by Ryan Sparks It’s a crisp Seattle morning outside, but I am warm inside The Clover, a velvet-draped coffeehouse on Grand Street. John Mayer’s cumbersome voice trickles out of the ceiling speakers, battling with the milk steamer for auditory dominance of...
by Ryan Sparks Franklin Street Noise is proud to present its first interview. Poet Leonard Kress took the time to talk with me about his latest publication, Orphics, the importance of classical knowledge, transcending the status quo in contemporary American poetry,...
by Gabriella Herkert ‘When you first trudged off to kindergarten,’ her mother began. ‘I failed the bar exam,’ Anne hiccupped, her voice breaking. ‘You don’t understand. I totally messed up.’ ‘When you first trudged off...
by W.A.Smith Laura was sitting up, looking down at him. The blue sheet was pulled to her waist, her breasts rising with her breath. “Good morning, Sweet.” He squinted and smiled, reaching up to touch her face, whispering, “Mornin’.”...
by Ryan Sparks We were in the Pufferbelly Ltd. restaurant, a converted railroad depot that sat between the rotting train tracks and Franklin’s bricks. The Great Ernesto and I had been invited by Bailey to share a dinner with the visiting poet, Leonard Kress....
by Susan Jane ‘God, that’s so bizarre, Rachel. She’s talking to air.’ Amy turned to her friend and, as she often did, spoke with a slim cigarette bobbing between her lips. The sun that had baked the playground all afternoon was receding, and...
