parallel

she lay nestled  
in the branches 
of death 
deep in a permanent 
slumber 
where dreams & truth 
& terror  
blend into 
a pastoral 
formality 
& the smiles 
of old ghosts 
are the floormats 
of eternity. 

jck hnry is a queer writer based in the high desert of southern california. over the years i have found success at: rye whiskey review, mad swirl, alice says go fuck yourself, 13 mynas, and others. in apr 23 GUTTER SNOB PRESS will release “LOS ANGELES.” a chapbook anthology. in 2021 PUNK HOSTAGE PRESS released “DRIVING W/CRAZY, a poetic memoir to their father’s last years battling with mental illness.

The Silver-tipped Fire Hydrant 

I never understood why they didn’t just paint it 
or find a matching part, 
but the silver-tipped fire hydrant just sat there 
out front my house. 

Strangely out of place  
around all the other yellow uniform hydrants 
in the neighbourhood. 

And I felt a kinship with my silent silver-tipped friend. 
We were both paralysingly quiet, had trouble fitting in. 

Then one day, 
I found that someone had spray painted 
some ratty blue expletive over the silver head 
of the hydrant.  

It was as though my own face  
had been spray painted over. 

It sat there for years like that. 
No one cared. 
Which prepared me for the rest 
of my Life. 

 

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.

Destruction

drunk sparrows fall like flaming
meteors causing holes in
streets pedestrians scatter while
nightingales go into
hiding finding crepuscular caves in
virgin jungles to wait for
the new beginning they desire the
new phoenixes to
be emerge out of nuclear mushrooms and the
sparrows keep on
falling down drunk and burning burning and drunk
the cats have no idea how to react to the
sudden barbeque gift and the cities are
emptied buildings torn
down for material the nightingales sing their
mellow melodies in their caves to help
the bears fall asleep again and some rocks fall whenever another
sparrow lands on the distant streets of faraway cities.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science. Has published a novella, Letters to S. (Storylandia), a poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and his drunken words have appeared in various places, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

canvas asteroids

In the prosaic sense that things
just work, find the ordinal of a
number using some black magic
& lots of glitter. Once that is done,
use screws of varying sizes to add
the back to the seat of the trephin-
ation machine. Putting a hole in
the head might seem quite easy
& straightforward when coded
from scratch, but getting the colors
right is a complex task. The moon
might arrive upside down before
the job is finished & draw the light
away. Sometimes it is the vibrations
from a herd of wombats digging
holes that causes the drill to slip.

Mark Young’s most recent book is the downloadable pdf, XXXX CENTONES, available from
sandy press — https://www.sandy-press.com/.

FAITH AND GUTS

It takes faith to not rely upon faith.
It takes guts to not actively be in love.
It takes fortitude to forgo passion for concealment,
Trade exhilaration for contentment.
Don’t let the world fool you –
There is more potential downside to jumping from an airplane
Than upside
Unless the plane is going down, too.
It takes character to dismiss charm and to keep beauty at a distance.
It takes strength to embrace loneliness
And a strong heart to turn sadness into expression.
It takes a defective sanity to hold onto hunger,
To delight in the potential of conflict
While avoiding conflict if you can,
Letting it come to you if it must.
It takes wisdom to capitulate and rebel in equal measure.
It takes guts to quietly love everyone –
Enormous guts and hidden audacity.
It takes a miracle to love oneself truly.
It takes a certain kind of faith in the natural world
To not blow on the dice before you throw them.
Faith and guts.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Progress

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
had.

Mark Young’s most recent book is The Advantages of Cable (Luna Bisonte Prods).

hermit crabs

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.

Conversations

on West Oley street
describing the forms
of two shadowy figures
illuminated by
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
has survived

except me

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.

Two Way Radio

Like kids with two cups and a string.
We play at this life, guessing instead of knowing.
Speaking in riddles as we dance in circles.

Avoiding facts dodging truths
That are clear to everyone, as to ourselves if only we just cut the shit and face the facts.

Games played, lies embraced, as somewhere in between we exist unfazed as fully developed
fools.

I choose to cut the connection instead of maintaining a facade.
It’s never easy to be honest, but in being so.
It is most certainly easier being alone by default.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Off The Coast Magazine. His work has appeared here at Fixator Press, Impspired Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Sava Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine and Schlock Magazine.