July 20, 2018

Meditative Elements: The Poetry of William Doreski

Meditative Elements: The Poetry of William Doreski

A Postcard from the Ether The first shy dusting of snow looks too naked to threaten us with its pale, indefinite motives.   It can’t elide our visions of banana trees flourishing many-fingered hands of fruit   in suburbs littered with wrecks of nineteen-Fifties Chevys and Fords. It can’t erase our dreams of melons   bowling down sky avenues broader than aircraft carriers. It can’t persuade us that songs   about summer moonlight swelling the hearts of dancing couples can’t snuff the laugh of the dead   still standing where we left them. The eagle we saw yesterday cruised over the river,   scanned for fish and fended off the racket and teasing of crows, reminded us how negative light   falls in sheaves despite the grace and curvature of one’s narrative. The snow changes…

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July 14, 2018

The Fictional Cafe’s 500th Member!

The Fictional Cafe’s 500th Member!

Last month – actually, the day before our fifth birthday bash on Facebook – the Fictional Café membership rolls hit a magic number: 500. Therefore, we would like to introduce you to Zipporah Kuteesa, our Number Five Hundred member of the Fictional Café Coffee Club! Zipporah was kind and gracious enough to grant us an interview. Read on! FC: Please tell us as little about yourself, Ms. Kuteesa. Z: I live in Entebbe, Uganda. I am 20 years old. I am a student pursuing a B.A. in Mass Communications at Uganda Christian University-Mukono. I work with a humanitarian NGO called Mercy Hands Uganda. FC: Are you a writer, an artist, or media auteur? What do you create? Z: I am a writer, but I also do other forms of art like painting, songwriting, music, and others….

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June 26, 2018

Seasons, Identity, Longing: The Poetry of Emily Ellison

Seasons, Identity, Longing: The Poetry of Emily Ellison

    AS a leaf autumnally As a leaf autumnally pitching in wind, I am ravished by the airs of your mouth. Tumultuous I fly, bending, more corrupt with every spineless form of sin. I collapse continually, again.   With ancient hands you seasonally pour decay in my ripe buds, for, on Earth’s floor, I’d received too much tenderness of skin, more than you care to comply with. Veiny contempt spirals with pollen as a new variety to lovemaking, and hands stretch empty, brown. The petulant stem I am quakes, grainy limbs forming foliage of impiety. As your leaf, I toss like a mind in sundown.     anonymity how you do reconcile the dying breath of the flickering fluorescent young? their waning lights of ecstasy throughout weekly hazards are simulations of warmth. the impoverished…

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