in half (pulling a rabbit) by Conor Ryan
May 21, 2025
front-lit by the early morning fissures
of not-quite-light filtering through
water-stained beige curtains -
Storage Facility, Irreparably Damaged, or
Tip of the Iceberg by Bob Carlton
May 19, 2025
Diamond H Lounge...Thunderbird Lounge...
Club Schmitz...Joe Mac’s Whistle Stop...
Southern Belles...Geno’s Southern Belles...
A Chalk by Theodore Wallbanger
May 18, 2025
................................................................[No preview for art]
The Patchwork of Life by JB Polk
May 16, 2025
As he emerged from the birth canal, the warm air from the delivery room heater took him into its embrace. His red and wrinkly body relaxed – he was warm and safe. Squinting at the bright overhead lights stinging his still-unfocused eyes, he marveled at the world....
The Adopted Family by Jon Doughboy
May 14, 2025
The shut-in wanted to adopt a dog but was too lazy and fearful to walk it. Hadn’t walked more than two blocks in ten years if you don’t count anxious midnight living room pacing. He considered ordering a cat from the shelter—free delivery....
everything splits eventually by Sreeja Naskar
May 12, 2025
...............the tree opens like a mouth
.......& the mouth has teeth
& the teeth are roots
.......still choking the names out of soil...
Two Poems by Reza Jabrani
May 9, 2025
I met someone, a thousand someones, on the piss-steeped streetsof Philadelphia, studying English, learning America.I was young. Thick-haired diligence. Perfect posture....
HUMAN SQUEEGEE by Theodore Wallbanger
May 7, 2025
seconds struck at zero markdecades lost on image dovessucking wind from other...
everythin gonna turn round when stop thinkin i'm tom green by Travis Shosa
May 2, 2025
everythin gonna
turn round
when stop thinkin...
I Love Your Tweets by Tim Frank
April 30, 2025
They’re not tweets,
They’re postmodern sculptures
Beneath cerulean skies...
Cars and Traffic: Hugh Blanton Reviews Tim Dodd's Galaxy Drip
April 28, 2025
Tim Dodd's acerbic new collection of poetry does not give the reader a warm welcome—the epigraph is taken from Raymond Chandler: "And the commercials would have sickened a goat raised on barbed wire and broken beer bottles."...
The Shadows of Our Minds by Claudia Wysocky
April 25, 2025
Can........... ....I
touch.............your
hair?.....,........ Place
my ..... ..........hand....
february by Natalye Childress
April 23, 2025
for three days, breathing
............the same air. for a short hour,
standing in the same flurries....
j ack dream by Sean G. Meggeson
April 21, 2025
............terrestrial shiver
............cross comfort
............flower thick by name by map by....
Nothing, Really by Makayla Carmichael
April 19, 2025
He couldn’t even remember who’d started it. But his thoughts were consumed with it as he waited in his parked car for her plane to land, waited for the discomfort that would follow, seeing her again after a week....
Still Jaded by Wilson Koewing
April 16, 2025
It was a Facebook memory that found me on Jade’s page. I’d been deleting the memories for as long as I could remember but could never seem to get rid of them all. In her profile photo she was posing with a leg kicked up, smelling a sunflower....
Spatial by Kimutai Kemboi Allan
April 14, 2025
Always a space
Out there in the world
A large thicketed field....
Bum of the Month Club by Bart Edelman
April 11, 2025
Congratulations are in order!
Recently, you were elected
To the Bum of the Month Club....
Compartmentalization Pattern by Eva Alter
April 9, 2025
.....................it is...built
.........into our DNA.
.....................ordinary language reveals .....implicit conversance with....
Disease of a Paranoid Mind by Colin Gee
April 8, 2025
Been drinking too hard
for too long
and I got the fear....
Submission by Paul Hostovsky
April 7, 2025
My submissions rhyme with
my nocturnal emissions and maybe this is a guy thing but
when I send out my stuff....
Afterlife by John Tavares
April 4, 2025
Dad,Why is there a picture of you having sex with a woman less than half your age on AltAdultX?....
Almost all the poems written are scoundrels by MK Kuol
April 2, 2025
none of your names is an aptonym:
a reflection of your character.yesterday, i ripped you....
kill the weeds by Theodore Wallbanger
March 31, 2025
Redistribution of souls is how William looked at death
Culling of herds was frequent fodder for elder Bill
All shunning had been completed....
Poetry in Penance: Hugh Blanton Reviews Adrian Sobol's Hair Shirt
March 28, 2025
Adrian Sobol's second collection of poetry, Hair Shirt, is an energetic book, full of panache and pizzazz and without the frippery often found in the sophomore books of younger poets....
Schoolboys by Kevin Richard White
March 27th, 2025
I told him I didn’t want to face the camera.
“Come on, it won’t be that bad,” Jeff said.
“My body is much better,” I said....
Kismet by Eva Alter
March 24th, 2025
I learned how to do it at ..........fourteen,
.......that brutal undoing
of desire—........... a violent purification
in half (pulling a rabbit) by Conor Ryan
front-lit by the early morning fissures
of not-quite-light filtering through
water-stained beige curtains -
i practice disappearing. a shitfaced magician
bungling all the steps: 1)when there's no pictures of my face
framed in small squares, how easy
am i to forget in the background
of your candle-lit cabaret? a voice
in the background buzzing like faulty HVAC
in a strip(mall magic) club. 2) assistants get sawed
in half all the time - the top roasted
over open flames like a pot-belly pig
and the bottom thrown into the mafia
dumpster out back. on bad trips
i've rehearsed unwrapping my severed
intestines like a ribbon on a glitzy gift,
the whole audience peering to see what isinside 3) the tools aren't what
they used to be. the spikes
in the stand-up casket are
soft rubber. the walls are pre-cracked
plastic. but luckily the stools have one
bad leg and sailors still need good4) rope5) at the seance i put my hand inside
the puppet head of a dirty crystal ball
and make it show obscene, deranged
visions of the afterlife from the comfort
of my unfurnished cream-walledroom. as the first rays hit the fracturing
bricks of our apartment, i snap over and shut
my eyes. flecks of blood and fairy dust. serene.
