Italics Will Never Love You By J.D. Mersault Part One: Interior Monologue Grammar is a subject about which it is easy to be pedantic, especially for those of us who study or produce literature. These days it comes with the territory—it’s difficult to get through one of the brick-like, doorstop novels of the post-modern canon without being able to navigate the minefield of grammatical style within, not to mention the similar feat required if you want to write one yourself for some reason. Yet when the craft of writing seems to count for less and less each day in the face of declining publisher revenues, disturbing global political trends, and the omnipresent twitter bot, a nitpicky focus on grammar could be seen as at best gauche and at worst distracting. Nowadays, even mentioning the proper position of a comma, semicolon, or apostrophe outside of the lecture hall or editorial meeting is the fastest way to roll an eye. And do you think Tao Lin cares, between taking hits of acid at his New York …
The pain unleashes itself in hues of yellow, black, and crimson. The breaks between contractions are ephemeral.
Feelings are tyrannical – they can’t be mapped. Ironic, since you were holding a map for the journey ahead, too proud for GPS.
Online exclusive – “The area was supposed to be green again by 2053 but that was almost a decade past.”
Published in 26.1 – “There is thrill in the moment before you wake up, and with it an awareness that life is simpler here.”
A poem by Max Layton