Womens Fiction

Action Kylie by Kevin Killian

By Kevin Killian

Kylie Minogue, greater than muse, is okay. K.'s aesthetic m.o., his ammo. round her identify and photo, he circulates the debris of his personal uncanny idiom, that's in contrast to whatever in modern American poetry. Killian works each device within the band; he sneaks up at the back of that means, and makes it sing. by some means, in the course of defamiliarization, Killian's voice continues to be companionable and comforting. motion Kylie is a ebook i'm going to flip to while i would like to recollect that literature can regenerate authenticity in addition to renege it. Killian performs with a number of rhetorics and codes, all within the pursuit of his personal university of motion Poetry, during which I want speedy to sign up. --Wayne Koestenbaum

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She survived by retreating into a girlish fantasy world in which she was a beautiful mermaid, a girl wonder with gills who could slip down into the ocean’s recesses and find her mother. She could keep her safe in the silent depths for years if need be. They would return to land only when all the violence and death in El Salvador had stopped. Monica would rise up from the sea, her heavy fish tail peeling off in great rubbery chunks to reveal a glorious set of legs. Together, she and her mother would walk up to Caracol and wait for her father.

As she spoke, she tapped the tip of her mechanical pencil against the papers on her desk until the lead broke off. She had to figure out a nice way to get out of this. Her specialty was in therapy for sports injuries—head-trauma recovery was as alien to her duties as welding. Besides, she was booked. ” Sylvia smiled. “Adam’s work with Yvette is intended to prevent atrophy and pressure sores, infections, all that. None of it is intended to be enjoyable or mentally relaxing. What we want from you is no different than what you do for any ordinary client.

Like the ocean just is,” Monica parroted, rolling her eyes and imitating her mother’s overly dramatic whisper. “Good,” Alma said, giving Monica’s ponytail a tug. Since neither of them had pockets, Alma stuffed the scraps of the prayer card into the left triangle of her striped-blue-and- green Brazilian bikini top. Monica experienced a vague discomfort at the idea that both her late grandfather and the Almighty Father were inside her mother’s swimwear. On this particular day, Alma and Monica had chosen to walk on the rugged side of the coast.

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