Rumpus Original
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It Doesn’t Mean Very Much At All
I was tired of endlessly explaining that sex work could be empowering and could be exploitative, but that most things in life could be either of these things as well.
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OG DAD #17: These Things Happen
Even now, transcribing the chunk of New Dad convo from my notebook to my computer, I feel like drilling a hole in my skull and pumping Purell inside.
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THE LONELY VOICE #23: It Doesn’t Fit, It Will Never Fit, It Fits
Of Jean-Claude Van Damme, Haiti, and V.S. Pritchett…
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The Rumpus Interview with Joy Harjo
Joy Harjo is a craftswoman of poetry. Her poems are constructed with such precision and graceful narration that I don’t consider them to be mere poems, but sermons.
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Deep Throat #1: On Being and Unbeing a Singer
When I shut my mouth I lost a part of myself so ingrained, so accustomed, so integral I had not even known it was possible to lose it.
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FUNNY WOMEN #94: An Actual Missed Connection
This is a missed connection, and as such I am very sorry that our connection was missed, or maybe I’m not, I don’t know, because I’ve never met you.
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The Rumpus Interview with Ayize Jama-Everett
Oakland-based novelist Ayize Jama-Everett sits down to talk notions of family, growing up as a sci-fi and comics lover in Harlem, and Tupac Shakur.
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Nick Cave Monday #23: “Hard On For Love”
It was 1994. Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds were performing The Fillmore in San Francisco. I was crushed against the stage and Blixa Bargeld strummed his guitar in front of me. Midway through The Bad Seeds set I summoned…
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The Rumpus Interview with Lars Iyer
If Laurel and Hardy stumbled into Mike Leigh’s Naked, the result might resemble writer and philosophy lecturer Lars Iyer’s novels.
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THE RUMPUS INTERVIEW WITH ERIN MCKEOWN
McKeown’s crowd-funded new album, Manifestra, is a dizzying ten-track blend of political blues and party songs, featuring radio-friendly handclaps, a New Orleans-style funeral march, and a jam she co-wrote with Rachel Maddow.
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Placenta Previa
The only time I can stand the sight of the bouquet of bullshit is early in the morning, before I flip on the lights. In the dark their perfection is only imagined, not confirmed by sight. This eases the edges…
