This is no longer your father's American conservatism. Who gets to define it in 2021?
Lying in Bed with Me
This poem appears in the Summer 2016 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.
I love you standing near the fireplace
in your little black Coco Chanel,
or dressed in your uniform at second base,
or hailing a cab with a bottle of Zinfandel.
I love you walking the beach at Barnegat Light,
or strolling the aisles of the grocery store,
or barefoot in the clover fields at night,
or up the steps and through the cathedral door.
I love you sitting asleep in the library chair,
or watching a western at the Paradise,
or sitting in your boudoir combing your hair,
or dining at Vinni’s with a pizza slice.
I love you lying in your hammock sipping tea,
or, best of all, lying in bed with me.
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Two Tales of Low Culture
Upper classes who once prized Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring now esteem no art higher than rap and Miami Vice.
Art for the Country’s Sake
Can immersion in great literature prevent American decline into a brutal empire populated by shallow, servile citizens?