uselessfully

chain of worlds
pot of brokens

enter the forest
wildly orderly

modern
somber
salted

not one
drain

careful to be
nothing

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) is the author of thirteen collections of poetry, including Cinderella City
(The Red Ceilings Press). Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published
work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado.

Death

trapped in a tiny box, no way
out and the last breathing air’s
used. nothing but darkness in the
crepuscular hours of the end. no light.
no blue smoke. only a shot of Wild Turkey 101 bought
by the riverboat captain. “where are we going? I
ask; he just smiles. “in the everywhere and nowhere
you know too damn well.”
junk hallucinations come back, the nights I puffed on
an aluminum foil pipe, when the blue vapor crawled up my
brain and engendered dreams I thought I could catch.
the tiny box is inescapable, the air’s getting thinner by the minute
and I try to savor the last drink I’ll ever have.
death’s all around and I’ve dealt with the fucker since I was
twenty. lost my Emily, lost a good friend, lost a lot of
drinking buddies that froze in parks or took the sensible way out.
all I need as I board the boat floating on the Styx river is a reassurance
that Emily’s waiting on the other side; I receive another shot of WT101.
I sink it and, with a howl, I declare, “let’s sail away, motherfucker.”

George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance writer, and has published three novels and three poetry collections. His latest book is Smoking Rot Gut Drinking Junk (Anxiety Press). His work has appeared in various publications, including Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Step Into Solitude

Do not fear solitude.
I look at myself there
often. I look at myself 
there now. I step into
solitude unafraid. I do
what is best for me here.
I take my time to gather
my thoughts and to read 
and write. That is not all
I do. I stay in my house
with time and solitude.
I remain here when the 
rains of all seasons fall.

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles.
His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Fixator Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad
Swirl, Piker Press, and Unlikely Stories. Make the Water Laugh was his last poetry book, which
was published by Rogue Wolf Press.

Light Enough

I’ve been around the block
and up the hill,
gazing past the clouds
to the thunder’s call.

Hang up
or hang on,
so much more
to come.

A little juice
of lightning
down your throat
into your veins
flushing you out
light enough
to fly again.

Stephen Jarrell Williams has been published in Synchronized Chaos, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Mad Swirl, Fixator Press, Piker Press, and others.

THE MIND

I recognize menace, the absence of rise
and fall,
her scarily steady drone.
It stops and starts.
Gusts of wind punctuating the silence.
Sounds like distant howls.
Each pause
shoos away alarm.
Intermittence of soft-spoken cries
sows doubt.
Relief is soundless.
The hoarse wailing doesn’t resume.
It might not have been what it was. Is.
What I hear I learn to ignore.
What I see I transfigure.
The greatest distress imaginable
is the means to its disbelief.
The mind’s lies are its rescue.
The end of the world is my salvation.

Alan Hardy has for many years run an English language school for foreign students. As well as Fixator, poems recently published in Outposts, Ink Sweat & Tears, Sideways Magazine, The Candyman’s Trumpet, Orbis, Forge Zine, Lothlorien, 100subtexts, Alien Buddha, Mad Swirl and others.

Keeping on

This dark midnight thing
clings like a dying worm
flicking its tail weakly
yet keeping on

You give it a special box
high on a shelf

When it falls
years or decades or
centuries later
and hits you on the head
you end up with the ability
to see through
the universe and back
into your particular mind

and yet it’s keeping on

A.Z. Pine writes in the Pacific Northwest with work forthcoming in scaffold literary magazine and Eunoia Review.

cold colour black breath & rip
till blend it-eye of spectral
catascope long left to vacant jawline excite
bled of in wastage excreta
thine eyes
all eyes
in the reap it-spoke
till collect veritable un-sewn fragrance
all skied to unheld hilt sky alone from out of
in-spit of dawn
nothing drawn
collect/ed

Michael Mc Aloran/ was born in Belfast in 1976. He is the author of over 60 titles of poetry, prose poetry, prose & a number of art books. Most notably published by Erratum Press, Oneiros Books, Incunabula Media, Infinity Land Press, & Editions du Cygne.

Behind 

Behind on rent.
Behind the dumpster.
Behind the name.
Behind the lectern.
Behind my back.
Behind the rumour.
Behind the eight ball.
Behind the smiles.
Behind the couch.
Behind the mask.
Behind you in traffic.
Behind windshield wipers.
Behind the times.
Behind the spices.
Behind the plot.
Behind the register.
Behind the curtain
with nervous actors
that forget their
lines.

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.

Preoccupations with nature 

The cat waits for his food but doesn’t eat it 
The sweet gums are old already
The sun is early 
My moustache is grey 
The marigolds won’t admit it 
Mom and Dad have borrowed teeth 
The word between two anxieties 
is called the specific epithet 
The word is mollify

Or mind numb

Or sour milk

Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki is a gardener and writer from Birmingham, England. He writes about trees and plants (mostly) and people (sometimes) and other unimportant things. His work has featured both in print and online including Pulp Poets Press, Lunar Sea Literary, Fixator Press, Password, The Lake, Sextet, Alocasia and 100subtexts magazine.

THEFT OF VISION

2:12AM.
Surprise fog
shrouds all in silk.

Theft of vision
quickens the steps.
No echoes—
clouds augment
true aloneness.

Still, you can’t help
pausing at the door—
half-expecting to meet
the ghost of your lover,
or your murderer.

Jack Phillips Lowe is a proud resident of the Chicago area. He has contributed poems and short stories to Piker Press, Clutch 2026 and Synchronized Chaos, among other outlets. Lowe’s most recent poetry chapbook, Brautigan’s Blue Moon, is available from lulu.com.