Dan Hintz is a photographer and noise artist based in Brooklyn. He’s also the author of The Suicide Note Collector, a collection of neo-haiku poems released by Edgetone Records and Books from Oakland. His writing has also appeared in Facet, The Vehicle, Karamu, Option, Raygun, Huh, The Wire, San Francisco Medicine, Bullet Train, Please Shut Up Madame, and Muzzle.
I. Cinnamon has been used to embalm, to sweeten, and to keep wars going. When you have never been tasted, any spice is welcome, but I’d ruin myself for a pinch of the rare thing. I traced his chest tattoo at Tipitina’s for the night; I mummified myself to wrest a year. Pliny the Elder wrote that in Rome, cinnamon bought fifteen times more than silver. It took me fifteen asks to find out I’d become a depreciating asset without knowing—but then, a depreciating asset doesn’t feel its value in freefall until it hits a branch or the ledge of a building. He called it “lunch,” but it lasted all day—I left in December, and his new stock started paying on Epiphany.
I pretended my taste was expensive so long that everything I once loved felt like dirt in my mouth.
II. Cloves share a bed well with black pepper, almost to the point where you can taste one in the other. While he did not have a taste for me that night, his hands were tired and needed holding; I was certain I had enough cinnamon on me to suggest a pleasing flavor. I wore out Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits that year but apparently skipped “Dreams” in each listen. Our every-Sunday brunch at the Market came early at the end and at night—“I texted my ex; we met up and I blew him.” I could only think of folding dampened sheets without the grace of a breeze or clothesline. He will ask me later if I think “monogamy is natural,” and it will only now register as a stupid question.
I repeated “cloves are sweet” for so long that I started using black pepper in perníčky instead of sugar and grew accustomed to tastelessness.
III. Anise star’s sweetness is often left to the whims of our faulty perception; most do not know it’s been medicine for millennia. I met her at what I thought was my best. This was enough for me—it shouldn’t have been. We found the new year three midnights in each other’s mouths, each odd-numbered. The next even year, she would become herself, and I would realize I was still in freefall—at least I’d be free of all former residues.
Perníčky are all lovable, but each one wants its particular painting, to be a star if it is shaped so; I mourn becoming a devouring thing.
[1]Nové koření in Czech—my great-grandmother’s language not passed down to me—means “All-spice,” and perníčky a decorated gingerbread cookies.
Thom C. Addington (he/him) is a queer, Catholic, rural Southern poet with Appalachian roots raised on Rappahannock land in King & Queen County, Virginia. He currently serves as Associate Dean of Humanities & Social Sciences at Reynolds Community College.
technical element introduced in the 1948 Olympics,
the woman hovers smoothly, levitates, you recall your
last time ice skating solo, a snow day impulse,
memories of watching the rink below,
walks in the park with your lover, your affianced,
freedom of being lonely, difficulty of partnering,
how in the death spiral the woman arches her back,
she circles the man’s skates smoothly,
there are four death spiral variants, a skill you wish you had,
to survive entanglement, to remain entangled,
to come off the ice triumphant, hand-in-hand
Bringing My Mother Along
Once I ran from the house
to hide from her
another time, punished, wrote on my bedroom
dresser’s side how I hated her.
What did I know? Nothing,
and less even than that.
Now I bring her with me wherever I go,
holding her hand that she may be safe.
Nora Rawn works in subrights in publishing and lives in Brooklyn. She has had pieces published or forthcoming in Dodo Eraser, Dreck Lit, Be About It Press, Electric Pink, Tap Into Poetry, Burial Magazine, Some Words, and Michigan City Review of Books. She spends too much time on twitter under @norabird.
Got too high and started imagining the kids I’m gonna have
I don’t usually think about the future of people that aren’t me
But I could see them
They weren’t much, just little scenes
unwashed kid hair and sticky breath
and myself, old, rounder
For my daughter
who had a stupid name her mom picked out
like Evangeline
I dreamed about saying I wouldn’t just love her but
would always give her the benefit of the doubt
the way boys don’t do with their women
And for my son
who was perfect
and named something big and sweet and dumb
that I got to choose
I just thought about all the baseball players
I want him to know were great
Henry Luzzatto is a Brooklyn-based writer and musician. Originally from a swamp in Virginia, his work is featured in The Baffler, body fluids, ExPat Press, and more.
