Literary Magazine, publishing poetry, fiction and non-fiction in the spirit of The Great English Poet.
I never believed that Christ struck people down like his old testament father turning wives into salt. But then i grow curious. Wondering if he looks down his lovely hawk nose at a perspiring pastor in his pulpit. Spewing the song and dance of his wife being a whore. His first bride reduced to
I want to gaze longingly into his eyes… His eyes are a murky brown, not green like he wrote in his dating profile. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot. Is he stoned? Big chunks of sleep crust fill the corner of each eye. And dandruff dusts his eye lashes. His eyebrows look like the Brillo pad your
I’m making risotto. Lashings of butter and garlic sauteed. De-glazing the Carnaroli with a French white, he tells me, is made by a couple who are too young to make wine. It tastes like dry cider… aged, almondy like sherry. There is a shelf. High. Running the circumference of the kitchen. It's
Ed Ruzicka is a man who does a head stand most mornings. By 8 am he is in a small room off the patio that he framed and raised to be alone enough to work as he likes. The way that the ocular system flips the world upside down then sets it right again, is one way to see what he does. He likes to
