Tag Archive
The Cantos
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
& I realize 89% of Americans die
in a hospital. Or so I hear. Or
so it goes. & my
lost friend gasps in a waiting
room. I guess I’d. »
The Produce Aisle
Poetry by Laurel N.
Do not buy the lettuce
those frothy topped leaves
are festering with bugs.
Soft-bodied caterpillars follow
their jaws dragging their bulging
green weight. Imagine. »
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. »
Features
Poems by Jake Sheff
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. »
Call for Interviews: DO Talk to Strangers
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. »
Poems by Lauren Schmidt
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. »
Megan Hildebrandt Talks Art, Humor, and Cancer at 25
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. »