as a snake vestures itself in foliage biding for prey
Finally the homecoming
Streets filled with petals laughter song
Expectant women scan the victors for their sons
hope ebbing & absconding
She sees him argentine mightier than she remembers
feels an unwelcome stab of tenderness like self-violation
On the carriage next to him her daughter alive
tears pulsating threads of red dancing in the wind
He gleams godlike within the conglomeration
closer closer— She realizes his trick:
the girl foreign not her own
Fury intensifies within her seizes her by the throat
resolve floods her gut like semen
She bids him into the tyrian river beguiling
the bowels of the butcherhouse
House ghosts nab at his feet salivating for vengeance
he wades on blind as a god to silent suffering
For ten years he has cheated death as it caressed him unknowingly
thinks himself inviolable on par with the deathless gods
But her prayers have been steadfast inerrant
& Death is generous & heeding
She spinals the blade
hones her resolve into promise:
the moonfall will see him dead
a.d. is drawn to the sacred, the profane, the mysterious and the mythological, which provides inspiration for her work. She is an award-nominated bisexual poet, writer, and visual artist, with words published in HAD, Blood+Honey, MCRB, REDAMANCY Mag, God’s Cruel Joke, HAWKEYE, and elsewhere.Meanwhile, her visual art, mainly photography and self-portraiture, is featured in Hominum Journal, Occulum, RESURRECTION Mag, Antler Velvet, Bleating Thing and other outlets. Tumblr & Twitter: @godstained
guns, glass, hate. Won’t stop shooting, biting, spitting out
splintered heads they don’t want to swallow.
Lacerated tongues which
can no longer speak.
Stuffed animal lair only
allows meat eating breeds
filled with contracting, contractual, expanding killer teeth.
Dialect of smashed windows
dragging you away.
Intrusive Obsession
Hiding in the background, then quietly limping to the side
of my peripheral vision, then suddenly racing towards my headspace.
Screaming internally then constricting
my throat with heaves and gasps and
compulsions, every membrane screaming
obsessive images about how men are looking
at creampie dripping down younger women’s thighs and I’m a boring middle aged woman his age
with saggy breasts and a heart instead of just an opening
aimed to explode in his face.
Like a Ouija board strobe light inside
my brain, this obsession won’t stop
until my head splatters.
Invisible Ink
Possible poem lines emerge in bed,
in the midst of what seems like a semi-dream/
semi-reality state, followed by internal glitch
in which a semi-truck aims to run over
my new lines or my entire head.
I thought I had managed
to temporarily sit up and
write down my impending words, but
the first pen was devoid of ink.
The second pen spit a thin drizzle
of almost invisible blood,
which soon disappeared.
When I awoke, nothing new
was on the page. Had my words ever been there
at all? I could no longer remember the words which had felt like they were writing themselves
inside my semi-invisible brain.
Perhaps it was just an illusion.
The bedside table was loaded
with hundreds of sheets of paper,
repetitive to-do lists. But no poetry.
My new lines must have been thrown away or swallowed or trapped inside the dream or else
never fully existed.
I re-entered real life,
viewed the latest news, saw death, murder, evil
worse than nightmares. Part of me wished I was still stuck in a dream. If I look away, am I acting like another dead body is invisible ink?
Juliet Cook doesn’t fit inside an Easy-Bake Oven and rarely cooks. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, most recently including “red flames burning out” (Grey Book Press, 2023), “Contorted Doom Conveyor” (Gutter Snob Books, 2023), “Your Mouth is Moving Backwards” (Ethel Zine & Micro Press, 2023), “REVOLTING” (Cul-de-sac of Blood, 2024), and “Blue Stingers Instead of Wings” (Pure Sleeze Press, 2025). Her most recent full-length poetry book, “Malformed Confetti” was published by Crisis Chronicles Press. You can find out more at https://julietcook.weebly.com/.
in air thick with lack of light deep stink of hot mammal
and stabbing breath
looped like my passage through this space
what is it we fear when images come to mind
do we sense something that inhabits rooms and woodlands
beyond exhalation
under duress
my door ceases to be mine
I crumple into an apology the bedsheets are too clean for me
when the human beast arrives it hunkers down and won’t budge
remembering the man gone mad asleep
clubbing his family to death
James Knight is a poet, artist, performer and publisher based in the UK. Publications include Cosmic Horror (Hem Press), Rites & Passages (Salò Press), Machine (Trickhouse Press) and Void Voices (Hesterglock Press). Website: www.thebirdking.com. Bluesky: @badbadpoet. Instagram: @jkbirdking.
of midnight, your ironed shirt, clover-patterned pants
sitting angular at the edge of a conceptual stare,
a concrete floor, iron bed-sit, installation.
