Chicago Review

An international journal of literature, interviews, and reviews. For academic audiences.

Articles from Vol. 39, No. 1, Winter

An Interview with Edward Dorn
was saying, many explicitly called themselves anarchists. Among poets there seemed to be this sense that capitalism was obviously no good, but if the two alternatives were going to be American capitalism and Stalinism, they weren't buying either one....
Antonio in Tijuca
Striking from the road, Antonio tracked the snaking rumor of brush-sunk trail that scaled Tijuca's jungled slopes, taking hand holds and foot holds in the banyon roots fat with the hot day's tireless drippings, slipping in sandals over mossed-slick ruts...
Assemblies
I've had this same dream so many times. I've stopped having new dreams. Now I dream the same few dreams over and over. Most of them relate to things that happened to me when I was young. This dream for example has to do with the loss of my eyes. It's...
Breakfast
What shall we say of her? Why not call her a somber dowd? I would call her that affectionately, for one may be such a thing here, at this time of day, with grace and impunity. You will notice that her eyes are narrow, not the peepers they will be at...
Noble Rot
smile when he said it. "Isn't it strange how that happens," Butler said, racking the balls in no particular order, the eight ball on the outside left, which bothered Charles. It felt wrong there, a puncture wound, a morbid ulcer, a negative space, a...
Old Man Watching the Storm
I turn a hundred ways toward a few plain objects which turn from me. Forty-one days of drought, then this. I pull the tarp over the rabbits' cages, roll up windows. My time and the time of objects split. Across the hedgerow my neighbor sits amid the...
Phantom Love
Pablo Neruda, what were you doing with a lap full of orange peels, sitting in the rust colored stratolounger that someone, during night, put into Lake Michigan? You reclining head back, feet up, catching the white waves splashing like spaetzles all around...
Reminiscence of a Distant Exile, or, Song of Houston
Some people see the autumn colors and feel sad. The place I'm from, a summer sadness's what it has. The half-developed no-man's land I used to walk in a new Sears suit from the Cotton Exchange to the bank carrying deposits, my first summer after high...
Wabi
In Portland, Oregon, where it doesn't rain several dozen days a year, people know the odds and leave their windshield wipers on when they park their cars, and deep puddles rarely form on streets planned and planed for wetness, and the rain, as if in...
White Dogs
When Sophie was just barely five and I was a year younger we lived in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont in a white Georgian house on a hill. One afternoon in late spring our mother put valium in our ice cream, then finished off the bottle of pills with...