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Rumpus Articles
A Collection of Hours: Look Here by Ana Kinsella
Reading about flânerie is a “useful” thing for me to do: useful for my career, for my scholarly ambitions. Actually partaking in flânerie is rarely useful in these ways
Rumpus Original Fiction: Mycomorphosis
“Everything looks good,” the neurologist said. The hairs on his head, she couldn’t help noticing, resembled plump white beansprouts—they stood from his scalp as if fat with water. His fingers too. “The only thing is that you have extra fungus in your head.”
The Dream Does What It Wants: Talking with David Santos Donaldson
. . . I advise any fiction writer who can afford it, to an get a Jungian analyst . . .
What to Read When You Wish You Were Heading Back-to-School
The Rumpus editors put together a list of books for Virgo season
Voices On Addiction: SALVE CAPUT
I wished I knew a word for the green of moss right when it starts up freshly in spring. I would lie down on it and roll around. I would pray to it. I would sing its name.
RUMPUS BOOK CLUB EXCERPT: SUZUKI IN LIMBO BY LUKE DANI BLUE
An excerpt from The Rumpus Book Club‘s October selection, Pretend It’s My Body by Luke Dani Blue published by Feminist Press October 18, 2022 Subscribe by September 15 to the…
“I Was Born to This Poetry”: The Book of Mirrors by Yun Wang
I hear the gossip of flowers / insatiable in their lust / Consider the cages that are our bodies
We Should Be Embarrassed by Most Things: An Interview with Leyna Krow
I think that is the dream—to have such a strong voice that people know your work as your work.
Under My Kilt
It’s heavier than I thought it would be, and stiffer. The cotton drill fabric has the feel of an army jacket. The snaps and clasps and buckles have a certain…
Rumpus Original Fiction: Breaking Through
I read somewhere that sounds don’t stop, they keep going all the way into deep space, reflecting off whatever might be in the way and speeding infinitely on. My head feels like deep space, and those voices haven’t even begun to wind down in there.
I Am No One’s Graveyard: An Interview With No‘u Revilla
Sometimes a poem is a rock, and sometimes rocks turn into flowers. And no matter how many poems I write about aloha and decolonial futures, they may still try to kill me