Being, the notion of prayer,
or, in waiting at an abutment outside the Mudd Club
or somewhere else , in another outfit,
I remember your troweled performance on a couch
in the sprung rhythms of acid house.
Such memories / walk / me waking
forward
to specular lipstick on pale skin,
circular meridians drawn in cups
from a river.
To tie red hemp rope around your
waist, tautly hold down your thigh
to hook beneath the back of knees
for levitation, a shuddering radio static
meeting clustered mind, gathering up
in suspension’s glove for inertia. We ache
in de-evolution towards ancestors, the
awesome incisive markings, spine of
your bridge, arched, offering, gravity-less
spectral juxtapositions: wigs / wraps,
buttoned / in collated
collars; marginalia /collective sighing of electric
guitars in process /a novel /
pages with annotations, yes, without
you we are in for a long triage.
Hand over hand, climbing over
indelicate industrial clamor, unrolling
typewriter ribbons to erase propaganda broadsheets / smear
the news and various
other kinds of puppeteer topographies /
with spilled black ink blood.
Wandering / steps behind a
procession. At the parade grounds of immolation,
we sit on our knees, for hours / Try to
stand up straight with
a wishbone lodged in the prism of
your throat, already broken, outmaneuvered /
we were plates of glass, shattered
fragments, separated from everything.
Sometimes /planes take off from here,
on time. Even cauliflower
softens in the pan. You were once
serenaded by electricity volts, hand-held by numbers
of your fans who came to see you perform.
(new stanza)
Now / (note): I serenade your memory.
Dictate stenographic emblems
to exposed toes. I
want to shake in crescendo, howling
in a complicated realm of teeth.
Programmed noise for synthetic generative
chatter.
Titled, Music # 4: It is /
so cold outside. Never forgot
your urgency /
The predilection / to wander.
Robert Frede Kenter is a widely published writer, visual artist, performer, & publisher of Ice Floe Press (www.icefloepress.net) with work in over 200 publications published or forthcoming including: Watch Your Head, Harpy Hybrid, ballast, winged moon, ABR, storms journal, heavy feathers, petrichor, Cable Street, Burning House, Pissoir, Lost & Found Times, Blood & Honey, Otoliths, Paragraph, The Prose Poem Journal etc.. In Anthologies incl: Capitalism is a Death Cult (Sunday Mornings at the River), Speaking in Tongues (Steel Incisors), The Book of Penteract (Penteract Press). Interpoem 1 & 2 (Sedserio), Glisk and Glimmer (Sidhe Press). Select books: Moon Writing (with Catherine Graham) (Ice Floe Press, 2026), In the Blueprint of Her Iris (with Vikki C) (Ice Floe Press, 2025), Father Tectonic (Ethel Zine, 2025), Audacity of Form (Ice Floe Press, 2019). Robert was guest editor of Secrets and Lies (July, 2019) at Burning House Press and has lots of other projects on the go. Soc media X: @frede_kenter, IG: icefloe22, r.f.k.vispocityshuffle, Bluesky: @rfredekenter.bsky.social.
Laurence Lillvik (Portland, OR) is the editor of “Skullcrushing Hummingbird,” an international arts and literature zine. A new full-length collection of poems, “Catharsis Is Never Fully Shorn From Glee,” is forthcoming from Trident Press in the spring of 2026. His chapbook “Criterion” (Greying Ghost Press) was a featured small press title at Powell’s Books. His poetry has also appeared in several literary journals and DIY poetry chapbooks. Musically, Laurence is the founder of KalloHumina, an umbrella project for solo work and live improvised collaborations. He’s worked in Public Libraries for over two decades. IG: larstarts / skullhum.com
Sara Matson (she/her) is a poet in Chicago and host of the seasonal online reading series Words // Friends. Her poems can be found in Discount Guillotine, Kicking Your Ass, The Chicago Reader and elsewhere. Her favorite color is lime green and you can find her on Instagram @skeletorsmom and Blue Sky @saramatson.bsky.social.
I remembered how Leni Riefenstahl attached automatic cameras to balloons.
I want to fall in love
with a blind flower girl
who mistakes me
for a millionaire.
