January 2018 Vol. III No. I
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
If good coffee (or just the concept of coffee), great books, sharp wit, and great authors excite you, we are for you!
General Poetry Page with Suzanne Robinson
Use links at the bottom of this page, or the drop down menu above, to connect to our other poetry pages.
Song of the Downtown Auras
Most cannot see the brightness
breaking through skin for they’re too far-
sighted to take-in the glow from dermal
stained-glass — everyday window-
shoppers encased in phosphorescence.
Benched, a nursing mother bares
an incandescence that outshines neon.
Pedestrians blaze by like a runway
of archangels, a legion baptized in paint-
box halloes but denied the radiance
of their very own violets. Palettes of blues
outline dozens & flickering greens
offer personal pastures for cityfied veins.
Dearest yellow butter-cups the enlightened.
Some emit perpetual rose. One urgently
billows apricot embers. Hundreds
strobe invisible lightshows,
oblivious of the truth they ignite
or the mysteries they so casually illume.
​
Grief Stricken
At last, shoes clutter her entry
while long coats intrude
upon each other in the hall closet,
rows of buttons pit damp backs.
Air hints of bottled hurts —
old wounds — overlaid by fusty
salmon sandwiches, pillar candles.
Voices rise to fall, again lift
in scripted notes, too much
like the drone of a pater noster.
Every eye is wearing
veneer, blinks back regret
or resentment. Strange choices:
Birds of paradise flowers, Mozart,
but no gingersnaps, no tea in the pot,
tatty slippers tucked away.
Upstairs, frills stiffen
on those worn, embroidered pillows,
prized photos glare from a dresser,
gewgaws remain on guard.
Downstairs, rooms fill with mourners
poised in grief. Your body
softens the farthest corner, but your heart
keeps graveside, unearths your mother.
Cyndi MacMillan’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Canadian literary journals such as The Dalhousie Review, Room, The Prairie Journal, The Windsor Review and Grain Magazine. Current works-in-progress include a book of portrait-epitaphs poems, a suspense mystery and children’s first chapter books. Other writing can be found on her website: Cyndi_MacMillan.wordpress.com
​
Trumpism
He could have been a half-way decent human being—
without the excess money, alcohol, sex addiction,
partying, gambling disguised as business deals.
We could have done better without judges on the take,
payoffs, greedy, crooked politicians brokering power
by encouraging misogyny, racism, bigotry, blaming,
divisiveness.
What is it in our culture, religions, philosophies
that make these marketing ploys so enticing?
These sound bites that encourage victim-hood,
that enable this believe-what-I-say-not-what-I-do
mentality?
We still think logic, reason, engagement,
compromise will soften what our leaders have become.
We ignore the hard truth that we voted
for the very ones who demonstrate
nihilistic, narcissistic, naked contempt . . . .
He could have done better without his excessive need for
supplicating, boot-licking, brown-nosing, groveling
lackeys.
We could have been less complicit in joining ranks
with these shammers, power brokers, people
who glitter with no substance,
greedy voices who control us by encouraging
self-righteous, judgmental, self-serving fear.
We could have done better had we paid attention,
had we refused to accept bullying rhetoric,
erratic behavior, overtures to our basest natures.
We could have done better if we had not
bought into take-no-prisoners,
Sherman-March-to-the-Sea,
impossible solutions.
T J Barnum has been writing for years, but has only begun submitting work. Barnum will have a memoir piece in The Dead Mule of Southern Literature, April 2018 edition.
Benadryl and Whiskey
​
We stand for hours
in the baggage check section
silent and forlorn
like ancient Egyptian slaves
sealed into a pharaoh’s tomb
waiting to die from starvation.
Sometimes, there is movement
the shuffling of feet
a stanchion rattling
from the careless brush of a purse.
The self check-in kiosks are all down.
Slowly moving airport employees
sip Benadryl and whiskey
from large metal cups
as they scribble signatures
on boarding passes
stifle laughs as the elderly
try to lift their suitcases onto the scales.
I give my boarding pass
to a frowning man
balding and bespectacled
put my luggage on the scale.
He tells me there is an extra charge
for bags over 50 pounds.
The scale reads 36.5 pounds
until he puts his foot on the pressure plate
and the weight jumps to 51.3.
When I open my mouth to protest
he says it is entirely possible
they will find a firearm
hidden in my shaving kit.
John David Muth’s poem is part of a collection that will be published by Aldrich Press next spring. He is a native of New Jersey, and has been an academic advisor at Rutgers University for the last seventeen years. Most of his poetry is satirical. His favorite topics include romantic relationships, the inner workings of higher education, and modern values and practices. His first two collections, A Love for Lavender Dragons, and Inevitable Carbon were published by Aldrich Press.
​
in the mind room
​
As I walk by ideas on shelves which were once written by great authors
I hear sounds of creative minds written on sheets with different titles and colours ..
ideas which were once thought about in the head as a phantom,
illusively yielding no form and being inconsequentially regardless
Dipsomania
The drank is always tipsy
Double minded activities sway him like a rolling bottle of Pepsi
His mind is divided between what is right and what is not
Sense does not come to him on a silver plater but rather on top of a bottle of scotch .