Conor Ryan loves railing nicotine toothpicks and is haunted by nightmares of Garfield: The Movie.
Storage Facility, Irreparably Damaged, or
Tip of the Iceberg by Bob Carlton
Diamond H Lounge...Thunderbird Lounge...
Club Schmitz...Joe Mac’s Whistle Stop...
Southern Belles...Geno’s Southern Belles...
BJ’s Coffee Shop...Webb Lounge...
Steak Pit...Circle Inn...Hole in
the Wall...Silk and Satin...First Draw...
Olivares...Baby Doll’s Saloon...Deja Vu...
Northwest Pub...Fly Boy...Caligula XXI...
The Doll House...Keller’s...PT’s...
Jackpot Lounge...Letot Lounge...
Garfield’s...Mark II Lounge...
J Rag’s...Lipstick...Red Lion...
Three Times a Lady...Conflict of
Interest...Bare Hare...The Palace...
Squeaky’s...The Cottage...Top Rail...
Dallas Gentleman’s Club...Cowboy
Saloon...Cabaret Royale...Easyriders...
The Ritz...Smokin’ Dave’s Rock Room...
Trail Dust Steakhouse...
Bob Carlton lives and works in Leander, Texas.Twitter Bluesky
A Chalk by Theodore Wallbanger
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.Twitter | Instagram
The Patchwork of Life by JB Polk
As he emerged from the birth canal, the warm air from the delivery room heater took him into its embrace. His red and wrinkly body relaxed – he was warm and safe. Squinting at the bright overhead lights stinging his still-unfocused eyes, he marveled at the world around him. “I wonder who is in charge here?” was his first conscious thought...............................................................................***His tiny mouth opened and closed excitedly as he looked at Mom’s milk-producing breasts. Dizzy with impatience, he instinctively latched on, finding contentment in that simple act. "Mother is in command," he conceded without hesitation...............................................................................***The red bike under the Christmas tree made him very happy. He was soooo lucky! He could brag to his buddies as he rode it around the neighborhood. He imagined the wind ruffling his hair and the kick it would give him. He roared: "I run things in this house!"..............................................................................***His first girlfriend was fifteen and all curves. Her laughter was infectious, and her smile lit up any room. She wanted to hold hands, and he... He pictured her large breasts fitting nicely in his palms. But he pushed the thought aside, knowing that trying was pointless. He knew his sex drive called the shots...............................................................................***On his first day at work, he felt both excited and nervous. The office buzzed with activity as he tried to navigate the new environment. Eager to prove himself, he was determined to make a good impression on his boss...............................................................................***She was modest and intellectual, and nothing like his first girlfriend, who was all curves. He was never drawn to her breasts but admired her quiet charm and asked her to marry him. He decided that family was paramount...............................................................................***When his son's head emerged from the birth canal, he was filled with joy. Cradling the newborn, he noticed him squinting at the bright overhead lights with still unfocused eyes. Hugging him tightly and promising always to protect him, he whispered: Son, you are number one!..............................................................................***He beamed with pride as he looked at the red Porsche in his three-car garage. He couldn't believe his good fortune; he would show off his new toy to his colleagues and Lorna from the front desk! His heart raced as he imagined the wind tousling his hair and how much of a chick magnet it would be. He laughed wickedly: cash rocks!..............................................................................***She was twenty-five, and all curves to his fifty-something potbellied body with bits already going south. She never laughed at his jokes and instead asked him to buy her a new Hermes purse. And he... He thought of how her breasts fit perfectly in his palms as she lay naked beside him. He sighed sadly: Viagra’s in control…..............................................................................***On his last day at work, he was overcome with sadness. It was hard to believe that forty years had gone by. As he tried to envision how to navigate the unfamiliar environment of his upcoming retirement, someone said, "Bye, boss."..............................................................................***He was planting orchids in the greenhouse when a ray of sunlight brushed against his wrinkled face, filling him with a sense of safety, warmth, and peace. His cataract-clouded eyes squinted at the light, inviting him into the tunnel, and he wondered what he might find on the other side. His last conscious thought was, “I wonder who is in charge there...”
Polish by birth, a citizen of the world by choice. First story short-listed for the Irish Independent/Hennessy Awards, Ireland, 1996. Since she went back to writing in 2020, more than 150 of her stories, flash fiction, and non-fiction, have been accepted for publication. She has recently won 1st prize in the International Human Rights Arts Movement literary contest.
Kismet by Eva Alter
“because a woman’s body
is a grave;”
.......-............Dedication to Hunger, Louise GlückI learned how to do it at .......fourteen,
...........that brutal undoing
of desire—....... a violent purification
ritual, my own;to rid myself of my person,
temporarily .......yet entirely................[to rid myself of my soul’s detritus]that porcelain door going nowhere
but down ....down ....down.I knew I was septic.
Knew my skin had been
............made into rot................[knew I had to bear it anyway]and decided to barter my fate
..............sacrificing myself to that chasm of
........dreck.Once became dozens became thousands..............each time an unwitting move
in some cosmic chess match against
God’s magistrate;total expiration the loser’s reward.
