SUBURBAN WASTE

Spy satellites pick up transgressive thoughts.
They know you put organic scraps in the brown
bin, not the proper green one (!) And how you
accepted the mailed Indian school dream catcher
and didn’t donate. It’s on your wall now. Doesn’t
the net filter out bad dreams and admit good ones?
Nightmares abound due to your bad postal karma.
Remember the time you pasted a “Lost Cat” sign
over on the mailbox? (The hub of social activity.)
Dogs sniff each other’s parts while their owners
yak above the waistline. Trimmed palm trees see
all. When the world’s end comes, they will blast
off into outer space, protected by capsules,
and take root on a fertile planet; nod and laugh
with each other about foolish humans. Cosmic
decree snuffs people just before they spread
their disease across the universe.

Philip Ash surfs the Dark Wave spectrum in your dreams. His work has appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, Rye Whiskey Review, Bristol Noir and Fixator Press. He lives in San Diego.

Weekless

In a month of Sundays
without Saturdays or Mondays
I can see where I stand–
how I am rolled up
into a ball, clenched fists
and toes.

I can talk to divinities
as if they were neighbors
and chat about decorative
foliage and the price of eggs.

I have heaps of time to figure
out the way things work,
but not my own psycho-sexual,
aspirational, sabotaging, obsessive,
digestive behavior.

I will never figure all that out
even if I
go back to work on
Monday,
rested, restless,
brim full of fab intentions.
unh-unh-unh

Kathryn Lasseter lives in Oregon and has poems in Cathexis Northwest, Blood+Honey, drip, Stripes, Cypress Review, and other journals.

So Many Dollars An Ounce

Method: toss raw ingredients
plucked from misplaced comets
into an oven or a volcano
(an unstable planet with a soft crust
and gooey centre works best).

Flatten with a rolling pin
or a billion tons of gravity
(young worlds are liable
to explode, so take care).

When the situation stabilizes
and there’s a nice golden crust
turn down the heat and bake
for at least 10,000 years,
or until the pie is cool
and you can scrape away the crust
to carefully extract the filling.

Serve warm in a necklace, or baked
into little bars like chocolate. Or here
on a shelf, in your late mother’s
wedding ring.

Ian Mullins bales out from Liverpool England. His latest collection of messages-in-a-bottle is NightWatchMan (Alien Buddha Press) 2024, with more thrown overboard as we speak.

Picker

You picker of seed
in the death of others
picking and choosing

you knowing
your sniffing
of your own ashes

how can you continue
so many years
ignoring

the sky and stars and infinity
in the palm of God.

Are you hopeless
in your own stubbornness

or is it stupidity
that you march
over the cliff?

Stephen Jarrell Williams has been published here and there and in the past of time. He can be found on X Twitter @papapoet.

Even Without Floppy Shoes

Caricature of self
Ridicule ensues
Clown and critic combined

Every precipice
Perilous, the finding
Every edge
In its place

Every clown
So inclined

MH Clay lives and works in Dallas, Texas. He has a poetry page at https://madswirl.com/author/mhclay/.

He has published three poetry collections; sonoffred, Rebel Poetry in Ireland, 2015, Angst,
Mad Swirl Press, and True Believer, Alien Buddha Press, 2025 (all are available on Amazon). His poetry has been published in various online journals, including Fixator Press, Impspired Magazine, and Misty Mountain Review.

                                   Tormented Land

                           Crumbling sidewalks contrast
                             with resplendent buildings
                                in the gentrifying city
                                 of abandoned parks,
                                no longer maintained
                              as the rich go elsewhere
                                       for recreation.
                                    Nature perseveres
                             as long as our planet exists
                                   to recover the earth
                                   until we all perish,
                                    weeds sprouting
                            through cracked pavements
                               in the ongoing struggle
                                    that affects us all
                                   so we barely notice
                                   concrete is fleeting.



Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction, essays and plays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. His traditionally published books include 46 poetry collections, 19 novels, 4 short story collections, 2 collections of essays, 8 books of plays and 16 poetry chapbooks. Gary lives in New York City.

Flash Burn

At times we are too close to anything to realize the absurdity of the situation.

A quicksand promise, a parting note.

It’s always too damn late, and you’re always too fucking worn out to give a damn by the time it is
over.

Within the arms of an addiction is a familiar place to fade a cowardly act, as it is far easier to
recede than ever fight to progress into the nothing your life has truly become.

I have never liked photos, for they are timestamps to poor choices and fatal mistakes born of a
flawed ego’s logic.

I don’t need to ever document my downfall.

For I have a photographic memory.

You never need to celebrate your failures.

For I awake to face the mirror that reflects them daily.

I once met a man who was not there.

So they say.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has been published in Horror Sleeze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Spill The Words Press, The San Pedro River Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Cold Rambler and Here at Fixator Press.

The Blood Soaks Into the Dust in Minutes

This time
another war,
another people
            angry and
            oppressed.
As
            invaders
            occupiers
peacekeepers
squeeze off
round
          after
round
into the murmuring throngs,
I think of the women
and children used by
                                 ALL

as
human shields
      <or>
  targets,
paying the price
for where they were
born, for dirt and grass,
for living their lives
in a crossfire.

I see
a young adolescent boy,
eyes rolling heavenward,
a true supplicant,
as he crumples to
the parched ground
and remains
a tattered
broken
scarecrow,
forever praying
for rain.

Scott C. Holstad is a BOTN-nominated poet/author whose work has appeared in hundreds of
publications, most recently The Piker Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Misfit,
The Scalar Comet, Cosmic Daffodil Journal, Five Fleas, smols, Alien Buddha Zine, Bristol Noir, The
Argyle, miniMAG & Blood+Honey. He lives in Pennsylvania.

Fact From Fiction 4

Every non-Euclidean geometry brings something to the table. Synchrony is knee-
jerk mimicry. It’s exponential growth to one so to the oppositely-oriented other it’s
decay. As brains in vats would put out welcome mats so brains in vats pursuant to
the flipping of a switch would to occasions rise and from occasions fall. A billion
years ago the active listeners wore out their welcome, so the innocent bystanders.
As revolving doors delivered us at random to an icy sidewalk or a brilliantly lit
lobby where five thousand people said five thousand people saw us in the
incandescence of the flesh so we were thinking to be neither a team player nor an
individual when in its precise rows and columns our platoon first formed. Now
we’ll have the unusual, we’ll think outside the anechoic chamber, ask for
feedback, ask for feedback and receive.

Heikki Huotari wrote their first poem the morning after the major died in the adjacent bed. Since retiring from academia/mathematics they’ve published more than 500 poems in literary journals, including Pleiades, Florida Review and The Journal, and in six chapbooks and six collections. They have won one book prize (Star 82 Press) and two chapbook prizes (Gambling The Aisle and Survision Press). Their Erdős number is two.

the ancient theater of Epidaurus

proscenium & stage stand sheathed in red
like hymen or the bud beneath the foreskin
atoms from the centuries still shimmer
deep beneath Aegean & Ionian
waves // cold Alfa beer hot sun in Athens
bellydancers at the nightclub chorus
for a rite & after midnight ouzo
on the roof Acropolis moonlit
// the limestone seat already warm as blood
the summer morning broiling like god-hated
heroes’ rage the broken families’ grief
// i find the famous poet-sandalmaker’s
son & we trade chapbooks his bilingual
mine of iambs thumping like a heart

Thomas Zimmerman (he/him/his) teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. His poems have appeared recently in Ephemeral Elegies, Jagged Edge, and Yellow Mama. His latest poetry book is Free Range Angels (Cyberwit, 2025).