by Edward Anki
review by Mark McCawley
by Edward Anki
BareBackPress, (November 24, 2014)
$8.00 US pbk | $10.06 CDN pbk | £4.97 UK pbk
46 pages, 5.25″ x 8″, Poetry
Remote Life is Edward Anki’s debut poetry collection, published by Hamilton-based independent publisher, BareBackPress, whose aim to publish “writers who aren’t afraid to take off their gloves and bare themselves, giving the world honesty. Truth we may not like, but are forced to accept…providing readers with an entertaining emotional elevator ride.” Read more
by Rebeka Singer
“Untitled Still of Video Poem Project”, Copyright © 2015 Stasja Voluti
Here’s my soul. I’m giving it to you. Do you want it? Will you take it? I don’t care for it much anymore. My soul never gave me much. And now here it is: I’ll curse it out. “Every inch of my tar black soul,” Lana sings. That’s mine. Thank you, Lana, for making tar black souls sound soulful.
I watch a Harry Potter film each night, sometimes two in a row, either the same, or two separate films in the series. I drink champagne and pop Xanax to numb the fear that I might actually be alone, or, worse, I might actually need to be alone.
See, I want to be in love—with my boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, he never really can decide his status, or my ex-husband, whom I left for my phantasm of a boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend. Never can tell. Can’t tell much. Wish I could say, “Can’t tell me nothing” like Kanye West. An ex-friend text me the other day: “Don’t parade your life around Facebook like Kanye West. You’re not a rich, famous rapper— yet.” That’s not verbatim.
Recreating the President’s Brain
from Zapruder’s Home Movie
from Love’s field,
all roads lead to complete synaptic breakdown
at Main and Houston, sharp 90 degree turn for the worse
one block north along Houston to Elm Street
the cheering crowds
traces of love, traces of American actor fallout
Hiroshima, “Ask not…”
by Tim Beckett
She appeared on an old style woman’s bike with the heavy iron frame and the wide handlebars, her backpack so heavy she almost fell over as she came to a stop. I was drinking beer on Bill’s porch with Bill and a dozen other people and I watched her as she came up the stairs. She was striking, with high Indian cheekbones and olive skin and long brown hair she’d tied back in a ponytail with an Indian braid, and an athletic dancer’s figure which she’d wrapped in a ankle-length leather greatcoat. As she said hello in turn to everyone on the porch, I noticed that, unusually amongst Bill’s friends, she was French.
She’d noticed me as well, because she stopped right in front of me, taking me in with amazing diamond eyes. Up close, she looked familiar though that didn’t mean much: in the month I’d been back in Montreal, every street, face or overheard conversation – whether in French or English – contained some association with a set of vaguely remembered persons or memories. For this and other reasons, I didn’t like to go out much, but that afternoon was special: Bill and his wife Sarah were having a baby shower for their daughter Gisele, who had just turned one.
Sarah, just two years off heroin.
by Philip Quinn
I’d beg for a cup of coffee, a stale bun. The
merchants chased me from their doorsteps. I made
note of their thick accents.
I thought after the last war, I would make my way
as a painter. But my art fed me nothing.
Now I listen for the guns. Each day their thunder
comes closer. A dog when it is fed cyanide
straightens its legs out. Marriage — the last
desperate hope. I owed her that at least.
I always said my prayers like a good boy. Did the
honourable duty towards those that expected it.
Some had to die before me of course. Even the young
Do you know what it is like to hear your name
shouted out and to feel the love of thousands?
Occasionally I lifted my hand and smiled.UG
Philip Quinn lives in Toronto and online at www.philipquinn.ca.
Dis Location, Stories After the Flood (Gutter Press 2000)
The Double, a novel. (Gutter Press 2003)
The SubWay (BookThug 2008)
The Skeleton Dance, a novel (Anvil Press 2009)