by Jackson Arn This could all be circular. Not self-swallowing like the staircase from the poster, I mean circular as in smooth rows of endless smooth stacks perpendicular to pain, touching on a plane but only one, so air bubbles and grains of sand left in the loaf remember their orders and lend a noble…

by Jackson Arn When Harold Haber was released from prison, he found out why nobody had visited him in two years. His brother, sister, mother, father, grandmother, uncle, and cousins had died. He and his grandfather were the last two Habers left in the country, maybe the world. His grandfather was 89 years old and…

by Jackson Arn   I: Bubbles   Not knowing they’re impossible, they slip through geometry or fitting, go squarish where they must, kissing the rainbow mouths to right-left-up-down from here to death.   Bathing in clones, each holds, with skin and neighbors, a secret breath.

by Jackson Arn Brutal Aesthetics, the second volume of art criticism by Hal Foster to come out this year, begins at the close of World War Two, when the human race was fine-tuning some clever new ways of killing itself. Nuclear war; totalitarianism; genocide on an industrial scale; the gnawing despair of living with all…

by Jackson Arn Slurs have a way of mellowing into labels. History is full of Yankees and Cockneys, Methodists and Jesuits, Whigs and Tories, who steal a term of abuse and apply it to themselves as an act of sardonic revenge. Sometimes the tactic works too well, and people forget that the word was ever…

by Jackson Arn You are waiting for me to do something. I can tell because your eyes have the look cheap mirrors get when the edges rust and curl and there is nothing to do but throw them out. You’re powerless, yes, but at least not alone, if that makes it better. In fact your…

by Jackson Arn It used to be the guilty fantasy of theory bros and voluntary beggars. When turning points expired or wavered they’d hold it to their chests at night, a Molotov they didn’t dare ignite: Could revolution, usually so plodding, be brought about by some proud, precise Nothing? By standing very still and thinking,…

by Jackson Arn Writing seriously about comedy is a thankless challenge. Only an idiot, or somebody who’s used to thankless challenges because he’s a freelance critic, would bother. The risks are high, the rewards low. Overanalyze your subject and you’ll kill it. Treat it too indulgently and you’re left with a jumble of second-hand bits.…