Even the Automobiles Here Seem to Be Ancient
Dear Cinnette, I grew tired of the world
at the Braintree split
but there’s no shepherdess in sight
the ice floes on the Merrimack look like wounded angels
Dear Cinnette, the sun’s fixed stare expresses something beyond death
I’m letting my beard grow
Let’s just say
your period
is the ultimate form of punctuation
Which one of your phone calls changed my life fuck
it
I’m raising a toast to Odin
and the beauty of Japanese volcanoes
Last I heard you hitched a ride to Salt Lake
O Madonna
of the Trail—
Dear Cinnette, Infinite Jest turned 30
Sabalenka was penalized for a midpoint grunt
I saw a woman at Stop & Stop
buying avocados
like it’s 2010
I heard Thom bit off a prostitute’s toe in Prague
I’m high on benzos godspark
Dear Cinnette Il faut être absolument modern
Did you know in 1955
Friehofer’s still used horse drawn carts
to deliver baked goods in Schenectady—
Imagine if your whole job was putting cherries on cupcakes
Imagine if our midpoint grunt went on forever.
Dobermann
If you said all I do is write love poems
I’d say I’m solving the crisis of panty lines
but that’s just another comedy
for our conspiracy
theory
age
Again the snow is scatterbrained
millions of individual
amens
and I’m thinking
about the time
we had sex at the Tate Modern
If you said it was like a love poem
featuring Rouveyre’s car and several Soviet bikers
I’d say
look at the charm of the industrial streets.
Fun is a steel bath in Mitteleuropa,
your tongue like a menacing dobermann.
MALMO
it feels very intimate, very private
being an author and a character simultaneously
like a crowd of people
at the beach
screaming shark! Shark!
Quite unlike the Oulipians
who organize their internet novels
by color
fake barn country
the IKEA back catalogue.
Dear Cinnette,
I prefer the dark arts
“So we shall take the train here to MALMO,
then get into the car
and drive home to our house,
and all the way I shall revel in,
truly revel in”
how we used to smoke
in bed on Sundays
and read The Boston Globe,
Akhmatova, Letters to a Young Poet,
the cat purring like
a bloom of chocolate,
mirrors caressing the room
and the sense of things
careening
towards
a head
still a long
way
off
like a seizure
on a boat
in the middle of the sea
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. His latest collection, Bullet Pudding, is forthcoming from Roadside Press in 2026. Recent publications include Horror Sleaze Trash, Apocalypse Confidential, Be About It Press, Revolution John, The Literary Underground, RESSURECTION magazine, and others. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net. He is a poetry editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle Literary Magazine. bluesky: @hubbsd.bsky.social
(upon reading Pasolini’s review of the Italian translation of Osip Mandelstam)
like the sun sets in motion a series
of actions let’s use the word ‘darkening’
let’s use the words ‘pre-emptive
state terror’ Lord let’s remember
mistake of merry Madelstam
too late gives back kisses lost love
of cunt tortured beyond desire
&attempts suicide after layering
perfect moustache joke memorized
perfect entropy eyes speculumed well
‘wounded’ is the wrong word now
‘monumented’ will have to do
so let’s go on knees attempt
to kiss a torso as tight
as Pasolini’s
countryside mannerisms
as object impermanent
as Lenin’s mother’s death
an old wet rope
a neck caressesd
a punchline
a snap as dull as a string of musty poem words
hope quick
hi hey
Boccaccio baby swim
pool bottom
end race boy oh boy
win ‘gain billiards
with Wilson buds from age
of buds wooden rackets from age
of wonks boozy-brilliant &binge stories
then &last night like morning
rumors like body &night arcs
&crossings like news
stations really ending no no
really ending wars
ending hallelujah
hey hey here come literally
sex w/ Bowie
whelmed by
two colors
&soft eyes of brother Terry
always with
a suicide body—
a sexy psyche—
salivating schizoid functioning
so Zurich friends
in those days wrote letters—
not instructing so much
as blowing a self
well dressed to heaven
wind
wild &caress
Sean G. Meggeson is a poet and video/audio/spoken word artist, living in Toronto, Canada where he works as a psychoanalytic psychotherapist with his dog, Tao. He has been published in a range of journals and magazines, including Antiphony, bethh,Die Leere Mitte , Ice Floe, Version9Magazine and others. He won the League of Canadian Poets Spoken Word Award in 2024. Meggeson has published three chapbooks, Cosmic Crasher (Buttonhook, 2024), ta o/j, and soma synthesis (both from lippykookpoetry, 2025). Forthcoming: a full-length poetry collection, j: poems (primitive press, Toronto, 2026) and an EP of spoken word & soundscape tracks, The Capacity to Be Alone. Sean is poetry co-editor of Blood+Honey Literary Magazine.
