The Cafe Review

by Tim Suermondt To put it in poetic language: it’s raining Brahmins and sharks — and lately my spirit and my body have been working in tandem,

by Tim Suermondt Gray and blue and beautiful, the night of perfect possibilities is here. The man wipes his shoes for some last minute spit and

by Tim Suermondt The charming couple will split over bad sex and incompatible philosophy — the long tracking shots and extreme close–ups

by Philip Dacey Knife, banana, bowl — props for the theater our father staged each day as he gave voice to slice after slice: “I am the Emperor,

by Philip Dacey If it’s to be a concerto for violin, let the orchestra score be transcribed for piano so that we hear two voices in dialogue with

by Philip Dacey St. Louis. The Forties. The neighborhood poor white. (Or say white trash, given how when the flight to the suburbs happened

by Philip Dacey The female pianist’s long blonde lock of hair swings down before her face as she is playing fugal Bach. The female pianist’s long

by Philip Dacey “My mother never let me wear black; now I wear black all the time.”

by Pippa Little fits in a palm or snug in an eggcup. Cool, undimpled shades of lukewarm milk, magnolia emulsion, plain and neat as clouds on an

by Pippa Little warmed from within you thin as I hold you up to light, slow as aromatic malt swirl you to my mouth so all my vowels melt, leggy

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