the summer after her junior year abroad, she brought back a Russian nesting doll. And a new name. Call me Natasha, my sister said. […]
It’s all here: the machine guns, the bloody gang wars in Chicago, the St. Valentine Day’s Massacre, the prohibition era, the roaring Twenties, prostitution galore, the Northside Gang, crooked politicos, the FBI, the Internal Revenue Service, hit men, the Outfit, Federal Court, the Income Tax evasion case, along with the multi-million dollar a year gambling, booze, and vice empires.