Grilled Cheese

ExploreLog inSign up
Terms of UsePrivacy PolicyCommunity StandardsHelpGet the app

Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-11 02:37:10 EDT

Explore

PostsPeople
LatestRanked
@jajobi.bsky.socialOct 6, 2026, 9:12 PM

Also available in print, alongside 98 other queer nature writers: alocasia.org/2025/05/01/j...

(Details on the mag’s website)
#twopageplustuesday

@tomsnarsky.bsky.socialOct 6, 2026, 3:22 PM

for #twopageplustuesday today, with gratitude to the Wayback Machine, here’s “A Kentucky of Mothers” by Dana Ward:

Our love is god. It’s really touching. Sometimes I think that I’m just in the way. So Derek, anyone what do you say?
@tomsnarsky.bsky.socialSep 29, 2026, 7:56 PM

today for #twopageplustuesday, another poem by Carl R. Martin: “Poe ambling through streets of Baltimore in the drunk election crowd/ or the donkey whose tail stands up, his profile that belies the moon. […] I have no promises to keep except to love & die & dream,/ to tend the dryads in the trees…”

PERCHANCE "Ambling with intent not pursuant to criminal acts." Poe ambling through streets of Baltimore in the drunk election crowd or the donkey whose tail stands up, his profile that belies the moon. In a rooming house for single girls Poe's silhouette is on the block. Winter is cold, protectors scarce, "romance" is not in command. Milk is pay. With heads unshorn the poor are "beastly dead" whom horse-drawn hearses ferry out among the witching trees. The donkey's head is on the block, resurrection is his fate. Branches drift within the sky; bloomers are hanging in the trees softly blown in wild, earthy directions home. The woods are gentle, dark, and deep, and I'm forever half asleep since I discovered midnight's seams where truth's awry. I have no promises to keep except to love & die & dream, to tend the dryads in the trees who are far lovelier than leaves and do not hold to chopping wood. I know these ethics seem at fault, but think of such adventurers that made the ruddy Hudson seem like some dense Amazonian stream in oils that may yet amaze, somewhat restored, a bit less crazed. Even the dream must suffer art, a meticulous eternity through privileged forays of the brush where wild birds treat the canvassed slough with soothing chemistry and song (excuse the Brit vernacular) and grant it lasting threads of life. Mark Twain became the white-haired cigar-wielding swainwho preferred his Hartford sitting room, exclusively by Tiffany, and did not hold to chopping wood. Perchance to dream: fleetingly obscene and thoroughly American.Rogue Hemlocks by Carl Martin
@raymondgibson.bsky.socialSep 22, 2026, 4:38 PM

@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
#twopageplustuesday

George Oppen

@tomsnarsky.bsky.socialSep 22, 2026, 2:20 PM

🥀 www.farwestpress.com/far-west-boo...

#twopageplustuesday

Romantic Abjection by Danielle Chelosky on Tom’s bookshelf
@tomsnarsky.bsky.socialSep 15, 2026, 7:55 PM

