James A. Reeves
Journal Stories + Essays Books Installations Broadcasts About

Ohio

January 5, 2022

In the far corner of the library, an elderly man sighs over a big dusty book of trees.

New York City

December 1, 2021

Cloudy skies and temperatures holding steady in the forties. The United States detected its first case of the Omicron variant today.

Journal

Feedback

It’s two-thirty in the morning, and a caravan of motorcycles and dune buggies are growling up First Avenue, their engines rattling the windows.

Journal

Breakup

Nobody died from the pandemic in New York City the other day.

Journal

Humid

We had a pleasant June for a while, but the long mean heat of summer is finally here. Beyond this, I’m losing the plot.

Journal

Invasion

Aliens could land in America and we would politicize them until they became just another round of ammo in our endless red versus blue battle.

New York City

You can see the Gorilla Dust Cloud from outer space.

They’re calling it the Gorilla Dust Cloud, and you can see it from outer space.

Journal

Phase

She made a comment about her life that seems like a solid piece of wisdom for dealing with any kind of history: “I need to look back, but I don’t need to stare.”

Journal

Liability

It’s a strange kind of whiplash, living in a society that’s somehow becoming more sensitive and cruel at the same time.

New York City

Unless people are exploding in the streets.

Tonight I’m going to play Funkadelic on repeat, dim the lights, make bad coffee, and write some purple prose.

New York City

Hope

We’re still living through a season that requires the suspension of disbelief, but perhaps it’s possible to believe we’re heading somewhere better.

Journal

Paranoia

Men with amplifiers delivered gnostic interpretations of the facial expressions of various health officials.

New York City

May 26, 2020

I’m fantasizing about a sprawling network of night markets and bazaars that reclaim the streets and devour the cars.

Michigan

Memorial

After sixteen hours of talk radio, interstate winds, and screaming into metal boxes for food, my grip on the world grew slippery.

New York City

Bell

Riffling through my small box of family memories, I came across a note written in an unfamiliar hand.

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