Why do we continue to leak celebrity nudes, berate Weiner for his sexting problems, and yet continue to do these very same things in our own homes?
Summer is the season of sticky things: sticky skin, sticky drinks, sticky melodies.
Yet in reading translations of contemporary poetry written in non-Western languages, I’ve noticed that they often feel the same. These poems feel… translated.
We like glitch because it’s a little bit messed up, just like us. It’s taking the parts that we might consider mistakes or flaws and illuminating them and saying, hey, this is beautiful.