“Kafka ‘toyed’ with death to the extent that his great writings may be seen as a sort of highly imaginative rehearsal for the end of all things: little suicides, if you like. Metamorphosis is the most vivid — the saddest, most ghastly and unforgettable — of them all.”
 — Some thoughts on what may be the 20th Century’s greatest work of short fiction.

9. In response to a Chinese man saying he’s Chinese, man says “Then go stand in front of a fucking tank.”

8. Man shaves his Frank Zappa mustache.

7. Men are confused about how a woman could be attending a workplace harassment class, encourage her to talk about how she likes big dicks.

6. Gangster says of a woman calling him a gangster, “You know I don’t like that word.”

5. After blaming man’s fertility problems, woman admits she can’t have a child because she’s had too many abortions.

4. Man says “sexual harassment is a political tool.”

3. Wife who was raped says to ex-husband, “That ruined everything… ruined you.”

2. Man says, “The enemy won’t reveal himself, Raymond. Stymies my retribution… it’s like blue balls in your heart.”

1. Man says alone in his car, “One day you might ask yourself what the limit is to the pain you’re experiencing and you’ll find there’s no limit at all.”

I’d like to think that this week couldn’t be any worse than the one we just went through but even I am not that much of an optimist. Nothing gets better, and “better” is set so close to the bottom bar already that any real improvement wouldn’t much matter. It’s all terrible from here on out, plus it’s going to be hot. This song is good, though. Sadly, that may be the only upbeat news I have for you today. Or ever again. Enjoy.

★★★★★ A happy exclamation of a morning: Cool! Dry! Bright! Little whitecaps flipped over on the Hudson. A reek of solvent pervaded the block where a crew was shining the brass canopy of a Trump building — until the moment one passed upwind of the doorway, when it was utterly gone. The breeze pawed at clothes with the avidity of a lover too long away returning. Leaves ruffled and flashed like ball-gown sequins. The relief was slow to reach the stifling depths of the subway platform, but by afternoon it had gotten there. Fresh air and the pulse of a helicopter carried through the open apartment window. The colors in the distance were sharpened and intensified. Only Times Square station, irredeemable, still sweltered in the night.

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

Venus smiles

Michalle Gould’s first full-length collection of poetry, Resurrection Party, was published by Silver Birch Press. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Slate, New England Review, American Literary Review, and elsewhere.

You will find more poems here. You may contact the editor at poems@theawl.com.

“Is it utopian to believe we’re on the verge of an evolution beyond capitalism?”

If your surly employer won’t recognize your Friday desires, rise up. Make the Rockaways your Wainscott, make Point Pleasant your Point O’Woods. There is nothing hotter and therefore more summery than to seize and repurpose the habits of your oppressors. Let us all be houseguests in the parlor of privilege. Maybe someday the master’s tools can dismantle the master’s summer house. They may not have one for long.

Summer Fridays are most likely on the way out for two reasons: Old media can’t afford them, and new media won’t allow them. This summer, Condé Nast’s Friday workdays in the World Trade Center will end at 12:30 p.m., ‘‘business needs permitting,’’ as the memo put it. (Beware, the coffee bar will close at 3 sharp.) But good ol’ Time Inc., Condé’s soon-to-be neighbor, canceled its summer Fridays as of last year. Sanctioned hooky and layoffs don’t pair well.

The kicker to the end of summer Fridays is, of course, that the people who live the in “parlor of privilege” full-time won’t be giving up their residency anytime soon.

Photo by Eve Chan

“There’s no actual reason Gawker shouldn’t devote itself to straight-up doxing, dark gossip and bad deeds.”