Listen to Barry Goldensohn reading this poem. On a dirt road, a paper-thin dry thing like a black parchment cut-out of a toad in mid-leap, partly sideways, drawn by a master, now boneless, as if it never had bones. Only the tough skin survived the flattening by one of the rare cars here. Poor unwary thing. How much of us will last, tough, stiff, cured by summer sun. Our better towels outlast our flesh. Are Nazi lampshades holding up? Shrunken heads? Mummies? Count on bones. Stone monuments. A few poems.
TODAY IN SLATE
The Budget Disaster that Sabotaged the WHO’s Response to Ebola
How Movies Like Contagion and Outbreak Distort Our Response to Real Epidemics
PowerPoint Is the Worst, and Now It’s the Latest Way to Hack Into Your Computer
Everything You Should Know About Today’s Eclipse
An Unscientific Ranking of Really, Really Old German Beers
Welcome to 13th Grade!
Some high schools are offering a fifth year. That’s a great idea.
The Actual World
“Mount Thoreau” and the naming of things in the wilderness.