I Knew Not What To Say by A.J. Huffman

I Knew Not What To Say

Flummoxed and flattered:  a secret
wanting.  Me?  What was
searching?  Amidst other questions,
I could not answer.  (As if 
it were echoing words.)  I am  
to name the letter, the life,
and intent?  Yes.  Yes.  Perhaps
a path was being presented.

Stranger things have happened. . .

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has published 27 collections and chapbooks of poetry.  In addition, she has published her work in numerous national and international literary journals.  She is currently the editor for Kind of a Hurricane Press literary journals www.kindofahurricanepress.com )

Running for Heaven by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Running for Heaven

The coming smack
bloody back
laying flat

face in the mud
poking out tongue
like a blind worm

tasting the last taste
of this world

knowing it will only get better.


Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write at night, waiting for the coming good dawn.  Then he sleeps like a hibernating bear.  You can still find him on Twitter @ papapoet.

A Heckler in Albany by John Dorsey

A Heckler in Albany
for dan wilcox

is stuck in the past
but it’s too hot
to respond to anything
other than kindness
your silly beret
would never pass muster
in a missouri field

dirt under your fingernails
builds character
&  little by little
its absence takes it away

you were once
that sweet bird of youth
we all try to hang on
to words like that

but now that boy you once were
is invisible just past the county line
where nobody is listening
to the jeers
of old crows.

John Dorsey is the author of several collections of poetry, including Sundown at the Redneck
Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

A Burden by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

A Burden

The weight becomes a burden
when you are not as strong as
you think you are. Your heart is
a ticking time bomb. You are not
far from being set off. You are
a foot short from the graveyard.
Your heart can only withstand 
so much. It beats at a pace not

long for a funeral. To be buried
or not to be, oblivion awaits.
Take your pick of cemeteries.

There are pretty flowers in your
forecast. It is not a secret how
much you long for solitude.

Born in Mexico, Luis writes from California and works in the mental health field in Los Ángeles. His poetry has appeared in Escape Into Life, Fearless, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His latest book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press.

Shoulder Demon by Jonathan S Baker

Shoulder Demon

flat tires at midnight,
an iron nail in the sidewall,
bloodied knuckles,
flickering flashlights,
and whispered swears
will summon
a demon who
asks if you need help
as you finish putting
on the spare
some call him Old Shrug
others call him Scissor Jack
he will stand over you
watch you
keeping his claws
deep in his pockets
reminding to turn the nuts
in a star pattern
and then he disappears
in a puff of stale tire air.

Jonathan S Baker is the author of Cock of the Walk (Laughing Ronin Press 2022) and co-author of contemplating The End of Insomnia While Inside the Postmodern Mausoleum (EMP 2022).  They are also the co-editor of The Grind Stone and Editor in Chief of Pure Sleeze Press.  They were recently named Poet Laureate of Your Brother’s Bookstore in Evansville Indiana and co-emcee of Poetry Speaks a long running spoken word series in Evansville Indiana.

ROUND AND ROUND by Bradford Middleton


The night passed in a cacophony
Of pain and sorrow
Manic I ran screaming off into realms
Of madness and repetition as
Round and round I went
Not knowing what I was doing
Just ticking boxes in my mind
Like a zombie following old instincts
Of regularity and routine
My mind dying, slowly being
Eaten by a worm from a glass.

Waking the next morning I
Made for the door again, off
Walking again, walking off
This bout of madness as
Round and round I went
Again. Early morning
Sunday and the only people
About seemed wrecked or
Sad that they are again out of
Bed at this unholy time but me
Well with work in a few short
Hours I’ll head back home, eat
Some breakfast, smoke a joint
And get a couple of sneaky hours
In bed before the onslaught of
Yet more madness at that horror
Show of a place called work.

Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton, UK. His poems and stories are dotted all over
the internet as well as in journals, anthologies, zines and four individual chapbooks.
He is currently looking to sell his latest novel to the highest bidder. Get in touch
@BradfordMiddle5 on Twitter if interested.