Magazine | October 29, 2018, Issue




Past and future stored away
Under seat and overhead,
Arranged by letter, row, and tray,
Between gray dawn and solid morning,
Our avatars display no dread.
The instruments could not be clearer:
All systems go, no signs of warning.
In Kansas skies the fuselage
Is buffeted by turbulence.
The window’s oval (wing and prop)
Fogs like an enchanted mirror —
Then lightning hits us and we drop
Electrified with holy terror
Under the thunder’s blank barrage.

Stripped of screens, of pads and pods,
The subtle thread of time unravels
In shrunken space that leaves the will
Cornered, graceless, forced to be still,
Forced into line to be destroyed.
It dawns on us we’re doomed if God’s
Native mercy never travels
Faster than the falling odds
Or fastened to the frames of sense.
But now the pilot’s voice relates
An unexpected confidence;
Instructed by the elements
And intimacy with the fates,
He steers a passage through the void —

Delivering our names and dates.

In This Issue



Books, Arts & Manners


Most Popular


An Idea for Student Loans: Get Rid of Them

Here is a three-part plan for something practical the federal government could do to relieve college-loan debt. Step 1: The federal government should stop making college loans itself and cease guaranteeing any such loans. Step 2: It should prohibit educational lending by federally regulated financial institutions ... Read More
White House

The Problem with the Mueller Report

So much for collusion. The media conversation has now officially moved on from the obsession of the last two years to obstruction of justice. That’s because the first volume of the voluminous Mueller report, the half devoted to what was supposed to be the underlying crime of a Trump conspiracy with Russia, ... Read More
White House


Some of you will be familiar with a lefty, partisan Democratic organization called MoveOn, formerly MoveOn.Org. It was founded during an investigation into President Bill Clinton’s shenanigans (which were not, Democratic mythology notwithstanding, strictly sexual in nature) and argued that it was time for the ... Read More

Screw York Yankees

You are dead to me. You are a collection of Fredos. The cock has crowed, you pathetic sniveling jerks. The team I have rooted for since 1965, when I first visited the House that Ruth Built, where I hawked peanuts and ice cream a lifetime ago, watched countless games (Guidry striking out 18!), has gotten so ... Read More