Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 11.24 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! In this edition we publish poems by Rebecca Pyle , Samuel Franklin , Eric Chiles , and Marla J. Jarmer . Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers
After a Week in Chartres Become absorbed into ideas about how a house is really a boat Which is stopped And a car is a boat Which is limited and heartbroken, Separated from sea And you will begin to want the house and the boat Which both break rules of how a house or a boat should be. Can you not be childish and be a grownup? Yes, you can. You can eat pan and pain and butter and fromage and apricot jams. You can walk till your legs are both muscled and weary. Your smile May be dependent upon knowing many things unbuyable are Missing And will probably never be found again. They are like land You cannot reach because the sea is too big and pretty and hungry And too in love with its reflective capabilities, its dance eternal With the sun. What has the sun always been to you? The middle fiddle of the blender, The machine which whirls us all into submission, acquiescence, glitter, Says our physical wounds will heal and our brains will rise above, our Novels about loneliness are nothing