Brigit Pegeen Kelly for #twopageplustuesday

ISKANDARIYA It was not a scorpion I asked for, I asked for a fish, but maybe God misheard my request, maybe God thought I said not "some sort of fish," but a "scorpion fish," a request he would surely have granted, being a goodly God, but then he forgot the "fish attached to the "scorpion" (because God, too, forgets, everything forgets); so instead of an edible fish, any small fish, sweet or sour, or even the grotesque buffoonery of the striped scorpion fish, crowned with spines and followed by many tails, a veritable sideshow of a fish;instead of these, I was given an insect, a peculiar prehistoric creature, part lobster, part spider, part bell-ringer, part son of a fallen star, something like a disfigured armored dog, not a thing you can eat, or even take on a meaningful walk, so ugly is it, so stiffly does it step, as if on ice, freezing again and again in mid-air like a listening ear, and then scuttling backwards or leaping madly forward, its deadly tail doing a St. Vitus jig. God gave me a scorpion, a venomous creature, to be sure, a bug with the bite of Cleopatra's asp, but not, as I soon found out, despite the dark gossip, a lover of violence or a hater of men. In truth, it is shy, the scorpion, a creature with eightIn truth, it is shy, the scorpion, a creature with eight eyes and almost no sight, who shuns the daylight, and is driven mad by fire, who favors the lonely spot, and feeds on nothing much, and only throws out its poison barb when backed against a wall — a thing like me, but not the thing I asked for, a thing, by accident or design, I am now attached to. And so I draw the curtains, and so I lay out strange dishes, and so I step softly, and so I do not speak, and only twice, in many years, have I been stung, both times because, unthinking, I let in the terrible light. And sometimes now, when I watch the scorpion sleep, I see how fine he is, how rare, this creature called Lung Book or Mortalnow, when I watch the scorpion sleep, I see how fine he is, how rare, this creature called Lung Book or Mortal Book because of his strange organs of breath. His lungs are holes in his body, which open and close. And inside the holes are stiffened membranes, arranged like the pages of a book — imagine that! And when the holes open, the pages rise up and unfold, and the blood that circles through them touches the air, and by this bath of air the blood is made pure ... He is a house of books, my shy scorpion, carrying in his belly all the perishable manuscripts — a little mirror of the library at Alexandria, which burned.
@raymondgibson.bsky.socialSep 15, 2026, 6:48 PM

@tomsnarsky.bsky.social
#twopageplustuesday

Guillaume Apollinaire trans. Roger Shattuck

@tomsnarsky.bsky.socialSep 8, 2026, 11:13 PM

happy #twopageplustuesday from Tim Dlugos

YOU ARE THERE Wake to rain when phone rings, it's a man I went to bed with in another city, says parade was cancelled again. New year. Knives in throat from smoking dope for first time in a year at party last night. Smoke dope in Terry's apartment, listen: just because it's Dylan taking me out again doesn't mean that things can be the same. Oh no. Cry of tiny man who opens door to tiny room in my heart after a long vacation. The dust clears and the light is steady. Don't take this seriously. You make me feel brand new. I watch you get fucked up, lose touch; you're gentle and you're beautiful, it's 1972. Iť's 1973 and I pick you up in a bookstore for ride home; you have to buy a scarf in Georgetown. Freezing day. I didn't mean to put this down so soon, I wanted to lead up to it, take the streetcar to the top of the hill, coast down to the intersection. Still too bad, too serious. It's tough they only give respect to straight-looking men. It's New Years in the little luncheonette.I want you to know how fine you looked. I tell you things I haven't told anyone else. I am in your bedroom, I am learning to write. You open your the photograph collection of your past can be limitless; the process is to slice each section of your history thinner and thinner until you are left with one fraction of a moment so clear-the raindrop halfway down the pane-that you can live through it again, so perfect in detail that you can watch your image breathe. Love and death meet here. Click of slide tray on the carousel. Love and death meet here. Shine light through situation and the colors aren't right, like my father's first attempts in basement darkroom. Koda-color, 1954: toddler under arbor in the public park, facing bright green flowers. I never talked to flowers the way Ted Greenwald can. TIM DLUGOS. 175On mescaline in 1970, I understood the trees for the first time, still do. The clumsiness of love, the slow awareness of where the roots are, of what the roots absorb. Naked hand palm up in air, no breeze. The sun bombards your skin with energy. You are there, and the announcer with sad eyes, holding back the excitement in his voice, tells you You Are There, but the reinforcing wall inside his throat is too weak, his voice cracks and the pure excitement surges up into the hatchway of his face, the mouth, past white teeth in one strong current, straining toward the outer world it overflows into, coloring the waves of sound that break upon the ears of millions with the colors of the manic and totally new. And it is our history, yours and mine, that draws this out, that causes such a pressure in the throat of the man with sad eyes.A Fast Life: The Collected Poems of Tim Dlugos, edited by David Trinidad, in front of a crewel-embroidered lion