Burning House Press are excited to welcome Ingrid M. Calderón as the seventh BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today Ingrid will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of February.
Submissions are open from today 1st February – and will remain open until 25th February.
Ingrid’s theme for the month is as follows
___
LOVE & HATE
___
Where does love end and hate begin? As an advocate of love in all its manifestations, I‘ve often found myself pondering and teetering on the soft umbilical cord of disillusionment when it comes to these emotions. I am not alone. Love & hate are siblings, —often share a room and define themselves by the company they keep. If needs remain unmet, what changes and how fast before combustion? If disappointment isn’t addressed, love and hate begin their resentful coexistence of two high volume breeds of circuitry.
I invite you to send poetries, hallucinations, uncomfortable journal entries and artworks pulled from the depths of where love & hate live inside you.
Ingrid is a poet, seer, collagist and the solitary editor of Resurrection magazine. She resides in Los Angeles, CA
___
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
All submissions should be sent as .doc or .docx attachments to guesteditorbhp@gmail.com. No cover letter is necessary but please include a short third-person bio and (optional) photo of yourself for potential print with your submission. You may also consider including social media usernames, especially if you’re on Bluesky/Instagram– I want to promote your work!
Please state the theme and form of your submission in the subject of the email. For example: LOVE&HATE/FICTION
Submissions are open until 25th February and will reopen again on 1st March 2026 for a new theme/new editor/s.
Poetry and Fiction For poetry submissions, submit no more than three of your best poems. Short stories should be limited to 1,500 words or (preferably) less. We encourage flash fiction submissions, no more than three at a time. Send these in as a .doc or .docx file, along with a short third-person bio, and (optional) photograph of yourself.
Art Submit hi-res images of your works (drawings, paintings, illustrations, collages, photography, etc) with descriptions of the work (Title, Year, Medium, etc) in the body of the email. Files should be in .JPEG unless they are GIFs or videos, and should not exceed 2MB in size for each work. File names should correspond with the work titles. Video submissions can be uploaded onto Youtube or Vimeo for feature on our website. Send these submissions along with a short third-person bio, and (optional) photograph of yourself.
Virtual Reality/ 3D Artworks For VR Submissions, please submit no more than three (3) individual artworks. For Tilt Brush works, please upload your artwork to Google Poly (https://poly.google.com/), and mark it as ‘public’ (‘remixable’ is at your own preference). A VR/3D artwork can also be submitted as a video export navigating through the artwork. If you prefer this method, please upload your finished video file to YouTube or Vimeo and provide a URL. With either format, please provide a 150 word artist’s statement.
Non-fiction Non-fiction submissions (essays, reviews, commentary, interviews, etc) should be no more than 1, 500 words and sent as a .doc or .docx file along with your third-person bio/and optional photograph.
_______
BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing Ingrid M. Calderón – friends, arsonistas, send our February 2026 guest editor your magic!
Vik Shirley is a poet and writer from Bristol living in Edinburgh . Her collections and chapbooks include: Persona Digitalia (PhotoWorks, 2025), a photo poetry pamphlet which was selected for the inaugural P5 photo poetry series, Some Deer (Broken Sleep, 2024), Strangers Wave (zimZalla, 2023) and Corpses (Sublunary Editions, 2020). Her work has appeared in Poetry London, PN Review, The Rialto, Magma, Perverseand 3am. She has a PhD in Dark Humour and the Surreal in Poetry from University of Birmingham.
Misha Honcharenko is a Ukrainian writer based in Todmorden, West Yorkshire. Their debut novel, Trap Unfolds Me Greedily, was published by Sissy Anarchy in 2024, following their first poetry collection, Skin of Nocturnal Apple (Pilot Press, 2023). Their work has been featured in Vogue Ukraine, Erotic Review, i-D, AnOther, Tank, Worms, Manchester Review, and minor literature[s].
Burning House Press are excited to welcome Matthew Kinlin as the fifth BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today Matt will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of December.
Submissions are open from today 1st December – and will remain open until 21st DECEMBER.
