Outskirts Dog barks echo through hollowed-out buildings, a thin strip of blue at the horizon. Tufts of straw rise up between thrown-out boards, while swifts arc and dip in a single wave. The bleating of an old pickup drowns out “I never promised you a rose garden” borne aloft by a kitchen radio. Barn cats flash blue-gray eyes beneath stripped elms: black arms above plow parts, sheet metal strips. The people are the kind who inhabit outskirts anywhere, their frost-tinged faces weary of all weather, they and the cats a remnant waiting to be gathered up. Mark Maire lives on Duluth's west hillside. His poetry has appeared most recently in the Minnetonka Review, the second issue of PRØOF Magazine, Slant: A Journal of Poetry, and on Northern Community Radio. :: play it again :: These thoughts of mine, chained and wailing for expression, never seem as profound as they fall mangled off my tongue. Jozef Conaway, often mistaken for a wight, is a writer and musician from the heart of the Iron Range.
Chained and wailing for expression, they reject simplicity as they fall mangled off my tongue. To understand is an illusion.
One time, he beat the world record with no witness.
They reject simplicity but for fleeting, epiphanal moments. To understand is an illusion, beautiful and terrifying. But, for fleeting, epiphanal moments, these thoughts of mine-beautiful and terrifying-never seem as profound.
PRØOF Magazine's third issue explores the relationships that exist between music, art, and literature.