Nonfiction

Systematic Removal and All It Leaves Me

Poetry by Joey Connelly

…

I am. no other gods. name in vain. Thou shalt not. Thou shalt. Remember the day. Honor. kill. commit. not. Thou shalt witness. covet.

I am. Remember. Commit. Honor. Witness.. »

Sleeping in on Sunday

Nonfiction by Tisha Reichle

I missed mass again. Third Sunday in a row that grading papers, cleaning the apartment, going for a bike ride, or watching football have been more important. After more than thirty-five years of being Catholic, I am ready to. »

Sleeping Over

Nonfiction by Chris Wiewiora

The week that Lauren and I broke up, my father had slipped an envelope through the cat door sawed into the bottom of my bedroom door. A sticker of a mockingbird sealed the clasp. The front read: (to read after you’ve had your coffee and are. »

What I Didn’t Do for Sam

Nonfiction by Kevin Rabas

Spindly Billy, with his black leather and chains, had me up and pinned to the top lockers. He was about six foot in seventh grade. They had Sam, his head bobbing in the toilet, as they hung onto his head and hair and dunked him. When he was up for air, Sam yelled, “Help, Kevin.”. »

A Candle in the Dark

Nonfiction by Cj Hayes

It’s cold outside, blustery and nasty—the way that makes joints ache and allergies flare up. Pollen from the redwoods has been painting parked cars green all week, making a sickly mossy mess when the rain inevitably falls. Even now, my head is plugged with the microscopic drift of a dry afternoon.. »

Nights

Nonfiction by Amanda Lee Hickey

1. Take two orange slices and a few sprigs of mint.

2. Squash them together for a few seconds.

3. Add ice.

4. Add one packet of sugar.

5. Add one part Grand Marnier.

6. Another part orange vodka.. »

Another Fake Princess

Nonfiction by Christopher Lowe

1.

All I remember clearly is Super Mario Brothers. Looking back now, I can’t recall who from our family came into town aside from my cousins, Toot and Tonner, who helped us set up the brand new Nintendo. I remember sitting on the hardwood floor – slid as far back from the TV as possible to save our eyes – while relatives and neighbors and friends of the family weaved through the controller cords, talking about my father in hushed. »

Three and a Half Weeks

by Geoff(rey) Line

Trucks are a rigger’s temple. I am in a temple, a Chevrolet I-don’t-know-what, trying not to nod off to Ozzie Osbourne’s yells fused with metal guitar. “Let me hear you SCREAM like you WANT it.” Leonard, the driller takes one of the four turns on the fifty minute drive—a hasty brake and thrust to accelerate. “Let me hear you YELL like you MEAN it.” I strain my eyelids open. Leonard steers through the sunrise—premature crow’s feet round his Oakleys. In the passenger seat, Nate our goliath derrick hand, holds a coffee mug with a massive calloused hand on his knee. Beside me, Muscles, the other roughneck, rolls down the window he’s used to ash his butts past a slit, and lobs the first of three empty Red Bulls to the deserted Alberta highway. Artificial wind blusters through as Leonard rips 140 K to the site. Oil. »

The Energy Engine of Buddy Wakefield: Arguably the Most Successful Spoken Word Poet on the Road

I did the math and realized if I get $50 to $100 bucks a night plus sell chapbooks, on average I’m going to make a hundred dollars a night which is a ten hour a day, ten dollar an hour job with no taxes taken out. I won’t have rent because I will be living in my car, so I’ll be making just as much as I already am, with my college degree. And living out my little dream, my little delusion of rock star grandeur, um…as a poet. So I just did it. I booked it two months. »

Our Best of the Web Nominations

The Splinter Generation is pleased to announce our Best of the Web Nominations for the last year. A big thanks to all our contributors, and a special congratulations to Amber Sparks, LaToya Jordan, and Timothy Marsh!

We’re going to take a well deserved break until the New Year, though we may be posting a bit here and there.. »

Saying “I Do,” en bleu

by Sarah Landenwich

Planning a wedding can at times seem the equivalent of pawning our mothers’ burnt bras to finance a boob job.. »

Douglas Kearney Discusses the Page Versus Stage and other questions from The Black Automaton

I wanted to go back to the lab, and try to write poems that would demand the eye, demand a reader. And not only demand it, but reward it.

I’m not even going to lie to you; I want to be a poet people remember.

It is totally possible that one day I’m going to feel I’m sick of writing about black face and minstrel shows, and race, and I will write a poem about seeing my wife coming out of the swimming pool.. »