America's Most Critical Journal since 1999
Stephen J. Lyons Before I even entered the plane’s cabin I could see disaster lurking in the boarding tunnel. This is the staging area where mothers and fathers gear up like wilderness backpackers at a trailhead, disassembling baby joggers and strollers,... More »
By Stephen J. Lyons I found the following untitled poem while picking up trash in the city park near the picnic pavilion: “Our booze who art in mugs Hallowed be thy brew Our liquor come, we will be drunk In bars as it is in basements Give us this day our... More »
Snow is falling, but I am not in a white world. At the Anchorage airport, broad-faced natives move through the lobby with the weary look of the world’s indigenous; Pacific-rim Asians with deal-making cell phones dial home; and an Afr... More »