[           ] | Ken Farrell | The Piltdown Review

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[           ]

The custom is to sit

next to another when you enter

a dining hall or theater

alone, to fill each empty seat

as close to another as you can.

It is only a custom.

Sometimes a woman

enters a room,

a man enters a room, takes

a lone, far-off place

and thinks I am keeping my self

to myself. The burden becomes space

stretched between them.

Each person who enters

thereafter must choose:

am I of that kind or this?

whose custom should prevail?

And some of us who enter after

have doubt and seek a space

to claim, or we seek a place

to dispose of all that came before.

Some of us find we are not

of a kind; we self-displace.

We find no room within rooms.  



More Remarkable Finds


So we go out, our descent reconnaissance for the collective. We perform experiments with swirled words, crescent-moon eyes, and report.
Expedition Notes to the Surface of a Heart

Expedition Notes to the Surface of a Heart

The south-east patch of heart is rough, very calloused, almost scales. She tried to pluck them off. They turned to dips, then pock-mark fields.
The Hutch

The Hutch

Bold white spray-painted letters drip until they pool like blood—sinister in regard but their meaning lost on me.



  • There’s No Place
    a poem by Ken Farrell
  • Piano Concert
    a poem by Bree Devones Hsieh
  • Beringia (Part I)
    a story by Tanyo Ravicz
  • Out of Habit
    a poem by Jonathan Andrew Pérez
  • The Birthing Room
    a story by Lisa W. Rosenberg
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