Adam is dead and I eat Greek yogurt in my office between classes.
Adam is dead and I reply to emails requesting recommendations.
I purchase Iron and Wine tickets for their November show on South Beach.
I buy Band of Horses’s “The Funeral” off iTunes and Adam is dead at twenty-two.
Adam is dead and the Yankees win another. »
by Niki Selken
You know how it feels to write or make a first draft of something, then rework it until it shines like the top of Chrysler Building? You know how you kind of want to burn that first draft, so that no one will. »
Poetry by Elaina M. Ellis
1.
Can a free-write about marriage be free or is it an oxymoron?
Marriage begs payment: pay for the husband to take the woman (cow)
off the hands of her father, as father grows tired of the girl-gone-woman (cow)’s
need to be fed?. »
Poetry by Janette Kim Larson
oblique sermon in the strip mall
man dressed up as pizza
arms restrained beneath
soft
beige
polyester
such lust. »
Lisa McCool-Grime
Senior Poetry Editor
Synthesis: This is not so much an act of combining as it is an act of harmonizing. Which parts of the previous drafts have shown themselves. »
I hear Ezra Pound croaked
without making a sound.
No last rasp as his crooked
legs crashed. I hear your aunt
passed. I apologize. “I am nothing
but bereft for her.” This is a chant
&. »
Lisa McCool-Grime
Senior Poetry Editor
In this series we have thus far presented a long, action-loaded rough draft and then a total scrap-and-revise, tanka-inspired revision. This week’s installment is a list. »
Why I’ve got today
This niggling feeling
Like I’m The Principled Nazi
Lieutenant With a Conscience defending
A downed RAF pilot
Of pure shamrock Irish stare
(And this for fookin’ nuthin’:
He’ll die, of course he will,. »
Lisa McCool-Grime
Senior Poetry Editor
Tanka is a Japanese form that can be roughly approximated in English with five lines using a syllabic pattern of 5-7-5-7-7. When I first began working with. »
Poetry by Whitnee Thorp
On Sundays we’d go over,
my grandmother and I, to see her ex-husband,
my grandfather, at his apartment a block away from ours.
On Sundays, the typewriter
would be in the. »
Lisa McCool-Grime
Senior Poetry Editor
In 2007, I was visiting my friend Owen at his art show: portraits on the grandest scale done in aerosol on 8′ x 8′ panels. It was. »
Poetry by Nikia Chaney
lie to him, listen
to the hummingbirds, lay
in bed a bit longer, laugh
and pretend to hate the smell
of heat and. »
Inner villanelle of a father-to-be without his Xanax
Father-to-be, you are not a villain.
Hell, black bile does not blackball from mating.
But you know, they’ll be your children. »
The Splinter Generation is now accepting submissions of interviews with people you wouldn’t ever talk to. Find someone you wouldn’t ordinarily meet, or someone you disagree with on almost everything and have dinner, or a drink, or an email exchange. Record it, transcribe it, edit it down, and send it in.
Why? Remember when you were. »
Her Name is Sarah
When Randy drifted in for dinner with her baby
tangled in the rosary scars of her arms,
pressed against the dust of her breast,
everyone wanted to see. They softened
their eyes, their smiles, the way people do
when they look on a baby sleeping,
a baby who has not cried in two days,
a baby whose eyes ooze. »
Being diagnosed with cancer and experiencing chemotherapy at age 25 dramatically changed the priorities and course of my work. Prior to this illness, I made narrative-based images about local history and my neighbors. Now, the stories in the work have emerged directly from my own body and memory, and the history is my own. »