over-kill

it is on the second-hand nowhere bridge i cry acid
accepting of defeated cast finally in stoning thump
the scamper drifts to dust in movement of blame

once meant joy but freedom falls into obedience
drives deep heartbeat of happy eroded by rhythm
we were association un-separated by plague boil

inability to save earth natural world continuum beat
our environment grew nil our race once complex flat
apathy depressive anxious result of over-kill heating

when final has become the stop point then what now
climb in bright for this domain now controlled you say
once be it of choice self-destiny determined is halted

gasp rolling hankering smile disintegrated in wet blur
did you see the ex-president controlling own lie preach
that has become usual dragging walk peace step gone

on shattered glass we roll for no more remains solid
greenery we once loved sweet is charred death brown
and that is an ending without try to repeat exculpation

Originally published by and exhibited in, this breath is not mine to keep, Australia

Stephen House has won many awards as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council and Asialink. His chapbooks “real and unreal” and “The Ajoona Guest House” are published by ICOE Press. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.

Monday Morning

The weekend 
was a clown on their day off, 
stepping out of bed only to slip 
on a banana skin and fall 
onto their cacti collection –
the passing blur of a tree trunk 
from the window of a moving car – 
a fresh shiner an and empty wallet 
from some back alley slight of hand 

It is cold outside, 
but inside this kitchen it’s 
a reptile house, as a chef then throws 
a pan and I’m asked to put on 
some music and I choose How’m 
I Supposed To Get Up In The Morning 
by Hank Wood and The Hammerheads.

Once again, my song is skipped
and I return to my section laughing – 
ready to get on with it all
and I will do throughout this week, 
until the weekend suddenly 
reappears in the same way 
that love manifests –
something like a burning church 
cleansed by welcomed rain.

Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. He lives in his hometown of Bristol, England but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His eleventh chapbook of poetry Gold Chains Around Our Necks, Hellhounds at Our Heels is forthcoming from Holy & Intoxicated Publications.

Suburbian Image

An image of suburbia
Chain link and close supervision
A spider’s weave and her poison
A blank and unhealthy reflection
On repeat and on repeat
Because a hook is a hook by any other name

Anthony David Vernon is a Cuban-American literary writer and master’s level philosophy student at the University of New Mexico. He has a book out with small press Alien Buddha Press entitled The Assumption of Death.

Ritchie Rich & the Subway Pulse

You can’t get anywhere  
without the underground  
these days 
and here comes Ritchie Rich  
in metal face stud  
and green garbage bag ensemble, 
counting rats large as block parties, 
feeling the subway pulse, 
that joyous skip in his step 
so that the suits push each other 
to get out of his way, 
the smell of fake Cubans from  
the busy bee newsstand – 
CONGRATULATIONS! 
shouts Ritchie Rich with his  
arms and legs wide open; 
everyone is alive and the train 
is on its way, even if you can’t 
hear it yet. 

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, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Dead Generation

toxic tears flood the streets, gravitational forces
shift power drawing us one day upward, then downward
upward again, there with the ghosts of long gone heroes
forgotten words branded with nuclear fire on leviathan walls
there’s nowhere to run, escaping’s not an option anymore,
horrors inflicted on all continents, there was once
a last generation, called from the greatest sage of the gutter,
now, we live in a yellow sea of nothingness, sharks and whales
play five-draw poker, Neptune laughs and Dionysus swills
Mad Dog, fiery rainstorms and massive hurricanes
ravaged countryside and extirpated cities, giants
fall, dwarves rise up from the planet’s core ready to conquer
a world that never was theirs, down the line in
some far distant future tourists flock to watch
the death of the sun, while in the withering today
the sun showers a world devoured by prehistoric maggots.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and supports his writing by doing freelance jobs. 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

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

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
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

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

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.