Sean Woodard analyzes the Argento horror flick The Church
100 WORD FILM REVIEWS / Cold War
Draped in gorgeous cinematography and masterful mise-en-scène, Cold War marches through the long, frigid years of post-war Europe, following the intertwined lives of two Polish musicians who fall in love and struggle to keep a hold of one another in the face of Eastern Bloc politics, jealousy, ennui, and insatiable desire. Galvanized by a stunning soundtrack, Cold Wars ends with a hammer blow sacrifice, proving love is a prison we make for ourselves, and though we may fight to break out, in the end we are our own wardens. What’s more, some sentences are for life, and beyond.
COMICS / Mr. Butterchips / February 2019 / Alex Schumacher
Immigration fiascos in the latest Mr. Butterchips by Alex Schumacher
I don’t see you dangling in the distance,
rising in unfettered crowds, enveloped by
a smoky steel blue haze, with melancholy
jazz instrumentals, riffing with hot licks.
I look up at stars and clouds from rooftops,
and dream the big dream on our bed
I plant and plant
and dig and dig
and grow and grow.
Later, in bed, I think of Harry and the bird on the bluffs. The big creature rises out of its paint job and flies next to the river, casting its red eyes and deer horns over the earth. It follows me and Mitch and Harry and Jess like an officer, its uniform a skin of thick brown scales. A bird like that could swallow our car. It could swoop down and lift us with its talons and take us deep into its world.
Perhaps you’ll lose a limb
or two,
but the loss will surely
pale in comparison to
the glory of the rebirth.
Now we’re into February, the most romantic (and, if you’re in a snowy region, the bleakest) of months. Our Writer of the Month series continues with one of the most amazing, passionate poets I have the privilege of knowing: Ingrid Calderon-Collins. Additionally, we have work from Sarah Frances Moran, Aaron Como, Jill Jacobs… look, it’s just worth the read, so go for it!
Of course, I brought it up to my mother, who was freezing milk and probably making the morning oatmeal with it. The confrontation led to the Great Freezer Fight of 2010, after which I refused to eat oatmeal, and my mother’s lasagna, on account of the frozen mozzarella. This fight would be repeated each time I needed something for a recipe and found that everything was frozen.
…my love for you was born in this city
…in this city, is where I love you
…where I will continue to love you
…until some other city, becomes the concrete beneath our boots
in hot weather, we see it
we pulse with the sun and curse our impermanence
those quakes, and that sun, dance with our fate—
they twitch for our sanity—
Eileen got to the address. She lit up a cigarette and leaned against the side of the building and smoked. She stamped out the cigarette in the gutter, went into the building and told the security guard in the lobby, “I have an audition for a McDonald’s commercial.”
When I kissed you and my tongue brushed against yours…
You never realized I was leaving poetry in your mouth and
how my words would stick to your lungs like smoke.
The conversation carries on while Sue slips headphones over her ears and resumes typing Jim’s endless dictation. As crazy as Jim drives her, she’s half partial to him. Truth is, if Sue left, Jim would retire. She knows it. He does too, but won’t admit it. The man’s just shy of helpless. He’s a fine trial lawyer. Tried over a hundred cases in his time, but the world is changing, and old dogs don’t always follow smoothly.
an illusion with eyes closed
chiming gold on hard cement
powdered, hidden treasure/
a punishment for silence and
moments left unfed
your
disappointments in the whistle
between the gap
of your
yellow
teeth
Alone is as simple as the car ride to and fro listening to music and singing at the top of my lungs without anyone to hear and without anyone to judge. Alone is a long hot shower. Alone is a walk, brisk or plodding, to plot the next course for later – in the day, the month or forever.
Johnny canted his neck to the side, then flung his muscled shoulders back, his vertebrae crackling. A black bandana circled his mane of corn-silk hair. He turned to Daniel, a sly, lopsided grin tilting his thin lips. Daniel flinched, retreating a step. He couldn’t believe it. In thirty years, Johnny hadn’t changed, not a wrinkle creasing his boyish face, not a gray hair on his head.
Poetesses write & dream:
puncture, skin, ruby,
Moringa plant, wood,
gone. Their friend’s
piano; the pages
for a friend