as a child I am sure that you were taught
that fire equals hot.
that fire equals ouch.
your mother, tapping welts into your wrists,
all for the sake of your permanence.
I can flick and switch through the widgets
of this static almanac, but for the life of me
I cannot remember my mother ever
teaching me how to play with it.
it’s as if it is yesterday, and I am there
as if it were the day before;
my three-year-old cheeks are still warm
from the building, across the street, ablaze
razed and disintegrated
work.
I was absorbed by its heat
cantering and crackling;
ephemeral destructor.
I didn’t know that it could do that.
I didn’t think that I would
swoon.
Kris Hall is a writer and organizer from Seattle, WA. He is the curator for Da’daedal and SQUASH: Beats & Books. He is also the author of the chapbooks Notes for Xenos Vesparum (Shotgun Wedding) due this fall, and Dillinger on the Beach (Horse Less Press) forthcoming in the spring.
Kelly Nelson
My Uncle at Nineteen
His Mother Writes
the Warden, 1955
Jon-Michael Frank
Funny How Time Slips Away
Not Fade Away
Jacqueline Jules
Obsolete Angers
J. Bradley
Yelp Review:
Planned Parenthood
of Greater Orlando
Yelp Review:
The Milk Bar
Amy Schriebman Walter
Hope in a Yellow Dress
Miho Kinnas
Earlobes
Mark Povinelli
Notes I
Notes II
Kenneth Nichols
The Best Writers
Bombed the SAT
John Patsynski
The Money Weapon
Aileen Bassis
Pellucid Musing
Travis Macdonald
When the Map's Crease
Becomes an Axis
and Detaches
Kris Hall
Pyromanian I
Pyromanian II
Claire Scott
Harbor Lights
Elizabeth Kate Switaj
Poseidon's Canto