Judah Rubin

Judah Rubin is a doctoral candidate in English at the CUNY Graduate Center working on a hemispheric history of the Americas, 1970–2000. He is also the author most recently of Antiquarian Historiography (Oxeye Press, 2021), and the editor of A Perfect Vacuum. He lives in Queens, NY.

By this author

The subterranean baroque of Roger Santiváñez

From 'Homenaje para iniciados'

What war, huh?

From 'El chico que se declaraba con la mirada'

From 'Symbol'

Poeisis: Kings in the Chaos

Uncollected poems (2019)

The leftover letter is the missing one

Political violence in 'The War with Chile'

The language of the Kloaka

Recently in Jacket2

Digital Poetics 2

Not Your Father’s Confessionalism

William Lessard

A blank text field. Oblong. With rounded corners. It is our refuge where we are free to say almost anything. Some treat it as a mail slot to dispatch their most personal thoughts. Others leap across it as a stage where they become a different person. Or a heaving jumble of Pessoa-like heteronyms, or what most people call trolls. Most of us troll without noticing, or we perform for clicks with a keen understanding that what we type (however non-factual) conjures data about what we are. An armchair existentialist might say the space mirrors the void inside us.

In Memoriam: Jerome Rothenberg (1931–2024)

Jacket2 Editors

How do you begin to describe the many lives of Jerry Rothenberg, who passed away on Sunday at the age of ninety-two? His output as poet alone, or translator, or editor, or anthologist would be enough to secure his reputation for the ages, and yet he excelled in all those areas and more with equal brilliance, fervor, and prescience.

Jerome Rothenberg: December 11, 1931 – April 21, 2024

A reflection from Amish Trivedi

Jerome Rothenberg

Well, we’ve come to our end here. Somehow, in the hundreds of hours of phone calls and emails and late nights and breakfasts after, Jerry and I had never once discussed what might happen to this space once he passed away. We have even published a number of obituaries for friends of Jerry’s over the years. I’m not entirely convinced, sitting here writing at 3 a.m., that Jerry thought I’d be left with this task — and not the other way around.