Eva Alter is an emerging poet from the Southeast infatuated with the natural world, cats, Coke Zero, and sad folk music.Twitter | Instagram
The Adopted Family by Jon Doughboy
The shut-in wanted to adopt a dog but was too lazy and fearful to walk it. Hadn’t walked more than two blocks in ten years if you don’t count anxious midnight living room pacing. He considered ordering a cat from the shelter—free delivery, neutered, all shots included. But he was allergic. He found a robin’s egg once and incubated it but the oven temperature wasn’t right, a tad too hot, so the chick, once hatched, roasted. He was alone. Shut in with his loneliness in a three-bedroom cottage in a dying town. The government, to avoid a mass shooter situation, kept the disability checks flowing. He never had to leave his house. The grocery store delivered. His dentist visited with a bag of portable drills. His Japanese sex doll installed itself in the foyer and solicited a fuck—kudasai—every time he went to the fridge for his cherished glass of Ovaltine, ingesting Eisenhower’s America in malty powdered form. But the loneliness grew and grew. Seeped into the cracks in the sheetrock. Destabilized the foundation. Warped the floorboards. The want grew in proportion to the loneliness. Cancerous growth. China’s economy after Deng Xiaoping numbers.Finally, in a catalogue selling refugees, he found a family to adopt. He made his picks based on the latest diversity metrics put out by the Census Bureau. His town was in a need of a Black Nigerian Muslim Woman, ideally between the ages of 92 and 94. An Egyptian Coptic Christian Man, exactly 50 years old, preferred. And a North Korean child around 6 or 7 years old with a passion for the visual arts and on the pudgy side if possible. With a stroke of his digital pen, the lonely, sex-doll-fucking, Ovaltine-guzzling, robin-roasting shut-in, adopted all three. They arrived a mere week later plucked from the refugee farm floating in international waters. At first, the new family bonded. The shut-in’s loneliness waned without him having to leave the house. The woman appreciated the sturdy roof over her head for the cage, as you’d expect, had been drafty. She loved the wheat growing over the rusting cars in the back prairie. The rare and forgotten species of apple trees surviving along the desolate road and the tart fruit they bore. The man appreciated no longer being caged. At night, while the others slept, he also appreciated, in quiet, sweaty pumps, the Japanese sex doll in the foyer. And the child? Well, the child was mute but seemed content to paint Juche Realism depictions of valiant North Korean soldiers bayonetting pigs dressed like American marines. All was well in the cottage of the dying town. The jubilant mayor was eager to add three to the population size on the faded welcome sign on the ramp off the derelict highway to greet the new citizens in grand fashion.But cracks in the happiness, as they always do, began to appear. The Coptic and the Muslim began to debate—with words and fists and rolling pins—the word of God. The godless child, to settle the matter, bless his indoctrinated heart, tried to paint God and made Jesus and Muhammad North Korean prophets proselytizing to the wildlife flourishing in the demilitarized zone of the 38th Parallel. The shut-in discovered someone else’s semen in his sex doll and the thirsty refugees had drunk all his Ovaltine. Outrage upon outrage.A year later, when the Census Bureau visited for its annual wellness check, they found four corpses in a state of advanced decay, variously stabbed, slashed, pummeled, and poisoned. The only sound, aside from the census workers’ vomitous grieving, was the sex doll’s robotic voice begging to be fucked.In an act of public mourning, the mayor subtracted one number from the highway sign.
Jon Doughboy is an aspiring upmarket genre-blending, reality-bending, fat-check-earning novelist working on a grotesque drawing room comedy in the vein of Wodehouse-meets-Bernhard but in Rabelaisian proportions. Offer him a book deal.Twitter | Linktree
Compartmentalization Pattern by Eva Alter
[a found poem based on the preface from Elizabeth F. Howell’s The Dissociated Mind]
...............
...............I.
...............
..................it is..built
....into our DNA.
..................ordinary language reveals.........implicit
.............conversance with
...........................parts that are not cohesive—
................................................dissociation—.....one realm of experience—
........repression
.........................................................focally examined
..................barren..............................................structuring
of the mind—
............................................rare
..................................traumatology—
....................................................implicit
...........................................internalization;
...............a construct of psychic structuring.
......dissociation, [a]
........................................public explosion;
...........widespread
..................formulation of ...........diagnostic
atrocities.
..................trauma is not outside of the realm
of ordinary experience;........ it .........exists
within the realm of the ordinary—
...............
...............II.
...............
..............confusing
.........................threatening event—
overwhelming to anyone
overwhelming to the individual.
...................................................Trauma
.........disrupts reflective functioning; .......it nearly wipes out the ability to
think.
.....................event(s)
that could not be assimilated
.............cannot be linked with other experience[s]— .....there is now a structural
.........................result of trauma: ........dissociation,
the event(s) that cause
.....................................splits and fissures in
........the psyche
...............
...............III.
...............
...............rising tide, ...............sea
.........change: .................Chronic trauma—
.............................................................profound
...............rigid separation— ..parts of experience .....somatic
consciousness ..affects.... perception... identity ...memory...............a structural ......dissociated self-state;
....................................................trauma generated
...........................................psychic struggle—
..........................keeping dissociated experience out
of awareness—
...........................reconceptualization—
..........................................a constellation of symptoms:
.................long-term.... emotional
dysregulation ...amnesias.... damage to identity and relationships
........potential for revictimization...........................................The hallmark—
...........................the inability to distinguish
the internal from the external.
........trauma disrupts—
...............
...............IV.
...............
dissociative patterns,
...........compartmentalizations— ......ways of thinking
of awareness and anxiety;
...........unexamined contradictions—
......unconscious .........execution of atrocities
often denied......... unexamined.......................................................it is
astounding............ nobody seemed to notice............................................................................How did [they]
............not know? .......should have known if they
.....................look[ed]... inquir[ed].
consequently
simply
...........................no one in the family
wants to upset.... illusion of harmony......... They condemn one member
.............to exile; ..........shield themselves from recognizing.
.........................................................The failure to notice ....extends—..........................................................................Patterns
............of not knowing are endemic...........................some people— .........especially traumatized— carry the
burden:........ dissociative problems in living .........experiences
............others fear
............sequestered thinking
dissociative processes
unconscious enactments
...........manifested in various
.....................................patterns.
Eva Alter is an emerging poet from the Southeast infatuated with the natural world, cats, Coke Zero, and sad folk music.Twitter | Instagram
Schoolboys by Kevin Richard White
I told him I didn’t want to face the camera.“Come on, it won’t be that bad,” Jeff said.“My body is much better,” I said.“We’ll see about that. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure no one knows it’s you.”I looked over at Ashleigh and she kept chewing her gum like a cow and it was really annoying. She’s got no clue why she’s really here - she just loves being naked. I watched as she took her top off and threw it over the chair arm. She undid her bra and let it fall at her feet, kicking it away like a dirty leaf. She tried to blow a bubble with her smacking lips. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Ashleigh, quit chewing that fucking gum.”“Why?”I shook my head. Jeff finished setting the camera up. Sean came back into the room, holding four sodas. He’s the one that spent all his money on this - the soundproof installation, the camera, everything. I shivered. I knew they wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, but I just didn’t want to take my shirt off anymore. “I just want to watch,” I said.“You can’t watch. I need you, Morgan. You’re beautiful,” Sean said.“My body may be but not my heart.”“Don’t bitch out, Morgan,” Ashleigh said.“No one’s being a bitch. I just don’t see why we’re doing this.”Jeff looked up from the camera. “Revenge. And slightly boredom.” I guess revenge can be noble, but it’s not enough for me at times.“We’re all friends,” Sean said. He handed out the sodas and then went over to his computer and started typing something. “No one else is here. We’ll have you home soon so you can do your homework.”Ashleigh laughed at that one. She had her jeans and panties off now and tried blowing a bubble again. She always was the giggly bimbo. Well, she fucking cornered that market real good. I walked up to her. “Ashleigh, swallow the gum.”“Morgan,” she said.“Just do it.”Jeff laughed.“Well, ok, Mom,” she said and swallowed it. Then she shot me a cocky smile and if it wasn’t for the fact that we were best friends, I would have slapped her. I turned around and saw Sean grinning at me.“Come on, Morgan. At least the top,” Sean said.“Sean, please,” I said.“You’ve known me for a long time. Since elementary. It’s not weird. I’ll make sure it won’t get your face. I know you’re going to college. I don’t want to fuck that up. Just the top. Please.”Ashleigh was sitting on the chair now. She had shaved for the occasion. “I don’t feel good about this, Sean. Someone will find this. This is not ok.”“We’ll be ok, Morgan.”I looked over at Jeff and he gave no indication that we would be ok. “We’re all just kids, Sean. Please let me watch.”“Morgan, come here,” Sean said and I did, and he hugged me and I began to cry.“How long have you known me?”“Since you were young enough to talk.”“Do you trust me?”“Yes.”“So let’s do this.”“Why?”“Why not?”“But...we’re better people than this.”“No, we’re not. Morgan, wash up and come back in five. We’re shooting.”So I did. I left the room and Ashleigh started talking shit and I resisted the urge to turn around and shout, fuck you bitch. I went into the basement powder room and I threw water in my face. I smudged my mascara but I left it like that. I walked back into the set and Ashleigh was stretching like she was some athlete. “Like that’s gonna help your fat,” I said.“Shut up, Morgan. You’re going to fuck this all up.”“Alright, girls.” Sean. “That’s enough. Listen. We don’t have time to rehearse. So you need to focus. You know all the basics, I’m sure.” His phone dinged from his pocket. He took it out and read the text. Jeff stood against the wall, crossing his arms, sighing, knowing that he had to beat off after this was done rather than during. “They’re here.”“Who’s here?”“I’m ready,” Ashleigh said.I wasn’t. I still had my shirt on. I wanted to puke.“Morgan,” Sean said.“What.”“Are you ready?”“Whatever.”“Then take your shirt off. I’m not asking again.”I didn’t want to argue anymore. So I ripped my shirt off and I threw it as hard as I could and I took one of the sodas. I chugged it until it went down my chest and onto my tits and all over the floor. I wished it was beer. Then I spread my arms wide and I said, “I’m a fucking monster. Let’s do this.”Sean laughed and Ashleigh groaned.“Well, damn. Let’s commit some sins,” Jeff said and went back to the camera. Sean went up the steps. I didn’t bother to clean up - the mascara and soda was a great look. Ashleigh was sizing me up.“I guess, Morgan, we’re going to find out who can do better.”“Come on. We’re friends.”“Of course we are, dear.” She walked up to me and then her voice briefly broke. “But this is really...important. You’re going to college.”“What does that have anything to do with it?”“Because I’m not,” she said and turned away. I didn’t know she wasn’t going. I thought she applied. My idea of a future - one that included her - now hung delicately.“Just remember the good times, I guess,” I said, after a long pause.“I will,” she said and took the hair tie off her wrist, putting her hair up for easier access to activities later.“Because none of this matters.”“We’ll see.”“We’re gonna start filming when he opens the door back up,” Jeff said.I nodded.The door opened up and Sean ran down the steps. His energy scared me. He told Jeff to wait. He looked at me and I started to sob a bit but he put a finger to my lips. He stared at my tits and tan skin and I knew I wasn’t perfect because of my appendix surgery scars and I was not the beauty he wanted and that I should be skinnier and that I wanted to go vomit for him but he stopped me and held me. I felt the other people at the top of the steps - disgusting fucking shapes, confused young assholes.“We’re way too fucking young to know what we’re doing, Sean,” I said. I lost it. I wanted to fall to the ground but Sean helped me up.“Morgan.”“What?"“Just give me fifteen good minutes.”"Fifteen?”“Half a sitcom. For me.”“Fine. Ok.”Yeah?”“Yeah, Sean. Sure.”Sean smiled. “Sounds good, babe.” He kissed me and turned and I reached out but he was already gone. But Jeff yelled action and I heard the boys come down the stairs, boyfriends of other girls we knew, and I got to the less attractive one, and I gave it to him and I took him down with my beautiful stored vengeance and smudged mascara and soda-drenched skin, and I made sure not to talk so loud because Jeff was holding the boom and I took my tongue into the boy’s ear and whispered “revenge” and he said he didn’t care and he smelled like beer and I unzipped his pants and in the haze I looked over and saw my collegeless best friend with a full mouth and I took him in me and as I did I saw Sean grinning and I thought, fucker, this should be you, this should be so much of you.
Kevin Richard White lives in Philadelphia.TwitterSchoolboys originally appeared in SOFT CARTEL.
Poetry in Penance: Hugh Blanton Reviews Adrian Sobol's Hair Shirt
Adrian Sobol's second collection of poetry, Hair Shirt, is an energetic book, full of panache and pizzazz and without the frippery often found in the sophomore books of younger poets. Sobol chews up a lot of territory here—we go from seas, to mouths, to animals of varied stripe: a donkey, wiener dog, the worlds smartest horse (named Gorgeous Allegheny Slim), two singing cows, and a bear that can sign its name in beautiful cursive. There doesn't seem to be anything that Sobol won't turn into a poem, which is of course a virtue and a vice. There's a lot of free verse here and some prose poems, but he smuggles in some subtle rhymes from time to time:............I'm living on my own
............hunger
............built from
............the last of my flesh
............this is mine
............I said
............snatching
............bread
............from
............my guestsThe collection's energy is reminiscent of Jon Sands's second collection It's Not Magic where even poem titles carry their share of the load—Sands has "Moons Over My Hammy," Sobol gives us one here "High Impact Donkey."Sobol's poems have a hard time settling into a style. If it weren't for his voice, you'd sometimes wonder if these poems were all written by the same poet. They elude categorization, hybridizing poetry and prose, fantasy and reality. He creates evocative images without being an Imagist, but there are a few poems here Marianne Moore would definitely give a vigorous nod of approval to. Melancholy has been done to death in poetry, the poets who indulge it give us lines that come off as not much more than whining or grumbling. Sobol never indulges, giving us flowing, comprehending lines: "There remains no law/ against our melancholy. So much light,/ I said in my closing argument, will go out before it's finally/ dark."The thing about Chicago poets is that they never let you forget they're Chicago poets. From Carl Sandburg then to Nate Marshall now they act like boasting tour guides as if being a Chicagoan is some kind of vaunted privilege. Sobol grew up in Chicago (his family immigrated from Poland in the early 90's) but doesn't natter on about Chicago, and in fact doesn't even mention it a single time in this collection. There are some traces of The City of Big Shoulders muscularity in here: "If you were an appliance, I'd keep you plugged in. Maybe run my lips across the socket until it told me to stop." but for the most part Hair Shirt is the introspection of a writer with a vivid inner life. It's not a tour de force, but a tour de scrappy romp.Sobol's debut poetry collection, The Life of the Party is Harder to Find Until You're the Last One Around was written "under the influence of immense Catholic guilt." Of course, a hair shirt is what monks and ascetics wear as a penance, and I can't help but wonder if Sobol thinks he needs a hair shirt because he isn't as austere and gloomy as his many Catholic predecessors (Gerard Manley Hopkins comes to mind first). Sobol's prose poems are heavily influenced by Noah Eli Gordon (Gordon's 2007 book Novel Pictorial Noise was selected by John Ashberry for the National Poetry Series, and, yes, Sobol has inherited a little of Ashberry's weirdness, too). In Sobol's prose poem "law of conservation" someone crashed into a Miata on the way to a wedding: "At the reception the priest shouts your name. This is for my Mazda Miata, he says before shooting you six times. You Barely feel it. The bullets pass through you like light through an hourglass. When the maid of honor finds you bleeding out near the cake, she offers you a glass of water. You ask for champagne. The tearful bride hands you her bouquet. This is for you, she says, and places a flower into each of your bulletholes." Sobol has taken a tango and turned it into a clog dance of prose.Sometimes Sobol gets lost in the thickets of his imaginings, a horse (there's those animals again!) performs mathematics by stamping a man to death:............After completing
............his multiplication tables,
............we were justifiably
............impressed (a polite round
............of applause paired
............with our son's
............threadbare whistle).Those lines are a touch of Ashberry, but where Ashberry can be formidable, Sobol is endearing, even with his near fanatical preoccupation with animals.Sobol's the editor in chief of Kicking Your Ass magazine, a magazine of poetry with a—you guessed it—donkey image on the masthead. (It's wearing cool Biden-like aviators.) Their mission statement says that too few poems "tell us what it's like to push on a door marked pull or how to deal with sitting next to a rude grizzly bear in a restaurant." He obviously takes a different view to animals than did Whitman, and I don't think he's referring to Delmore Schwartz's metaphorical bear here, either. Sobol himself is an avid submitter of poetry to magazines, more than a dozen poems in this collection have made previous appearances in various journals. "Torch Song," a ten page prose poem, previously appeared as a micro chapbook in 2017.The charm of the poems (sometimes excessive) in Hair Shirt don't diminish their intelligence, even when Sobol is hopscotching through light verse like a fairy clutching a wiener dog to his chest. Almost half the poems in Hair Shirt use parentheses, they serve the purpose of runaway truck ramps on a downhill grade and it's necessary for the collection's sometimes ecstatic tenor. Sobol minds his syntax, he doesn't allow his poems to sink into modernist murky ambiguity. His superb confidence sometimes comes off as a snotty schoolboy—the poem "regicidal friends" is a prose poem shot through with its own virgules, the word salmagundi wiggles its way in in the first poem. The confidence and cocksureness doesn't undermine his sensitivity, though: "Have you heard? he tells me/ More men are dying/ in need of softness than thirst." Sobol's talent is still fully alive in this second book, but he's not housebroken enough to be a laureate. I hope he never is.
Hugh Blanton's latest book is Kentucky Outlaw. He can be reached on X @HughBlanton5.Twitter---Hair Shirt by Adrian Sobol. Malarkey Books, 2025. 87 pp. $16.00 (paper)Hair Shirt | Kicking Your Ass Magazine | Twitter
kill the weeds by Theodore Wallbanger
Redistribution of souls is how William looked at death
Culling of herds was frequent fodder for elder Bill
All shunning had been completedChildren were extensions of his DNA
Fresh William took pride in showing his youngest son
precise steps needed to poison neighborhood encroachment of vegetation
agitating personal property linesAlcohol bucket lines were soon required to
start aging engines granting mental escapes from tragic kingdomsThirsty dreams would ticket adventures into frothing libido landscapes which danced recklesslyFrisky alliances with wed-lined dragon sloths
welcomed deviant pleasure portals
into bikini saloons rich with
Bambi baby flesh tease smilesJamesons rocks soothed a disgruntled soul who memorized impressive
resumes of saucy lipsticked sin grins but transformed
into a frazzled church monkey during holiday home plastic dazzle traditionsThe grown up rampage bearded sheep invaded lives with a napalmed sweepLies painted across money trains were ceased
for no other reason than to
kill the weeds of hypocrisy
so as to live a beast sheep’s life flourishing in
magically twisted fantasy
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.Twitter | Instagram
Almost all the poems written are scoundrels by MK Kuol
none of your names is an aptonym:
a reflection of your character.yesterday, i ripped you
from the brittle ribs of a drunk god
with my deaf eyes & sang about it.your story is not unique:
all of us will part someday
with everything we’re now part of.a dumb grief sits on my mother’s tongue.
she dips her boneless fingers into her spine
to scour in her sour soul the smooch of death.my father doesn’t believe heaven is a haven.
the thesaurus is yet to convince him
how a servant [fanning an egotistic god
.....................................with hollow hosannas]
isn’t synonymous with a slave
[tending with tender hands
.....................................an entitled anna’s oats]today, in an infant poem―daubed
on a dead metaphor’s breath―
a poet autographed: almost all the poems written
are scoundrels born when fraught hearts
make out with empty stomachs.
MK Kuol is dead to almost everything but poetry. He feels poetry is his Lazarus' experience—his second chance at life.
Twitter | BlueSky
Afterlife by John Tavares
Dad,Why is there a picture of you having sex with a woman less than half your age on AltAdultX?
Did you ever think how your daughter would feel if she was scrolling through social media, and she came across a photo of her father having sex with a woman younger than her?Did you ever think how she would feel?KYL---------Karen,I’m not exactly certain what you’ve been doing browsing through a website like AltAdultX, especially since you were vice-president of Young Christian Conservatives on Campus. You even led a crusade against all forms of adult pornography. I ended up having to bail you out of jail after you threw a bucket of pink paint at the storefront of an adult bookstore, personally threatened the owner, and picketed and demonstrated very loudly outside and inside the store in violation of a court order and restraining order. I still do not know how you managed to escape a punitive lawsuit, further criminal charges, or how those charges were ever dropped. I believe my personal and heartfelt apology to the store owners and my offer of hefty financial compensation for the damage to their building and business helped. I accepted those expenses and paid them in full. That is beside the point, though, and I am losing my train of thought here, after hearing from you out of the blue. Still, I must admit it is heartening to hear from you.Love, Henry---------Dad,My own personal views on pornography have evolved, but I think you have missed the point. Did you ever think of their effect upon your family? This isn’t like the embarrassment caused when you were caught on TV cameras joining the parade at Caribana, playing with the masquerades in bikinis, glitter, and sequins, dancing, doing the bump and grind.KYL---------Karen,My family – or what is left of my family – consists of two people, you, who have asked me not to contact you because you said, it messes with your mental health, and your mother, from whom I am separated and who has no desire at the current time to formalize a divorce, for complicated legal and financial reasons, so I am not certain exactly to which family you’re referring.Love, Henry---------Dad,I do not know what you are talking about. You do have a family. But you missed the point, and I do have a point, or at least I did think I had a point. Why are you posting pictures of you having sex with a woman younger than me on AltAdultX? This isn’t the same as you doing the bump and grind with a masquerade at Caribana.KYL---------Karen,I did not post pictures of me on AltAdultX. I have an account on AltAdultX, but I made that account after your mother and I separated and divorce talks and proceedings were initiated. I also switched the settings on that social media account to private. I needed an outlet, simply, an adult outlet. Moreover, I have no photographs posted on that account, no narcistic selfies so beloved of your hip ultra-moderns, your generation, no dick pictures—just a blank black square profile photo.Karen, I find this discussion bordering on the incestuous and thereby disturbing.Please try to think of more positive and upbeat things you can tell me about. You are living in sunny southern California, in your mid-thirties, studying filmmaking. Can’t you tell me about your productions at film school?Love, Henry---------Dad,No, I cannot because the profs are pricks.So, did you not post the pictures to AltAdultX?If you really want to know how I made my discovery it was because a few friends, in filmmaking, and I decided to do a documentary film on kinksters and swingers.AltAdultX became an obvious and easy source.The picture I am certain is of you. It shows an old guy, fit, tan, looking like you, having sex with a woman who looks like she’s in her mid-twenties.KYL---------Karen,You keep harping about incriminating pictures on AltAdultX. Get over what some dirty old man is doing with a younger woman. It must be consensual, or it would not be posted on AltAdultX.Love, Henry---------Dad,You obviously do not know or understand some of these social media websites, which become dark cesspools of oversharing and deep secrets and dirty laundry revealed to a voyeuristic public.But I am not worried so much about you, as I am about your