Matt’s theme for the month is as follows
My Heart Is Empty: Responses to The Life and Work of Nico
Matthew Kinlin lives and writes in Glasgow. His published workst include Teenage Hallucination (Orbis Tertius Press, 2021); Curse Red, Curse Blue, Curse Green (Sweat Drenched Press, 2021); The Glass Abattoir (D.F.L. Lit, 2023); Songs of Xanthina (Broken Sleep Books, 2023); Psycho Viridian (Broken Sleep Books, 2024) and So Tender a Killer (Filthy Loot, 2025). Instagram: @obscene_mirror.
——
Submission Guidelines
All submissions should be sent as attachments to guesteditorbhp@gmail.com
Please state the theme and form of your submission in the subject of the email. For example: NICO/POETRY
Poetry and Fiction
For poetry submissions, submit no more than three of your best poems. Short stories should be limited to 1,500 words or (preferably) less. We encourage flash fiction submissions, no more than three at a time. Send these in as a .doc or .docx file, along with a short third-person bio, and (optional) photograph of yourself.
Art Submit hi-res images of your works (drawings, paintings, illustrations, collages, photography, etc) with descriptions of the work (Title, Year, Medium, etc) in the body of the email. Files should be in .JPEG unless they are GIFs or videos, and should not exceed 2MB in size for each work. File names should correspond with the work titles. Video submissions can be uploaded onto Youtube or Vimeo for feature on our website. Send these submissions along with a short third-person bio, and (optional) photograph of yourself.
Virtual Reality/ 3D Artworks
For VR Submissions, please submit no more than three (3) individual artworks. For Tilt Brush works, please upload your artwork to Google Poly (https://poly.google.com/), and mark it as ‘public’ (‘remixable’ is at your own preference). A VR/3D artwork can also be submitted as a video export navigating through the artwork. If you prefer this method, please upload your finished video file to YouTube or Vimeo and provide a URL. With either format, please provide a 150 word artist’s statement.
Non-fiction Non-fiction submissions (essays, reviews, commentary, interviews, etc) should be no more than 1, 500 words and sent as a .doc or .docx file along with your third-person bio/and optional photograph.
Submissions are open until 21st December – and will reopen again on 1st January 2026/for new theme/new editor/s.
BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing Matthew Kinlin – friends, arsonistas, send our December 2025 guest editor your magic!
Every year I’m taken there the air the light the sight of leaves drifting past without a care I’m driving in the Rockies in my old Plymouth Valiant a shade of bronze you don’t much see anymore colour of stubble fields at sundown I’m barely 23, endless Christmas trees line the highway now it’s the mountain peaks the sun is tinging pink I think I even sing (I wouldn’t put it past me) Neil Young’s Comes a time when you’re driftin’ Comes a time when you settle down – Okay, what’s this side of the road a herd of elk just standing there watching five in total the reason I recall is I write it down when I get there the cabin I’ve secured
for winter and right on cue like a movie I pull up just when it’s not dark yet but getting’ there now that song also takes me there to that door the smell of firewood stacked by the door I watch the kettle while it boils I open my notebook on the kitchen table by a window with green curtains and lo and behold I find a candle meant for emergency but at 23 who waits for that you see a candle you light it I write September 1978 on the first page
No, hold on, it’s not a notebook it’s a school scribbler dime store type, Hilroy, map of Canada on the cover timetable on the back and bottom left: 30 days hath September April June and November I write what comes to me how people in the past wrote it snowed all day baked so many loaves of bread as if it needs to be said “Saw five elk on the way here” and leave the unpacking for tomorrow
but when tomorrow comes I don’t unpack too busy sitting in the sounds of silence a woodpecker tapping in a nearby tree maybe I imagined that but I know this much is true: I set my Smith Corona on that kitchen table by the window, the green curtains and I tap too all day long tap tap tap tap into the next night and all the days and nights after that Who knows where those words are now they’re long gone but not the sound they made landing on the page not the smell of firewood by the cabin door the leaves gathering on the window ledge the candle going out I probably slowed the Valiant down when I saw the elk I’m willing to bet I did you never know if they are going to stay or if they will wander
. . .
Working from the small mountain town of Nelson, BC, Canada, Kelly Rebar has written for theatre, film, and television. After a long hiatus, she recently returned to playwriting and created two one-woman shows, both written in verse and scored with music. She also works with photographic images, old and new, and writes short poems.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 