Sy Safransky

Breadmen’s

The Rose In The Greasy Fist

I’ll start with a startling admission: in this, The New Age, the closest I come to feeling part of a community is at an all-night cafe just down the block called Breadmen’s.

Sara Elizabeth Safransky

Born Nov. 3, 1977, 1:45 A.M.

In the depth of my own understanding, I meet you in timeless wonder. I have no conscious memories of our “other lifetimes” together. It doesn’t matter. Your mother, reaching for you, drawing you back to her, reaches across the aeons.

Black Holes

The Man Between

Hunched over the typewriter, one eye on the clock, I’m eternal, and I’m sweating it out. Then space opens its fist, I’m neither in nor out, not who I imagine, yet imagined by my Self. The hum of things continues. I’m the kiss of life — if only for this moment, to this moment I’ll cling.

Psychic Readings: Facing An Empty Canvas

Why does someone call himself a psychic and begin charging for his services? The motivation is surely as complex as in seeking a psychic’s help. Perhaps it will one day seem no more unusual to go for a reading than for a physical exam at a doctor’s office; but as there are good and bad doctors, there are psychics of every description.

The Riddle Of Capitalism

Editor’s Note

Selected Poems

Kicking The Corpse, Or Is This Love?

I’m having a hard time writing this. I think I’ve figured out why. I want it to be a eulogy, but I can’t stop kicking the corpse. I want you to care that another American newspaper has expired. But I wonder if I care.

Shotgun Vision

Book Review

Mike Rigsby, whose poems we’ve published before, asked me to say something about his new book, Shotgun Vision.