something like a love-song lurched across the room
and my heart was less than a dried-up crust of bread
the night pavement moving me far
from any place I could call home sweet hotel
oh the mexican belly dancers crying nada nada
oh the feisty mice with delicate feet and
the black wind cold as a hearse
advertising allows you to choose said the billboard
in god we trust said the money in the pocket
of the three-fingered man asking hopefully
can I buy you a drink honey.
About the author
Janice D. Soderling is a wannabe time traveler. There must be a better warp to live in. A previous contributor to Literary Bohemian, she…
Read the full bioIssue 11 · January 2011
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Ars Longa, Vita Brevis by Joshua Michael Stewart
- The White Village by Daniel Aristi
- [PostScript] by Helen Vitoria
- Raising the Dead by Ian Khadan
- Nashville by Janice D. Soderling
- Navigation by Donna Vorreyer
- Instead of a Hand Feathered by a Fountain Pen by R L Swihart
- Cologne by Rick Mullin
- Two Poems by Ani Gjika by Ani Gjika
- Manifest by Lisa Ortiz
- Market in Marseilles by Stephen Harvey
- Postcard Prose
- The Well by Annabella Massey
- Long Distance by Arlan Hess
- Midnight Voices by Matthew Zanoni Müller
- Travel Notes
More from The Journal
- Postcard Prose
By Kelly Hill
Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
- Travel Notes
By Sandra Larson
A dinosaur dangles over my grandson at the Field Museum near a pink thumb that pops into the prom picture of my granddaughter dressed in strapless red leaving her house in Medina …
- Travel Notes
By Megan Hallinan
The bill in question is actually a 2,000 West African franc note, and it’s the equivalent of about four U.S. dollars. A helpful sum, really, but as I clutch the weathered crinkle in my sweaty palm, its value feels as dirty as the grime that is undoubtedly being transferred to my fingers.
- Poetry
to Egg and Berry brewery, to the pack / of Czechy words I made but didn’t work / in this pink town. I’d readily go back / to your best spots, the unfired gun, that perk //
- Poetry
By Jason Warren
And if the neap tides of my beauty / sadden him, I cannot help it: / I hang high, the waxy night light …
- Poetry
By Anastasia Vassos
Three thousand ancestors ask how I straddle / the sea, a foot on either shore. //
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose