Articles

As I write, the estimated size of Google’s index is 46.5 billion webpages. But how much do webpages (a metaphor) really tell us about our digital lives anyway? Think of all those smartphones, all those apps. There’s so much dynamic content that Googlebots can’t crawl.

then the scent of the chlorine seeps beneath the glass
doors into winter.
If dinner simmers
on the stove into summer, spring, fall. If

Abra is an unstable, excessive text, one that mutates on the page, blurring the boundary between word and image as poems morph one into the next.

David Scherrer’s photograph titled Getty is featured on the cover of this edition of the Bellingham Review. David Scherrer: Over the summer, I had the opportunity to visit an old friend who was working at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. We spent a fair amount of time walking through the extensive grounds of that institution, …

On August 14th 2003 I decided to put my roommate’s painting out on the curb. My girlfriend Tracy and I weren’t living together at the time, it would turn out we never would, but I was living in an apartment on Bedford Ave with two of her friends from college.

& bridge, holding roses in the cold
asian mint, jasmine, leather

This circle drawn in sand:

This halo of string spread across the living room floor:

Marbles—did you bring yours?
Bright collection of agate balls
Put’em in then, let ’em go
Keepsies or quitsies—you choose

Not to be undone, wedded
to which modeled universe, gods
spin prepositions, into,
from, between matter, galaxies

then the scent of the chlorine seeps beneath the glass
doors into winter.
If dinner simmers
on the stove into summer, spring, fall. If

Holy Saturday morning. Byron and I sign the register at Bandelier National Monument for the 22-mile round-trip hike to Painted Cave. We tighten the straps on our backpacks, hike out of Frijoles Canyon, and settle into a rhythm of ascent, bodies leaning slightly forward against the pull of our packs. By the time we reach the mesa between Lummis and Alamo Canyons, the clouds have moved in. The rain starts, just a mist at first, becoming thicker until the dust turns a darker brown. Alamo Canyon is a tapered slash. I imagine that when we reach the bottom, we will be able to stretch our arms out and touch the rocks on the other side. The carved layers make geological time real. The steep switchbacks shove my toes forward in my boots. A lizard scuttles across the trail. Small stones roll under our feet. At each turn of the switchbacks, the rocks make irregular steps down that jar our knees.