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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

Author

Jaisha Jansena

Judith Taylor: Cinderella upon Remembering Bruno

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Cinderella upon Remembering Bruno

 

Her hands

down by her sides

 

Also her drink of choice

and how she speaks to

the bartender

 

Her subtle, slow

I’ve got all day

burn

Continue reading “Judith Taylor: Cinderella upon Remembering Bruno”

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ReVerse Butcher: This is not a violin, it is a doorway

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This is not a violin, it is a doorway. I know this, because I read a lot. My notes and references are usually very detailed breadcrumb paths. But, as Brion Gysin said, the mice can get into the larder of language (and I add to his point, memory). And, well… I have no control over legions of mice.

“This is is not a violin, it is a doorway.”

Continue reading “ReVerse Butcher: This is not a violin, it is a doorway”

Loretta Oleck: Over the Threshold

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Over the Threshold

 

We laugh like newlyweds

as you carry me over the threshold

into a house rife with the spirits

of former tenants-

 

a lonely caretaker, a childless couple,

a single mother-

 

their DNA peeling off the walls

like chipped paint.

Continue reading “Loretta Oleck: Over the Threshold”

Christina Tudor-Sideri: PASSING THROUGH THE HOME OF THE DYING

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Tachypsychia. The word we use for defining the neurological condition which alters our perception of time. Time lengthening, time moving slower, time contracting. A blurred vision of time as response to a traumatic event. Time as a collection of unrelated passages. Time as red lines on the temptation to exist. Time as well-captured intentions, the same throughout all journeys. Every inked reflection, a paradise lost. Continue reading “Christina Tudor-Sideri: PASSING THROUGH THE HOME OF THE DYING”

Josh Myers: Proper Entry and Exit

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Proper Entry and Exit

 

After Listening to “Canvas”

 

One must know what it is to be in and out. How to properly enter and exit. “Properly,” not in the sense of the bourgeoisie or uppity, but in the sense in which Robert Farris Thompson wrote about. Writing as he did about the ways we be.

 

There are ways of being in and out.

 

But how to enter and where to be once inside and how to decide when to no longer remain—what makes those decisions, those moments?

 

Can we ever reach the inside without entering?

 

And can we reach the outside without exiting?

Continue reading “Josh Myers: Proper Entry and Exit”

Susan E. Gunter: Composition: Mixed Media

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Composition: Mixed Media

 

I paint to learn what my eyes barely see,

things hidden to me: cast shadows, a latch,

my mother’s ghost floating behind the drapes.

 

I study the image I shot, its hues and patterns:

copper door, stained windows, the stone of walls

and sun faded stone, the blur of a doorway’s curve.

Continue reading “Susan E. Gunter: Composition: Mixed Media”

Daniel P Callanan: Thresholds

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I was thinking about Brutalism, cattle and passage tombs. Form, currency and death.

Walking the fields of North Cork and the headlands of Galway, casting cow-sheds as signs.

Homes for people, now homes for animals. Cycled forward by occupation, migration and forecasts. Radio broadcasts. Concrete and local stone piled into walls, supporting cold tin rooves. Corrugated steel. Cheap and functional, galvanised wave forms. Tin, iron and zinc combined and beaten thin. Weather resistant not weather proof.

Continue reading “Daniel P Callanan: Thresholds”

Dov Nelkin: 6 doors and One Slammed

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My brother’s childhood room and mine connect through paired doors, at three different points. Walk out my room and and ten paces would take you to my brother’s door, next to the AC control, across from the panic button. We also shared a bathroom, each room opening onto the sinks where we would brush our hair, or teeth, or forget to, side by side. With both doors open, you could have seen from pillow to pillow if you tried hard. Continue reading “Dov Nelkin: 6 doors and One Slammed”

Tucker Lieberman: It Does Not Matter Who Put You In the Cocoon

It Does Not Matter Who Put You In the Cocoon - by Tucker Lieberman Continue reading “Tucker Lieberman: It Does Not Matter Who Put You In the Cocoon”

Dan O’Brien: 3 poems

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Forty-One

When

You wake

From sleep

 

You wake

From death

You know

Continue reading “Dan O’Brien: 3 poems”

M.J. Iuppa: 2 poems

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Every Hour Hurts in Fall

 

By now, you have adjusted to time’s addition, waking

without alarm, your body’s sudden jolt of electricity—

 

your toes and fingers wiggle—eyelids flip open to stare

at the ceiling’s cold.  You’re still here.  Isn’t that crazy?

 

You want to get moving before you hold still, before

you find yourself between the flight of day & dream.

Continue reading “M.J. Iuppa: 2 poems”

Adedayo Agarau: 3 poems

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EXIT

 

on being broken / like shards of withered glass / my body

repels every music its soul makes / i close every door i

can’t walk back through / by this i mean i keep memories

in a box of cigar / god tells me i am a chapel Continue reading “Adedayo Agarau: 3 poems”

Emma Stevenson: Growing, Up

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Growing, Up

The grass lies hungry, waiting

to swallow up water, worms,

seeds.

I scatter them. One by one

they are plunged into the

dampened fingers of fertile

earth,

Continue reading “Emma Stevenson: Growing, Up”

Ben Gedaliah: Room 168, the Hotel S-

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Room 168, the Hotel S-

The door opens to a married man, a single bed.

You’re not here, but your presence is everywhere. The bed is meticulous, signs you’ve been here are subtle, imagined, your outline dimpling the duvet, just a trace; Continue reading “Ben Gedaliah: Room 168, the Hotel S-“

Bill Van Dusen: A manhole is a kind of door

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Continue reading “Bill Van Dusen: A manhole is a kind of door”

Rebecca Loudon: Portal

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Portal

Strange goings on today televisions walk in and out the door pills spew from the cat’s mouth
here take your medicine fox at the door yip yips pit bull chews a piece of Wonder Bread the skull
of a boar on the table the boy reaches through a hole in his bathroom floor the door is open the
window is open Continue reading “Rebecca Loudon: Portal”

Aditya Shankar: 2 poems

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Isle of Brooders

From a jail in a far off island, boats arrive to

deport the sad. Grieving blood is tasty like the

legend of vanished rivers: an Acheron emptied

out by thirsty souls. Continue reading “Aditya Shankar: 2 poems”

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