He carries himself ironically gentle
But inward looks so dismantled
Everything normal to him seems abnormal
Little things seem big in his mindset but frugal
Confidence is but equivalent to something meager
The drank is mindedly blind
Eyes are wide opened but closed are the ears to tell wat happens behind
His world is totally different from yours and mine
His ways are but pot holes with crocked effects
Seriousness seemingly isn't what he intends to digest
He is not bothered by the consequences
To him he is in the right side of his double minded senses
Ordinary pipe-borne water in the long run becomes his nemesis
His demeanor portrays his intentions as though alcoholism was imbued in his blood from the genesis
He can never say he is on the boozing cessation wagon, that will be extradiegetic
Even if he finds himself amid the assemblage of teetotalers, abstinence wouldn't be one of the factors, since it's genetic
Society anticipates its usage as diabolic
He has fallen pray to the dictates of the extracts of the palm tree
No good cometh from his mouth except insult and treachery
Consciousness steps in as soon as he is taken over by sleep
He is swept over by dismay as he becomes aware of a mess he is been and unwise.
Etched is his actions in the mindset of the people around, he will forever remain a goober unless he proves otherwise.
kwame Nti Kwame (knk) Ghana is a poet, writer, blogger and historian.
​
​
There are people that feel like explosions
that rip through your flesh and leave
you exposed and raw. People who will
reduce you to rubble on a Friday night
when anxiety has chewed you down to a
nub sitting on a sofa's arm rest. People
who devastate you with their silence,
their invisible silhouettes. People who
blast through city blocks of buildings
with their agendas, their selfish need.
People who can crash into your bones,
scatter your fragments among the soft earth.
Kendall A. Bell's poetry has been recently published in Edison Literary Review and Yellow Chair Review. He is a multi-year nominee by Sundress Publications' for Best of the Net, and author of twenty one chapbooks, his latest: We Are All Ghosts. Founder and co-editor of the online journal Chantarelle's Notebook, publisher/editor of Maverick Duck Press and a music and book reviewer with Five2One Magazine, his chapbooks are available through Maverick Duck Press. He lives in Southern New Jersey.
The Bagnio Millennium Calculator
Friday
nights
numb,
alone
no one calls
I call
no one
sounds
of rattling overhead fans
and
doors slamming
below
are friends
on,
Friday
nights
numb,
green
blinking lights
orange
constant lights
on
creeping filthy
mouse
rolling
on plastic balls
towards
something or someone
twelve second
free porn clips
they
are friends
on,
Friday
nights
numb,
nowhere land
where
the nowhere man
belongs
solitary chair
confinement
faux leather Hanoi Hilton
cranberry juice
and
discount smokes
are friends
on,
Friday
nights
numb.
​
If Billy the Kid was on EBT
​
food stamp reject,
James Earl Jones
talks to me
in
my sleep
reading phone books
and
calling me a honky
calling me a bigot
calling me a racist,
food stamp reject,
candles
on fire
dead phones
never
ring
underwater for a millennium,
food stamp reject,
dismissive homonyms
jihad
at Walgreen’s
on Christmas
In God We All Trust Inc.
minus
a pack of Camel lights
minus
plastic H2O
peril quantity
sucralose
magnesium sulfate
potassium benzoate
to protect taste
to assassinate my liver
in Dallas,
food stamp reject,
insult me at your
discretion
her vanity asks me why
my
hatred is fueled with quizzical intent
and why
I’m missing two teeth,
food stamp rejects,
multiplication tables
always
end in zero
just like
me
just like
you
just like
them,
food stamp rejected.
Nerd Lab Glass Ceiling
​
I want self destruction,
of it all,
of me,
K2
Mt. Everest
the Louvre
the Taj Mahal
Hagia Sofia
Machu Picchu
the pyramids
the hanging gardens of fucking Babylon,
I want self destruction,
of it all,
of me,
the decadence
the allure
the anarchy
the selfishness
the obnoxious Old Spice musk of death,
I want self destruction,
of it all,
of me,
I keep cheating it,
I keep surviving,
the cockroach remains in the walls
the breaths keep coming
the carotid keeps pushing
the ventricles keeps pumping
the intestines continue digesting
the muscles keep moving
the nerves keep sending
the brain keeps receiving,
​
all involuntary
of course,
what a sick fucking joke,
​
I want self destruction
of it all
of me.
Brett Stout is a 38-year-old writer and artist. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and paramedic. He writes while mainly hung-over on white lined paper in a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC. He has published two novels of prose and poetry entitled Lab Rat Manifesto and Baking Cookies With Whores.
​
​
remember me
​
remember me
here lies one who stood true,
broke but never broken
when all the world said build
and all of nature said heal
when the skies opened
to rain down frustration
and nothing grew but resentment
he soaked it in and pulled the weeds,
increasing the expanse of heart
to include today, mine and yours,
in a simple tribute to the beating warmth
of a single child digging in the mud
(first published in being human)
​
John Reinhart is an arsonist, father of three, and poet. He was the recipient of the 2016 Horror Writers Association Dark Poetry Scholarship, and he has been a Pushcart, Rhysling, and Dwarf Stars nominee. His sixth collections of poetry, (arson - NightBallet Press) will be out in early 2018. Find his work at http://home.hampshire.edu/~jcr00/reinhart.html and @JReinhartPoet
​
THE DARK BETWEEN THE BEGINNING AND THE END
I hold my breath while watching
thin, metal hands wipe time
off the clock face,
wondering if I might stop time
just for a moment,
a minute, a second
in which I might know some calm,
some peace
from myself,
from the oily turnings of my brain.
But no matter what shapeless desperation
fuels my silent wishes,
the much needing stopping of time,
the chance to not feel,
not feel every single thing,
to not feel at all,
only comes at the end.
​
​
UNTIL I AM ASH
Unimpressed by your reflection
in the bedside light,
you hand me a match
and ask me
to set myself alight,
knowing your features
are best illuminated
by firelight.
Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.