3 poems by Mather Schneider
Idiots Who Could Spit A lot of people live out in the sticks in the middle of the desert with tons of elbow room and fresh air and the stars raining down every night. Many of these country people think there
The Attack of the Mad Ax Man “Watch the attack of the mad ax man” —Michael Schenker Group He sat in his lawn chair, in front of his cabin, with birds singing and wind whispering the needles of his pines. He had on boots, Levi’s and a lumberjack shirt. He had one leg straight, and one bent and under the chair. He held his ax in his hands. The
I don’t want to pay back my student loans. I don’t like foreclosures. I’m against police brutality. But how do you get from protest to sweet talk?
This week we bring you an excerpt from Kris Romaniuk‘s rebellious new ebook, Rum Socialism. You can score a
Each sun-kissed daffodil bounces back and forth in the refreshing spring breeze. Every flower an individual, but at the same time keeping the melodic ebb
STATE’S WITNESS Maybe I was talking too much. Maybe I let it slip– I knew somebody, somebody who could get things done. St.
Flor de Muerto The last time we saw Feliciana, she was on the cover of Suicide Girls, fully nude, a tattooed silhouette with a hand-scripted neck piece that
Completing twenty-four novels in one lifetime is much more than most writers even dream of accomplishing, never mind twenty-four in one year. But that
Kris Kristofferson may have said it wrong and Janis Joplin may have sung it wrong. Freedom isn’t just another word for nothin’ left to lose; freedom
Reviewed by Joshua Willey When you begin reading Benjamin Percy’s debut novel,
The latest release in the saga of Roberto Bolaño translations
Idiots Who Could Spit A lot of people live out in the sticks in the middle of the desert with tons of elbow room and fresh air and the stars raining down every night. Many of these country people think there
Guess what? We’ve been nominated in several categories for this year’s Preditors & Editors Readers’ Poll! The poll is an annual tradition,
"Icy" (photo by Flickr user Benson Kua) I. driving drunk, old blood scent of roses and burnt flesh screwdrivers, pull’d
It’s the last installment of Lobster Telephone for the year, and we at Black Heart want to wish you all a Happy New Year and plenty of good fortune in 2012. Assuming, of course, that the
"Top of the Rock" (photo by Flickr user Randy Lemoine) Old newspapers, Twisting and ducking On a gray,
The mall was bustling with the usual holiday fiends dodging in and out of department stores with heavy paper bags. They bumped into each other carelessly, agitated and distracted. The cacophony of Christmas
The Tunel trolley that burrows below Pera takes about seventy seconds once its enameled doors shut—long enough to focus on a single fleeting thought, borne on mute waves, like memory of a distant face
"the kids' going-crazy-happy-dance / ode to bart" (photo by Flickr user Micaela Go) An old college friend of mine hung himself
In early autumn of 2009, facing a recurrence of a rare cancer that my doctors had deemed inoperable, I had been
Rustic Frog, Secret Of Life hair is thinning, the small of my back nettled, most of the time. the pale duffel bag of adipose I carry and call a stomach keeps growing, kicking with the pregnancy of sedentary