We didn’t realize he might be somebody’s grandfather. The age of the char-à-banc had
passed us by, & the advent of VistaVision, with its initial attempt to emulate the golden ratio,
was something our teachers wouldn’t or couldn’t talk to us about. Dogs fought in the street &
distracted us. The town grew dustier by the day. The Town Hall collapsed under the weight
of woodworms & the local records all went with it. We coughed, & carried on as we always
Mark Young’s most recent book is The Advantages of Cable (Luna Bisonte Prods).
the distress signal, a whirl-pr
op flutter picked up in the Western Pacific
is Amelia Earhart
in 3300 newtons of claw grip force
which is 1800 new
tons more than the bite of a tiger
meanwhile, in Norwich
a sculpture of Thomas Browne’s skull
presides over cafe Pret a Manger &
is reputed to encourage unusually free inquiry
after centuries of misadventure
bones pile like an ossuary of sleeping hermit crabs
Damon Hubbs is interested in leisurely games of tennis & perfectly moist coffee cake. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals, with recent works published in Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Book of Matches, Streetcake, Tigershark, Exist Otherwise & Horror Sleaze Trash. He lives in New England.
Music Stand, Through Autumn Window
Blitheful as these rudderless days may seem,
there is a candor lost for which most are vaguely thankful –
when doing something ethically in an unethical manner, it still feels wrong.
It is the mechanics of the act, not the motives of the intention.
But I can hardly grouse, for I find myself wandering out among the tall weeds once again.
Everything has flown south this time of year,
a willing earful most of all.
Gentlemen riders of cousinly plagues bring willful steed to blinders
and it is just in passing that the hurt in my legs lessens,
slowing to ogle a shingle-less roof in disrepair,
this music stand, through autumn window that holds
such cursory attentions; an open red music book at the ready,
both teacher and student lost to rambunctious absenteeism.
Have you greeted the fallow as uncultivated land?
Saved such cruelties like pixie-clipped coupons on the sly?
I have no tears or music, just this returning gimp of pain.
No one buys local when they are forced to look in the mirror.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
on West Oley street
describing the forms
of two shadowy figures
a green glycerin porch light
of polyethylene globe
robed in a halo of mist
on a humid summer night
troubled by a fading memory
of a loose brick in the wall
which crumbled to fall
into loves curse
wild with city verse
in a voice as if
nothing that was said
Carl Kaucher – Is the author of three chap books, “Sideways Blues ( Irish mountain and beyond )”, “Postpoemed” and most recently “Peripheral Debris” all published by Alien Buddha press. His work has appeared in numerous print publications and on line. The writing explores his experiences wandering urban spaces near his home and throughout Pennsylvania. Using his photography and writing, Carl has been exploring the overlooked places and documenting the chance occurrences that happen to him and by doing so gives us the opportunity to reflect upon those similar events happening in our lives also. https://www.facebook.com/CarlKaucher/ and on instagram @Carlkaucher.