partner, my mother.Did you ever think about the effect on her?KYL---------Karen,I do not know why you keep bringing up your mother in the conversation on this chain of events especially since you practically accused your own mother of molesting you. Please move on with your life. Be the next Steven Spielberg or a Canadian film director who rocks that nasty place Hollywood. Move on with your life.Love, Henry---------Dad,You asshole, and you are an asshole—Dad, I did not accuse my mother of molesting me.KYL---------Beloved Karen,Ok, ok, I am sorry. I misspoke. But I remember you constantly used the term abuse. Your words at that time left a bad impression on me, especially since your mother invested so much of her time and energy into trying to make certain you became a more perfect version of her. Around that time that I decided to put even more distance between myself, you, and her. I believed that anything I did to try to help was only bound to hurt you somewhat or inadvertently make you miserable. For that reason, I removed myself from the picture and took the nearest exit.You are not short of money, are you? That is not the reason you decided to message me, is it? Just say the word, and I’ll make certain the suit sends whatever cash you need, if it is for textbooks and tuition, rent and groceries.Love, Henry---------Dad,If I needed money for anything, it would be for cameras and equipment, production crew and actors’ wages, and set rentals. But I am good for money at the current time. The lawyer or financial advisor sends me money from the trust fund whenever I need it.I am starting to question how well you know mom. Have you ever noticed how jealous she can become? Have you ever noticed how crazy, angry, and out of control jealousy makes her? I know Mom, and I know she knows, and I know she had an account on AltAdultX. If she saw you having sex with another woman, especially a woman younger than me, she would go insane with jealousy, even though you are, as you say, separated. The fact you do not seem concerned about these pictures’ effects on mother also leaves me concerned.KYL---------Karen,Now you are talking about pictures, as opposed to a picture. Please send me a link or links, and I will see if I can log into my very vanilla AltAdultX account or create a new account to have a look see.Love, Henry---------Dad,Ok, I have sent you the links. Now you tell me the pictures at the end of these links are not of you.KYL---------Karen,These pictures could be of any man. You can’t even see the man’s full face because the image is cut off above his mouth.Love, Henry---------Dad,I recognize your chin, your mouth, and your facial hair growth in the pictures that show half of your face, and I recognize the body and figure.---------Karen,That man looks like a bodybuilder, like a man who lifts weights and goes to the gym everyday. He is also too light-skinned to be me.Love, Henry---------Dad,You tan during the summer and become very dark, exactly like the man in the picture, except you lose your tan during the winter. I’m guessing you started to trim your body hair, like that man in the pictures, and you did go to the gym everyday like you say, at least until you separated from mom.KYL---------Karen,Why are you trying to turn this into a detective story? So, what if this picture shows me, when I was invited to my friend’s party at his estate in cottage country? I am not saying that it is me, but what if it is me? Why should it matter?Love, Henry---------Dad,Because that picture shows you nude with your blank in the mouth of a female about a third your age. And the other picture also shows you behind her, presumably having intercourse.KYL---------Karen,I’ve enlarged and scrutinized the photos closely and carefully and I believe this is a case of mistaken identity. If you look closely, you will see that this man has a Semper Fi tattoo on the biceps of his right arm. He might be a soldier veteran or marine wannabe. As you know I’ve always been opposed to tattoos for health reasons. You must remember the number of times I encouraged and advised you to never obtain a tattoo.Love, Henry---------Dad,You can’t mislead me. I’ve enlarged and examined the photos closely with photo editing software and I can see none of the tattoos to which you allude. In fact, the more I look at these pictures the more I believe they are definitely of you.KYL---------Karen,If that picture is of me, and I am not saying it is me, the woman in the picture, and, I must emphasize, she is a woman, the woman is in her mid-thirties, your age, a sports physician, single, exceptional, and enthusiastic to be sharing her warm and friendly personality and body with a member of the opposite sex. And I must emphasize, if it is of me, she is a professional, a respected physician for professional sports figures, with a reputation to protect. I’m retired now and, frankly, I don’t give a damn.Love, Henry---------Dad,I am concerned about mom. And you should be, too.KYL---------Dad,Why haven’t you answered my texts and emails? Stop stonewalling me.KYL---------Beloved Karen,Sit down and have a drink or take a tranquilizer before you read this. I want to emphasize: Sit down and take a tranquilizer before you read this dramatic news.Your mother has taken her own life.She said that she was tired of her pain and long and drawn-out struggles with her own mental health. She said she felt guilty for all the turmoil and anguish those troubles may have caused, but I tried to reassure her this was not the case and tried to remind her of all the good times together. Still, she simply decided to end her own existence.Love, Henry---------Dad,Why didn’t you call me already? Why didn’t you email me earlier? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?---------Beloved Karen,I could ask the same question of you when you moved, when you dropped out of high school, when you married, when you divorced, when you put your child up for adoption.This is all water under the bridge, Karen, but during your last tantrum you told me even if Mom dies you did not want to hear from me, so I simply do not understand where your sudden family values are coming from.Your mother died in an assisted suicide after she abandoned hope for her life.I refused to have any part of the ceremony because I was born and raised a Catholic, and I will probably die a Catholic, even though on some days recently I feel like an agnostic or an atheist.Your mother produced an event worthy of one of your documentary films, with her friends singing, dancing, banging the tambourine, strumming ukuleles, contributing their favorite memories of your mother, and offering prayers in their various faiths and denominations.
