What Direction Now?

Life at the intersection…

What Direction Now?


Recent posts

Midwestern offerings of culture (Dear Shadwick 9)


Stow the baggage, sir, and table the rhymes, we have no space for drama now, in these times somehow the sighs sound seismic, gratifying and never failing to signal the end of breath, this one and the next death will be telecast in profile, in shadow, fallow play against the puppet type with backdrops of blood and tears in the fabric of decency which was never real to begin with, be honest, in...

Whenever you’ve a mind to (Dear Shadwick 8)


Plaintive past the point of understanding, beyond logic, after all the cogs rust through will the clock in its obsolencence still be beautiful, silence without function, arms without a hand, fingering the junction between the last moment and this one is for the finders, for the binders bound by fate and time for faith is long gone, on and on and once I heard a parable about a broken pitcher...

I thought that was what you wanted (Dear Shadwick 7)


Look, I’d like to say I’ve never been hooked on anything stronger than food, but you can see right through me now but not before, opaque with waiting, with baited breath caught up all too soon, I know you could use a hand or two but all I can spare is a fingertip, a fine blip this is on an otherwise blank radar, lousy with quiet, mopped-up brow moping in the rain, coping all right...

Like a Secret Smile (Dear Shadwick 6)


Stand out but don’t stand up, send the supper eaters away to digest what you’ve said but not what you mean, leaning against the wall, always up and out against that wall, all the boys will notice is the fair lady in the middle, even while the little pricks pant and whistle, weary words will never come to me, or you, or she could be the one or another, bother the bushwhackers with...

Hidden underneath the fiction (Dear Shadwick 5)


Call me manic, man, and I’ll show you what prowling panic looks like, pawing, growling, claws hooked in beneath the skin, sunk and shook, blood under the clothes, I wonder what my father would think to know I spend so much time bleeding, bleeding, bending beaten breaths into a recognizable shape while the heated drip drip drip runs thick down my chest, this is not what a man is meant to be...

Drifting sideways (Dear Shadwick 4)


My mind wheezes, lurches to unsteady feet, these days vertigo is my closest friend, cruel and thirsty, all consuming, all the rumors of my demise are only slightly right, no, I did not die in the accident, I walked away fine enough, and yet still here I am in a limbo of my own making, this road-side purgatory resisting story and impulse to flee, of course I know I’m free to go, sir, but oh...

A stronger man, for all I know (Dear Shadwick 3)


I could have sworn that this cup was full of decaf even though I never asked for that this zap won’t keep me up long enough to write the devil out of me you know those old cartoons where a devil and an angel sit upon the protagonist’s shoulders pleading their particular desires the secret they never tell you is that in the landscape of the human brain there are only devils no angels...

I thought I had my finger on the pulse (Dear Shadwick 2)


New breath, less weight, less of me to worry and worry about and hurry now because you never know when the drive will end, when the great regaining will commence, will the sense of things ever start making, start taking the ready remedy rather than waiting for the real one, a stowaway stolen away steeled against the coming knife blow, nice how the show holds the curtain until I’m able to...

A city boy before (Dear Shadwick)


Provider biding time to ride the rails in search of need, heeding little warning signs to mine the fine line fractures between skull plates and pate and sated with weighty graciousness, giving feeling like potato sack needs, bleeding into air, beaded drops blending with bees, helium heavy and floating fine in between breathing heedless people, seeding into brain stem and interstitial DNA...

All My Surrounding Sounding


Down for good, or better, but never out forever, not as long as lungs hold air and let it out again, not as long as brain holds cliché back for not even one moment before firing toward fingertips, slipping from synapse to synapse with no resistance to speak of, no tongue to say, No, tongue to call its own and only, one and lonely one and the same way the good leader leaks the lessons through...

What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

About Andrew.

Andrew Cartwright grew up in Indianapolis, IN, but has lived over the years in such places as Denver, CO; Fairfax, VA; and Rivne, Ukraine. He is a former nonfiction editor for both Indiana Review and phoebe; he has also worked for the intersectional feminist journal, So To Speak, and the national literary magazine, Electric Literature. His work has appeared in The Normal School Online, Copper Nickel, Esquire Ukraine, Literary Hub, and Word Riot.

For more information about me and links to other writing, visit my author page at cartwriter.com