I’m (Too Far Out)

Inside an ocean

ball of infinite bounded

spinning cycle consciousness

shifted into high resolution

immediate playback warp drive

word spacing double clutch

kaleidoscope-faceted

diamond sapphire ruby

emerald quartz rose

image magnified

zoomed a quarter century’s

time embedded

sizzling

in a mushed out brain, man,

freaking out.

Randall Rogers is a writer from the US Midwest.  He is intensely concerned with the little things in life.  Makes him tough to live with.  Even the plants are rebelling.  He prefers ground up to top down.  Do not worry of the little people, Randall says, “little folk will survive.”  Randall stands 5′ 5″ after double hip replacement surgery.  Says Randall “Short people do have a reason to live!”  He lives at home with his tall wife and dog.  He often intones “height challenged is bliss.”

A Rose To Merry Memories

Empty wine bottle, spent cigarettes and music playing low.
Kentucky bourbon and then there’s the real vices like the near misses of lovers past.

It’s a dream that reminds and a nightmare that forever lingers just off shore.
A triumph’s ride hell knows angels and the trips taken can never prepare you for those that mark
our last.

The roses are beautiful for a moment’s time.
The needle in place the sands escape from the hourglass.

Perfection is in the fragments of moments.
Please allow them to linger.

If only for seconds at a time.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine. He is also the author of Death, Rattle & Roll from Whiskey City Press. His work has been published here Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal,  Fearless Poetry Zine, Medusas Kitchen, Piker Press and The Dope Fiend Daily. His work is always unfiltered.

A TOMB OF UNEASY NIGHTS

As we locked down some had mansions and
Gardens to lose themselves in but I had a
Room, a single narrow room built of my
Own ill-repute and sometimes it was fine but
Most of the time it felt like the harsh reality
Escaped those making the decisions and for
Days, weeks, months, hell a year it was yesterday
And it’s just got worse. So bad in fact I’ve
Begun resenting my old favourite place where
I would spend hours snug beneath those sheets
But now I just glare at my bed as it’s become
Nothing but a tomb of uneasy nights as I lay
There counting down the damnable minutes
Until daybreak when I can start in all over again.

Bradford Middleton writes in Brighton, UK.  He’s had hundreds of poems published in the literary underground, including here at Fixator Press, across blogs, zines & reviews.  His four chapbooks are sold-out.  Follow him on Twitter @BradfordMiddle5 for updates on his writing & rants about football & politics..

Finding an Old Notebook

“Everything adds up to
Horseshit and hairpins.”

The homeless guy told
me during an episode of
sleepless strolling.

“You can make a trophy case
for all the hairpins you collect.”

“While feeding the girlies all
the bullshit you can muster!!!”

Those were heartfelt nights
in the early 2000’s

Wandering around Worcester
City Hall Park…

At 3 AM.

Jotting all the advice
The ghosts would give me,

on a variety of subjects—

relationships, war, death….

Many…so many one night
thrillers that never
showed up again…

Just want you to know

I saw, I heard, I was there
to record your last
Statements.

Your deserved epitaphs,
only fed to me.

Relived through a green, floppy
notebook.

Which I found a week ago,

skimmed,

then threw back into
a closet—that I’m
scared to open
anymore.

 

Dan Provost’s poems have been published throughout the small press for a number of
years. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura and dog, Bella.

an ankle injury

Several marketing campaigns
later, the snake reappears on
the bathroom floor. The point
guards of a controversial
doomsday cult get their uni-
forms ready, hoping to capture
the seaside ambience of the
Greek Islands. Like all invasive
species dependent on face-to-
face transactions they prey on
other species despite inclement
weather which often forces the
site to close. Now, sitting beside
a fireplace built from corflute,
with the sound of rainfall &
flowing creeks shutting out most
other things, they are considering
an electric option which will in-
clude a gourmet barbecue & be
surrounded by lime stabilization
of the subgrade to keep the cohort
in the undeclared zone safe & able
to continue to study medicine.

 

 

Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia.

NORTHERN VIRGINIA

A subdivision morning,
In the part of Virginia that is not really the South,
In the part of March that is not quite spring:
Slivers of sunlight angle around clouds
In a sky of washed-out blue,
A dull glint on slate-gray waters (not a real lake).
Master Sergeants keep their boats here.
Pines, some ice-snapped, some in arabesque
Before a solitary daffodil, tinged with frost.
Frances and Paul (not their real names) are packing to move again,
Up the interstate, an hour farther north.
Children of a waning American century,
They carry little furniture but lots of sweaters, compact disks,
Wedding gifts in boxes they came in,
To a warren of townhomes,
Each with a shallow-rooted tree
Set in soil fortified with fratricidal blood,
Where the builder’s shovel has turned over Minie balls,
Pieces of bayonets, buckles,
Belongings of other sojourners
In this now accentless land.

Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other
Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. He is a retired school administrator
with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire, where he lives four
months of the year.

 

another stain
I can’t get out
motel Bible

*********************************

Numb, but I Still Feel It.

My body has become a bed and breakfast, minus the breakfast. I have strangers living inside of me for a night or two before continuing their journey, leaving me this empty house.

oversharing my dark matter

 
(Originally appeared in Drifting Sands Haibun – April 30, 2020)

Lori A Minor (she/they) is a queer, neurodivergent, poet and activist. Recipient of more than 15 haikai awards, they are proud to be included in A New Resonance 12 and to have given presentations at Haiku North America (2019, 2021). Lori’s sixth book, Hot Girl Haiku, is now available.

Missed It by That Much:  A Skit

John Adams (in powdered wig and all):  

We should be
“a government of laws and not of men”

And two-hundred-plus years later,
we are a government of lawyers

(Each person can decide for him- or herself whether to hold thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart, hold hands as far apart as they can be, or indicate some distance between the two extremes.)

 

Michael Ceraolo is a 64-year-old retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet who has had two full-length poetry books published (Euclid Creek, from Deep Cleveland Press; 500 Cleveland Haiku, from Writing Knights Press), and has two more full-length books in the publication pipeline.

DIGGING IN DEEP

Digging in deep,
The mustard gas overhead.
I affix my bayonet to my rifle
And wince with the rain.
All I am now is a man
Who has a rifle with a knife on the end
Of it.
This place smells like death and rotting cabbage.
I huddle deep in the mud and wait for the assault
With the rats and my brethren,
The men around me as afraid as I am.
I can hear their hearts beating even though
The beating of my own heart is a million hammers
Beating crooked a million rusty nails.

Digging in deep.
The whistle blows.
I love you and I love everyone.
Now either I emerge from my dug-out
Or my predetermined enemy emerges from his.
Either way, one of us
Or both of us is likely
To die in the mud
Or decorate the barbed wire of no-man’s land
Like a scarecrow
While the kings dine on delicacies,
Drinking from cups
Unsullied with the blood
That pounds now
In our ears
As we wait
To kill,
To die,

To kill and die
While the kings take
Their well-mannered sips.

 

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

Twice Twenty-Seven

Blood spurts out from my fingers.
Spring flowers come equipped with thorns.
Hey, I did not expect this wound.
The hell with picking roses for anyone.

I have a few petals in my pocket.
I can give you a dozen mixed with my blood.
I bled for you if you must know.
It hurt enough for me to scream and curse.

If you want whole flowers, I can 
see what I can do. I could write you a
love letter instead, just let me know.
I might even tell you I love you so.

I am no lame Cupid with a bow and
arrow. I am no Cupid with blinders on.
I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m not
twenty-seven, I am twice that age.

 

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.