New Page 1
Volume I, Issue
..:: POETRY ::..
..:: PROSE ::..
..:: ART ::..
..:: REVIEWS ::..
..:: ARCHIVES ::..
Volume I, Issue I
Volume I, Issue II
Volume II, Issue I
Volume II, Issue II
Volume III, Issue I
Volume III, Issue II
Volume IV, Issue I
the antique guile hat
Jeremy James Thompson
roof we had built with my father was built of oven doors. He
lined them promptly as if to patch a hole. He was my brother.
I was his sister and so I cut my hair. Brother's father was
much like mine with hands to wave a brick at teeth to crack a
safe. Neither could say what had become. So forth right was
their exit that he and I drew near but thought against what
might and often happened. Chance had it. We knelt in one in
the same chapel our knees without intention lips pursed
pursued by giants. My imagination grew angry. Even our roof
fell below the fury hot as iron baked the feathers off the
geese. Left a feast in the rain. Sure enough the table was set
again and again until when. And then without the luxury
without the dawn a cock busted through the pantry which was
the kitchen which jerry rigged for a mattress and a coat rack.
I remember potatoes and what the dew doesn't touch. All
internal some edible and those without an appetite. All
internal some edible and those without and appetite. All
internal some edible and those with out an alibi. I will not
speak out of turn. I will not speak out of turn. I willn't
ought not peek through the ferns. I willingly saw thought