An entanglement with the exposed, ghostlike arteries of memory and feeling that wind through apartments inhabited by couples.
An existential-internationalist personal espionage prose-poem: "In the room over his head, waking up again: wind, door, bird, valise."
A carefully administered dose of laconic late-night sex confusion. Corey's befuddled narrator is affectless but never cynical in exploring that special dissociative space between men and women. Time spent in his company will make you want to buy him a beer and a cigarette or take him home with you.
A short story, imagined to feel like a loose trail of late-night memories. Time passes, the narrator settles in on moments and people, observing them through his curious, sardonic temper. Somehow, the term "lowlifes" emerges as a faulty descriptor, one that fails to capture its target. The story makes up for it.
A night-time drive is distilled into anxiety-inflected shards, an abduction or transport in the unsafe company of silently complicit "gentlemen".
Like its protagonist, a soon-to-be ex-lover, this poem walks the gauzy line between pessimistic longing and tightly controlled anger with affectless precision. The wryly homicidal narrator dissects his surroundings with a razor-bladed need to get under the dumb surface of things, then bemusedly steps back when the red begins to show.
A guided tour into the the fuzzy underbelly of the Beekiller collective: Matt in his merciless kindness reviews the Micro-Miniature Festival, held recently at New York's Living Room and featuring an all-talent, no-filler line-up of Beekiller greats.