Paternoster

The jaunt is to green-light oneself.
To be centre stage with ardor
and engaged with enthrallers.
It is not subjugation. It is fealty
to fantasies. You are noon or naught,
depending on the examiner of your
oeuvre. You can’t control that.
The way forward is to inquire:
Does it consume me? If yes,
continue the chase.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry, his latest being Legato Without a Lisp (CLASSIX, an imprintof Hawakal, New Delhi, September 2024). His poetry has been published in over thirty-five countries and has appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Typos

…even the typos start sounding god if you read them enough
start sounding god if you read them
start sounding god

Doug Sylver has had jobs as a bike messenger in New York City (for a few months) delivering newspapers on the streets of Paris (for a few days) and as a public high school teacher in Seattle (for almost thirty years). All that time he has tried to write.

The Christmas Dead

a few less cards
to put in the mail every year
a few more names
to take out of my phone
sometimes i forget one
& the other end of the line
is just silence
the only thing
that survives the cold.

John Dorsey is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He is the author of several collections of
poetry, including Which Way to the River: Selected Poems: 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020),
Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022, and Pocatello Wildflower, (Crisis
Chronicles Press, 2023). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

Fun Is Dead

… and, we ACT separately
from the Main Body
of the Army … irrespective
of both King and Country
… ‘We’ came to Kill
and Conquer not Shepherd
and Police… Scum!
“You set fire to his face
… and let him live?”
Bollocks strewn upon
barbed wire fencing…
our Enemies deserve
NO ‘Dignity’ nor Escape.
I saw the Ex-Head-Shrink
bite his agitated fist…
when you slid in the knife
and went to work
upon that Turncoat…
showing him that
there is a FAR worse
sounding Pain than
(Bedevilled) Schizophrenia…

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. His novel “Crazy Like Emotion” and collection of shorter fiction “Kicking Back Drunk ‘Round The Candletree Graves” are both now available by Close To The Bone Publishing.

Realms

On the trek to a budding friendship,
we speak of falsity
and its stench on talkfests.
We chat about this or that
when a person
I have blackballed crops up.
 
It’s the quality of the query
that begets the reply. Another on
the issue evokes another answer.
There is no flawless question
or comeback.
There is no last word.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry, his latest being Legato without a Lisp (CLASSIX, an imprint
of Hawakal, New Delhi, September 2024). His poems have been published in over thirty-five countries and
have appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 X/ Twitter @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems

 

Light Show

The six wheel
Pickup is black
Its high beams
Freeze crossing
Wildlife and
Turn off 
Light sensed
Streetlamps
Pre-dawn
Walkers and 
Runners know
Its heavy 
Duty tires
Embarrass
Nails tacks
Screws
Even nuts
And bolts
Spark 
Like hooves
On getaway
Asphalt

Thomas M. McDade resides in Fredericksburg, VA. He is a graduate of Fairfield University. McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA and aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091). 

Gabapentin

Let me tell you something of what happens when the medication, an anticonvulsive also
prescribed for persistent pain, breaches the blood-brain barrier. My head fills with gray
mist. Suddenly face-chomping zombies aren’t the only ones in need of behavioral
therapy. Rain hisses like an acetylene torch. I have unwelcome encounters in
basements and back streets with women who torture their own bodies. One or another
of them saws off my head under the cover of helping. Just prior, the future passed in an
instant. Now flowers keep throwing themselves into the sea to get there.

Howie Good is a writer and artist living on Cape Cod. His new poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.

 

The Rapture

Staying young,
pulsing in the vibe.

Color lights of heaven…
Orchestra above.

Flash
and shake,

filling of the moon into our hearts.
We soon fly on our own

remembering the first tickle of youth.
Death was a game we’d never lose.

Lifting our palms upward tilt,
faces beaming,

laughing at the speed of it all,
daring us to stand and dance in the dome!

Stephen Jarrell Williams can be found on (X) Twitter @papapoet…  Write what you have to write, while we still have the right.

It’s About Time

Time will never come full circle
like a broken wall clock

Time will never catch me
like the bad guys in Road Warrior

Time is hardly the past and the present
like your great-aunt’s fruitcake

Time is too handsy — just try
turning back its hands

Time was precious like a string of pearls
fenced on the black market

Time was like a dish served cold
in Revenge of the Alarm Clock

Time can have a stitch that saves 9
like 9 can’t save its confabulous self

Time will tell, or maybe tattletale,
on space as their relationship continuums

Time to quit while I’m behind
like the poetry police with handcuffs

Steven Croft lives on an island off the coast of Georgia.  His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, 2023).  His work has appeared in places like The Basilisk Tree, Misfit Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

 

Cold Outside

Feathers ruffle 
again these
days. Feathers
torn. I sleep
in. It is
cold outside.

Words fall like
cactus spines.
Light fades to 
nothing. My
hand dissolves.
I vanish.
Thorns in the
stove sizzle.

Luis was born in Mexico. He lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Escape Into Life, Fixator Press, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. He is the author of Raw Materials (Pygmy Forest Press).