where’s this splace
what’s where’s this place this space this place, you ask, having once lived in water, kicking & dreaming, then on one daybreak dropped from planet uterus, yes, the planet that you can never go back to. now all grown up, an uprooted plant from earth, acrophobic, you do not do the sulking & screaming anymore, but your cognitive dissonance is obvious from your frequent wtf is this & wtf is that. stranded in a rubber plantation one dusk you catch yourself speaking suddenly in fluent malayalam. where’s this place. lost in thar desert another noon you surprise yourself speaking in rajastani. Continue reading “Two Poems by Ahimaz Rajessh”
The transparent eyelids of Los Angeles. The whole show of human sense … celestial mechanics suddenly unemployed … language makers with superior intellect … everyday sexual occurrences inside the supermarket … secret visions stymied by the cerebral systems … an endless sky … dead arms flay about in a great storm … the feint flash of a sticky … heavy rain. My ghastly face … these hots days … these telegraph wires … this Continue reading “CERTAIN MOTELS / MOTEL SOFA by Shane Jesse Christmass”
I begin with a drone.
I begin with the reflection of my face as I sing to the framed photo of a volcano erupting.
I begin with my mother—how, this summer, as we drove through the humidity and jasmine and river-smell (not quite fish, not quite algae, not quite salt) she told me I had a twin who died in the womb.
I decide she’s a sister.
Ghost sister. I begin with a drone and narrate from the voice of the ghost sister,
…………..ghost double. Continue reading “Auto- by AM Ringwalt”
Καρδιά. Kardiá. The heart. We think of it ruling emotion, when it was the ancient physician Galen who thought the liver was where passions lay. Maybe this is truer than we think—I go back again and again to the idea of drinking to countermand heartbreak, drowning one’s sorrows. Diana Vreeland telling the story of how Clark Gable locked himself in a room with a case of whisky after the death of Carole Lombard, Jean Rhys’ protagonists—the grimy, hard-learned wisdom of the café and those endless fines, pretending to be light-hearted when all the while you feel it throbbing, on fire in your throat; the Sisyphean act of swallowing beats as you drink your memories…
Note on method: This poem was composed by laying a string over 4 prepared
panels on which were haphazardly arranged pages from various texts.
The string determined the words used and in which order they appear.
We have been in the ground where all the dead lie but Kay is not there—
From The Snow Queen—Hans Christian Andersen
She floats now among the little torches
sipping on sour sloe gin
that sets her teeth on edge—
in this forest of lasers and hanging lights,
in this party that doesn’t exist—
She thought she would find him
but she seems to have lost herself
in the sheets and mirrors and slides
Burning House Press are excited to welcome YANINA SPIZZIRRI as our SEPTEMBER 2019 guest editor! As of today YANINA will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of SEPTEMBER.
Submissions are open from today – 1st SEPTEMBER and will remain open until 23RD SEPTEMBER.
YANINA’S theme/s for the month are as followsContinue reading “SEPTEMBER 2019 Guest Editor Is YANINA SPIZZIRRI!!! Theme: ALTERED STATES”
VOICES EDITION AUGUST 2019 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY JAMES KNIGHTContinue reading “VOICES EDITION AUGUST 2019 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY JAMES KNIGHT”
Tone wakes in the middle of the night. A breath breathing on his neck. At first he assumes it’s Flint’s fitful breath. He must’ve joined Tone in bed, stretched across the arc of his back, his snout behind his head, his nose close to his ear. A grumblevoice. A shifting of weight.