Philosophy and Poetry are not bedfellowsThey are beds.The toaster is a marvelous thing.How many dead toasters fill the land? A billion? A gazillion?Poppa John Mistic walks into a barHe orders a pint.Slowly, he dips his beard into the glass.Donut stout. Wax and suds.The word STINK is tattooed to his neckA plane crashes into his neckWhen […]
Toaster Poem, by Nathaniel Krenkel Keep Reading »
There is a haunted house. It is made of whalebone, of mammoth bones, of overhanging cliffs and caves. It has carvings on the bones, and deep in the caves there are aurochs painted on the walls, the small handprints of women. The house is inland. It is next to the ocean. It is on wide,
Older, by Octavia Cade Keep Reading »
Bring the Meteor to the Skeleton Christopher asks, “In modern times, what precautions are taken to ensure that someone is not buried alive?” Very few, I’m afraid. None of our standard caskets come with emergency bells or breathing tubes, and the cement vault or grave liner would impede rescue. For the typical modern burial, the
Ask a Necromancer, by Amanda Downum Keep Reading »
I’m not having eyes anymore, but still I’m seeing him visit that wretched body, day after day after day. Time is not having meaning anymore, but he’s coming every time before sunset, via that little shop on Roosevelt Road. I can tell because he’s carrying a blue shopping bag that I’m imagining stretching tight across
The Time I Watch the Foxes Drink, by Jonothan Pickering Keep Reading »
After “Here I Am” by Martin Espada She slides into the Hammerstein Ballroom, gorgon at a monster’s bash, styling and profiling.Brass hands like Isotoner gloves clawed with brass tacks.The vamps vaping vixen necks ease off, mad scientistsmathing at stray ears ease off, the organ stops grinding the way faithdies in a Catholic church when the
Gorgon. Chemotherapy. Party Time., by David Arroyo Keep Reading »
Among the strange happenstances and peculiar mischances of ancient times is the story of a dervish in Ghazni who dwelt only among the dead.
A Dervish among the Graves of Ghazni, by Tanvir Ahmed Keep Reading »
for Aunt N— My dear ant comes to me in dreams. Because she’s so small, she can make a tiny hole in my cerebrum. My dear ant offers me a glass of water. She thinks I need to be softer than bones to breathe. My dear ant is learning to exhale—it is this close to surrender. My dear ant asks me to sing