On October 7th, nearly 163 years ago, Edgar Poe left this world.
Born in 1809, he is considered to be America’s first great writer. There was really no other choice for an issue such as this. What many people don’t realize, is that he was the adopted son of the Allan family. Pushed by his
Recently our Editor-in-Chief, Mike Joyce, conducted an interview with Joe Clifford. From Literary Orphans’ inception, Joe has been a major influence. He was one of the very first submissions we received, and one of our first acceptances. You can read the piece we published by him in the inaugural issue, “Stuck Between Stations,” right here.
Joe Clifford is
First Glance had enough?
i have
you the mold on my bread
you the grease on my pan
blisters on the hand
fingers still red from holding
the hot coffee cup
smell the bacon
devour the eggs
did you destroy the french fries
by adding ketchup?
did you realize that
Underside Every time you turn over a rock you give up a secret that may have been kept easily for a thousand years. Maybe you violate the tomb of a beetle that used to glitter like Pharaoh. Those pale grubs never harmed us that you expose to the withering light; nor the earth worms in
[nothing happened that was worthy of poetry]
It’s been so long
you said
in a voice like a jar full of stones
shaking
I rolled a cigarette
children keep
asking about my scars
car crash mauled by a bear fell through a window
Did it with a straight razor
disgorge apple cores strewn li(k)e
crumpled newspaper
pages
in my cousin’s living room
eyes torn out, i
said,
“open a window in
here”
(stuffily hot while we are
chilled to the tantalizing
bone)
sockets bleeding
freely, i
sobbed,
i’m sorry i can’t love you
in the way
that i
Young Man Apologizing to a Room Full of Strangers At the bottom of my foot there is a hole. Cross hairs cover its Catholicism. Quaint isn’t The Word. Consider this question, are sneakers a suitable representation of angst?
All that jumping into denial. Footwear we owe you everything. I myself, am most vulnerable at mid-step
This Is Not a Love Poem You are in Switzerland noshing patchwork cheese, buying wristwatches with Andre or Gary. The sun is gentle and restrained on your faces. A breeze kicks up enough that your hair flounces around your cheek while seeding the air with the honeysuckle notes of your perfume, and at this moment
Baptism of a Barbarian I curiously watch the thin, reddened string of saliva as it descends, only to quiver ever so slightly while it dangles over the latrine. Seeing that the thread, however tenuous, would not break, I suck it back up into my mouth. The practice itself, looking at it from anybody else’s point
Uncle Deadly I woke up around 8am on a sunny Saturday, so excited about cartoons and lots of playing outside. Lingering somewhere behind the fun ahead were whispers of my sweaty night dreaming of the blue Phantom that had haunted the Muppet Show the night before.
I had a bowl of Kix, and was settling
