Fogged Clarity Podcast

Musée de Préhistoire des Gorges Verdon The good cave. Tucked up in the cliffs of Verdon, Prehistory, where-we-come-from. That’s you Shucking snails with a stick. That’s me learning To hide under a hide, naked. The progressive Abandonment of relative chronologies. The slow Sedimentary drip of turquoise minerals, ancestry. Thus each excavation phase is a reflection… More

I was doing something wrong with my life. In the highlands sunlight outlined the lodgepole pine Making a black absence in the blue sky The exact shape of a pine. Let me sketch for you The red cedar alone in the lower dark With its sash of moss woven from pure-green Filaments of age, or… More

From there you could see the whole town: tear it down. Tear it down. -Mike McGriff To preserve the town, first turn your back on the world. Lose yourself completely. Then begin to undress in a creaking hotel where the floorboards each speak resonances to you, & their shifting makes clear your small town tectonics.… More

The camp counselor’s voice was sun-shot molasses—invite the light, she said, so I let it ebb up my knuckles and elbows until warmth washed over my entire torso like sunset on a pocked brick wall, and I became that light—sort of—face up and afloat on the chapel floor. Gong rung, I was the last camper… More

My guts gurgle under my hand; yes, a place to hide, yes . . . When the sun sets in the west, the river shines all the way across. News travels: a clown, a man whose job was kids’ parties, shoots himself at his ex-wife’s house. It’s summer, too hot, all the parking lots and… More

We should admire Rambler roses, so resilient their vines green what was bare ground in a single season, then scale up and overtake trees, strangle whole canopies, if we can stand our own sort. And prize Redbreast sunfish, that flash a brilliant blood color. They breed in streams native trout cannot survive now because the… More

There will be sweat at the back of your neck seven months out of the year. That’s true, that and an ugly history too. At least, in the South, the Ice Age never quite passed through. I can say that while glaciers scraped the North clean, here there was only a little winter. From the… More

I can almost touch her cheek in this London train that jostles us together, as time jostles back and forth between us on her phone, the videos she plays as if only she can see them. Here is a nightclub, here a pool, a cluster of girls in a mosque’s courtyard, now they’re clutching each… More

Award-winning poet James Kimbrell discusses form and disorder, bait shrimp, and how Florida's Marianna Caves helped shaped his conception of time in this exclusive audio interview. More

Hear two songs from songwriter Samantha Farrell's new album "September Sun" amid a conversation on black holes & beauty. More