In reply to your last message, I’m writing you from the Drowned House under the lake to your Burning House in the internet because the Gas House makes me tear and vomit upon entering and the Buried House remains unearthed. It is my understanding that you wish to send handwritten letters and postcards to fictitious persons from alternate Earths. Surely, you and your world is considered no less fictitious to them. But I will nonetheless humor this futile exchange—serving as your mercurial postman. Closely following my guidelines ensures that each letter and postcard transfers effectively. However, beware of the errors made by the techno modernist zealots. They cower at the wellsprings of decay, of terms and limits, of the tangible artifacts and palimpsests in which handwritten letters and postcards are baptized. Do not give into their weaknesses, and, moreover, do not try to stage our already counterfeit means. Continue reading “Handwritten Letters to Fictitious Persons from Alternate Earths – Elytron Frass – March 2019 Guest Editor”
THE MIND AS PRISON & ASYLUM EDITION
FEBRUARY 2019 GUEST EDITED/CURATED
Burning House Press are excited to welcome ADRIANNA ROBERTSON as our FEBRUARY 2019 guest editor! As of today Adrianna will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of February.
Submissions for Adrianna are open from today – 1st February and will remain open until 22nd February. Continue reading “February 2019 Guest Editor Is ADRIANNA ROBERTSON!!! Theme/s: The Mind As Prison & Asylum”
BY BOLA OPALEKE
Our Photo artist for the month, Amanda Ollinik, supplied almost all the featured photos used(except for two or three). She is as prolific as our poetry/fiction contributors, and very well take her talent seriously. We are grateful to her and her partner, Lydia, for making the month as photogenic as it can be. Continue reading “Featured Photo Artist – Amanda Ollinik”
The Artisan’s Defense
He’d blame the desert if they ever found him. Golden sunsets were wasted on him, made his eyes dry, clouded his mind. He saw no signs in the horizon, no maps to promised lands. The desert was for prophets, men without a trade, who could do nothing but lift their clumsy hands to the sky and then coil upon the ground, savoring their shortcomings before G-d. Continue reading “The Artisan’s Defense – Hege Jakobsen Lepri”
Lend me your ears; I am telling you stories. My cave is empty. I have nothing else to give. There is a mountain in Norway called the Storebalak, where, in March of ’86, an avalanche ate 16 soldiers. This is known as the Vassdalen Incident. Consider the number 16. Consider the numbered dead. This was of 31 of them. Consider the avalanche merciful. Consider I am telling you facts now. Let it be known this is a history. Who Continue reading “Water Witching – Jamie Hood”
Faith Is An Egg With A Thin Shell
Faith is a word I hold in my hand, safe in my palm, enclosed by the nest of my upturned fingers. Take faith to the lips: said, spoken, delivered, a birth of song spills from a secret mouth. If you speak faith, the five letters advance with an F, stridently like a French ‘fanfare’, a lawless, troubadour’s marching band. Then the word melts in the wind of aaaith, an elongated, rushing sound. Faith closes with the delicateness of th. Place the tongue, feather-light, by the teeth. Faith, faith, faith.
Rilke said, “Have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you Continue reading “Faith Is An Egg With A Thin Shell – Susanna Crossman”
Joshua Palmer is an artist and writer pursuing an MFA at the University of Pittsburgh, but he is from Texas the way windmills, dirt, and Dairy Queens are from Texas. He is currently doing research for a manuscript about a gay bathhouse fire. His poetry has appeared in SPF LIT MAG, Spectrum Culture, and Popula (forthcoming). You can follow him on twitter @gummybrzpalmer.
Featured photo credit: Amanda Ollinik @Allunderonemoon
Tape tacked on a lamp
Post. “I” spray-painted
On someone’s lawn.
A raised book casting
A shadow on the pulpit.
Perplexed by flyer, home-
Owner, priest. Continue reading “1. Mark Making 2. Mistaking the Parts for the Whole 3. Point of View – Elisa Taber”
Lucidity At The Edge Of The Abyss
his father brought him to me in his arms and i said
“forget those doctors my friend take this clay in your hand and your hand
will move again”
and it did (his hand did move again) (doctors said there was no chance) (what force gave me the nerve to say)(same force that gives me this day cancer leaping through this body as it is all laws pale to insignificance)
death is my friend take me any time says i Continue reading “1. Lucidity At The Edge Of The Abyss 2. Afterlife Of Battered – Bobbi Lurie”
Preachers On The Street
the thing is
they have guts enough
to believe in something.
to go that far;
standing on a streetcorner
screaming at strangers. Continue reading “1. Preachers On The Street, and 2. Burning In Crowded Places – DS Maolalai”
Music Number Four: Talus Deposits
When grandmother died, mother turned off the lights. From a high rise I see across harbours. Veins on your nose. A snapped rose.
This is a scree.
The roads are filled with transistor radios. Playing Springsteen songs. Here comes the night: American neo-troubadour melodies.
the funeral, of course, took place after Friday night Sabbath. Continue reading “Music Number Four: Talus Deposits – Robert Frederic Kenter”
Martin and the Sea
Dusk had fallen long ago and a cold biting sea breeze was humming a sweet melody as the sea waves crashed on the formidable sea wall of Georgetown. It was almost pitching dark. Martin sat on the sea wall looking at the incoming waves laughing under the yellow tail of the moon hidden behind a dark curtain of clouds. He walked slowly on the broad edges of the wall, watching little boys hauling a seine along the shallow shore line. White egrets nibbled at shrimps in the salty mud holes on the broken mud flats, lovers passed by holding hands in the thin whisper of rain. He kept a lonely vigil on the Continue reading “Martin and the Sea – Gideon Cecil”
It is winter, suddenly, and Agnete is stuck inside her cottage. She is running out of preserves. She is bored. Sometimes Agnete wishes her husband would return, but alas, he is locked away. He may even be dead. Most of the time she is glad to be rid of him and his sharp teeth and breath like rotted wood. The snowfall came as a surprise. It is only the third week of September, after all. The white blanket has obscured her captor, and Agnete does not know the protocol of escaping a fairy ring one cannot see. Continue reading “Quiet Wife – Erin Vance”
I am a stranger in this place
& grief’s white teeth leave
its bite marks on my skin:
the relic of a child left in the
cold hand of an estranged city,
alone. I am a stranger in this city
& family dinner table is a strange Continue reading “1. Testimonies 2. When the Rainbow Falls from the Sky 3. How Things Look Back – Ifeoluwa Ayandele”
When the Show Must Go On
my magic sparks
but doesn’t light
it is not so
your smile spreads
pretty, mine splits
a parlor trick
you pull a dove Continue reading “When the Show Must Go On – Trina Young”
i am full of children i do not want
If every girl/daughter is a seed, what will that seed become? What plume, bloom, or vegetation?
muck-in-my-gut // ghost-white and beloved // give me a disregard for neighbors and sirens
Maybe it’s true, that “the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.” That the seed of her being is a blue-bell blueprint, genesis of genes, traumatic histories and memories mapping destinies predestined, societal soldering of gender-norms, which she inherits. Continue reading “‘Daughter-Seed’ by Arielle Tipa – reviewed by Miggy Angel”
The Easter Sunday My Faith Strayed
A thurible swung solemnly
voices sang for risen King
and sweet incense was billowing.
Prayers of the Faithful asked
help for Syria,
comfort for their suffering.
As I spoke, “Lord, hear our prayer,”
the holy smoke
grew strangling. Continue reading “1. The Easter Sunday my Faith Strayed, and 2. Lost and Found Still Lost – Carrie Danaher Hoyt”