Ian Ross Singleton

Writer – Teacher – Беллетрист – Kritzler – Sub Sub Sub Librarian – PS3619.I64

18 June 2015

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*Odessitka* (excerpt) (Cardinal Points)
First Time (New Madrid) “It was like looking into a mirror. She was surprised A.J. could still appear so innocent, when she saw the live-motion portrait of him on the television more than a year later. She had seen that primed glance, like the ting off the tip of a fang…”
Her Pictures of the South (Fiddleblack) “Lynn’s first photographs of him, taken in a diner unawares, reveal a sneering figure surrounded by a gang of boys hunkered in a booth, devouring sopping fries, wearing a stressed leather jacket and threadbare jeans, pouncing in his seat…”
Michigan Central (Digital Americana) “I was only nineteen, alone, out of money, and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was striking up. When he cracked the seal on a pint of Mohawk vodka and offered, I threw back…”
Sweetgum (Fiddleblack) “The sun’s just gone under, the livid pallor of all the surface, save the sweetgum, sucks at me. My neck snaps, I twitch. I shut my window and ride on. The empty fields course and whisper past, the earth rolling over on her shoulder from me…”
The Lost Soul Boys (Prick of the Spindle) “At school, we have to tuck our shirts in, remove any piercings. We have to buzzcut our hair. They confiscated my skull rings, my spike bracelet, and my handcuff belt. My head aches from the fluorescent light, my butt from the welded jailhouse desks…”

"Go Home and Keep Going: A Review of Immigrant City by David Bezmozgis" (LA Review of Books)
"I'm Sure You Understand": On Pavel Lembersky’s “The Death of Samusis, and Other Stories”
"Never Too Soon: a Conversation With Leland Cheuk" (LA Review of Books)

"Janiculum" by Marina Eskina (The Wax Paper) “The hill’s shadow covers the sandy eternal city like the tide,/ as if time wants to wipe itself out, level off its depth./ Sun melts his back, yet the victor stands astride./ It’s our turn to decide: Rome or death…”
A Letter from Zürau by Marina Eskina (Asymptote) “Dreams about mice bode despair. The horde buries/ the cat, then envelops the horse from head to hoof,/ and the rider gallops astride mice…”
How We Buried You I Don’t Remember (To Father) by Marina Eskina (Cardinal Points) “Sorry that, on the way home/ from the burial, I probably counted crows./ How we buried you I don’t remember…”
The Prose of Life by Marina Eskina (Cardinal Points) As for the prose of life, just let it be,/ whether and what for it’s got poetry,/ and what string, other than the one you pluck,/ resonates with the wail of ambulance or fire truck…

@RanknFileAction @NycRedbloom @nycfsp @SocialistNY And with produce workers in Hunts Point! 4 days ago
!!! twitter.com/RanknFileActio… 4 days ago
SUPPORT STRIKING PRODUCE WORKERS! Hunts Point Produce Workers Enter Day Three Of Strike After NYPD Breaks Up Picket… twitter.com/i/web/status/1… 4 days ago