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It was some diner on the corner of some streetwhere we conversed sweetly into the nightthrough clouds of thick cigarette smokeand the fumes of strong, black coffee.And the dead of love came back to us that night.
We walked outside and you looked at me,you were like a doll.Porcelain beauty with brown eyes, whereneon lights reflected in the whites,and your perfect smile formedthrough rosy lips.
And under the sizzling of the neon,and the street lights that shot out theirdull orange glow going fromlightto darklightto darkand it went off like this for mileswith the sound of wheals rolling against the concreteunderneath.Carrying
» Continue reading Untitled by Dean West…
In the attic, I find my old Raggedy Andy. The more I look at it, the more it resembles Brice’s tormentor, Will. Something in the grin; the freckles seal the deal.
Brice refuses to smack him. “Come on Rice-A-Roni,” I say, mimicking Will’s voice. “You look like a little girl. Give me your bike so I can ride it, beeyotch.”
Brice frowns. “You played with dolls as a kid? Dolls are stupid.”
“Just hit him.”
Brice rolls his eyes.
Later, after teeth-brushing, we sit in my bed. He reads passages from a book, ones I
» Continue reading My Sweet Warrior by David Erlewine…
“Where did you get it?” “My father gave it to me. He got it from his father. He’d had it in storage since the war. Took it off some island in the Pacific.” “No shit?” Larry Wilson pulled the sword out of its leather case and held it up. It was still shiny and sharp. “I don’t know much about it; except it’s from the war.” John lit a cigarette. “What are you going to do with it?” “I don’t know, maybe just put it my kitchen.” “Whatever you do, be careful. That thing could chop your balls off.” John
» Continue reading The Sword by Thom Young…
My mother’s soup-bowl has a lid,And knobs on each side.
Squat, and plain, with a primitive designPainted in earth colours, It reminds me of my mother, With knobs on.
She died, Not yet seventy.Carotid arteries choked By almost a lifetime of rich food.Carrot broth in her sixties did little goodFor a woman who hated vegetables.
I recall her eating Heinz tomato soup.She supped her warm medicine.Pursed lips drew liquid from spoon –
A stilted ritual.When the last drop was gone,She put the lid on.
Now, years later, Nourishment sweltersUnder primitive earth-colours.I take the lid off, Release a spicy
» Continue reading My Mother’s Soup Bowl by Mavis Moog…
The Norse Lore Review is a hand-stitched, biannual journal of Crimean Gothic literary fiction. We are interested in reading twelve-line poems in which line three rhymes with line six, line two is a half-rhyme with line seven, and the final words of line twelve are: “entombed in the belly of a whale.”
We will also consider flash fiction about the fishing industry in medieval Iceland. We do not accept simultaneous submissions. We do not accept multiple submissions. We do not accept electronic submissions.
For your work to be considered, it must be double spaced, twelve point and written in Crimean
» Continue reading Specifics by N. God Savage…
/Avocado/Cut in twoo
Rubber ball-likeFor cow outdoor pig-moo
Hemp grass, un-fall in dikeWaning moon, lady say shoo
Cat away, take a day, mike, mikeInto the dike, out of woo
Pour the ladies, but for drankAlcooloo
/Avocado/Molested son & daughter’s daft
Regards me tells me floAnd lo up river raft
To the seat brake ocean down lowFall, fall, fall and feel the shaft.
The shaft is a yo!
About the author:
D. Porter is a student of the English language, working his way to that most useless of degrees: the MFA. Pray for him, for he is damned.
» Continue reading _Avocado_ by D. Porter…
I
Church bells ring— Coffin blues— Winter winds weep.
II
Your voice sends Centuries into my ears.
III
Poet ghosts on the tip of my pencil.
IV
Leaves crackle— Child’s arms spread— Pure bliss soaked fun.
V
Small children— Autumn park— Old man’s tears drop.
About the author:
Patrick T. Randolph and his soul-inspiring wife, Gamze, live on the Mississippi. He loves all verse, but his favorite is the sing-song symphony of his wife’s hum. Randolph is currently editing a poetry anthology on the homeless. Proceeds from the project will go to benefit Wisconsin food and homeless shelters. His first book of poems, Father’s Philosophy, was published by
» Continue reading A Story in Five Breath Poems by Patrick T. Randolph…
Mark Kuhar
Mark S. Kuhar (markk) is a writer, poet, editor, publisher, artist and songwriter. His poetry, fiction and nonfiction have appeared in many print and online publications. He has published three chapbooks: “acrobats in catapult twist” (2003); “laughing in the ruins of chippewa lake park” (2004) and “e40th & pain: poems from deep cleveland” (2006).
His work has appeared in the anthologies “An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind: Poets on 9/11” (Regent Press); America Zen (Bottom Dog Press); “Action Poetry” (a LitKicks publication); “Cleveland in Prose & Poetry,” (League Press); ArtCrimes #21; Trim: A
» Continue reading An Interview With Mark S. Kuhar by David F. Hoenigman…
Deeper green, and glowing
Show me how to look forward to these things. To see them and pursue. It is something to bark like a dog barks. It is something to wade in the snow like a chicken, lost. My hands don’t feel their fingers, and so my answers come but do not grasp the reason for their caring. Still they care. They take long baths and watch the mud run without spinning down a drain dead center between a world where I breathe under water, and a world where water is the substance of my skin.
Daresies : Backsies
» Continue reading Excerpt from In this alone impulse, by Shya Scanlon…
Timmy: Can you tell me about Kitchen Sink Fabulism? I take it that this movement is a heavy influence on A Jello Horse.
Matthew: Someone else used the term to describe my writing. I think it was coined by Kelly Link. My sense of what it means is this: a kind of approach to writing that marries the concerns of domestic fiction and the imaginative impulses of the fantastic, the fabulist, the surreal. All of these categories are slippery and imprecise, though. Sort of like when a person distinguishes literary fiction from genre fiction by saying that literary fiction is
» Continue reading An Interview With Matthew Simmons by Timmy Waldron…
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