There were prayers from the bible in recognition of her Catholic grade school religion. There were evangelical prayers from when she became a missionary in high school. There were prayers from when she converted to Judaism in Israel. There were even Hindu and Buddhist prayers from her brief dalliances and immersions in those religions, when she volunteered for humanitarian agencies in Vietnam, Nepal, and India. Friends from other faiths and religions also contributed their own tributes.So please do not take it personally when I tell you your mother has passed away. She wanted you to learn about this event in the New Year. She did not want her passing to be a sad event, or tragic news, but a celebration of life. She asked her closest friend and your former close friend’s mother to tell you in the New Year—and I’m not certain of the precise reasons she wished for this, but you can probably learn of this from whomever you call or email.Her estate was left to her son from her first marriage—to the Jewish fellow who became an eye surgeon. I am confident you understand those reasons better than me, but the trust fund and those arrangements remain the same, so you should have few financial concerns.
Please let me know if there is anything, and I mean anything I can do for you. Remember this is the way she wanted it.Love, Henry---------Dad,My own mother dies, and you do not even tell me. WTF.And I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to take her own life after she saw the pictures of you with that prostitute or whoever she is. The picture, after all, was posted several months ago, so she may indeed have seen it. I am guessing she did. You just do not know how insane jealousy can make Mom. Mom’s closest friend told me she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder by two different psychiatrists but like anyone with BPSD she denied it.You drove her to the brink, Dad, you did this.Goodbye forever. I never want to see you again.
KYL---------
In memoriam, Karen Yang-Li, Daily BruinKaren Yang-Li, a vibrant and talented graduate student at UCLA’s School of Theater, Film and Television, lived a life filled with creativity, passion, and boundless curiosity. At just thirty-six, she had already left an indelible mark at her new home at UCLA, playfully referring to herself as a "professional student" while inspiring everyone around her.Karen’s love for storytelling shone brightly through her remarkable achievements. She published a heartfelt volume of poetry, a captivating novella in verse, and two compelling screenplays—one of which is soon to come to life on screen, produced by an independent film company. Her talent extended to documentary filmmaking, where her three student video projects, Affluenza, Overshare, and First World Problems, captivated audiences and went viral on YouTube, sparking meaningful conversations around the globe.Beyond her academic and creative endeavors, Karen found joy in the simple and beautiful moments of life. She shared a special bond with her beloved Schnauzer, Phoenix, and cherished her eclectic collection of books, DVDs, and vinyl records, which will now enrich the shelves of the UCLA library system for others to enjoy.Karen’s spirit found solace and inspiration at El Matador State Beach, her cherished sanctuary. There, she spent many blissful afternoons and evenings hiking, practicing yoga, meditating, reading, and embracing the ocean's ambience. True to her wishes, her ashes were lovingly scattered along its shores, ensuring her spirit infuses the place she adored most.A heartfelt memorial service was held at UCLA's Magnolia Meditation Room and student chapel, where friends, colleagues, and loved ones gathered to celebrate Karen’s life, creativity, and kindness. Those who knew her will forever carry her warmth, wit, and radiant spirit in their hearts. Her sisters from her U of T sorority, where her volunteer work was indispensable, wish her a safe and happy voyage in the afterlife.---------Obituary, Henry Yang-Li, Toronto Star.A memorial service to honor the remarkable life of Henry Yang-Li will be held at Holy Cross Catholic Funeral Home, with interment to follow at Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery in Thornhill.
Henry was a vibrant and colorful individual who brought warmth and humor to all who knew him. He devoted much of his career to financial advising and investment management, earning the trust of prominent clients in the world of professional hockey. His sharp mind and infectious spirit made him a beloved figure, both professionally and personally.Proudly a member of the Chinese Jamaican Canadian community, Henry embraced and celebrated his unique heritage. He often shared lighthearted stories about the amusement and curiosity his biracial identity inspired among new friends and clients. Born to hardworking parents, his mother—a shopkeeper from Kingston, Jamaica—and his father—a marine mechanic from Montego Bay, Jamaica—Henry grew up witnessing their entrepreneurial determination. After moving to Toronto, Canada in the 1970s, his parents founded a thriving cleaning company in the financial district and a cherished convenience store in Little Jamaica on Eglinton Avenue West.Henry's own story began in Kingston, Jamaica, where he attended Campion College, a Catholic institution that nurtured his pride in academic excellence. He often fondly reminisced about his time there, and later ensured his family spoke the Queen’s English with the same discipline he cherished as a student. Upon immigrating to Canada, Henry settled in Toronto's Jane-Finch neighborhood and pursued higher education at York University, where he attended business school on an international scholarship.The early chapters of Henry’s career saw him as a financial analyst for a major Canadian bank, covering the restaurant industry. With his signature humor, he confessed that his job indulged his guilty pleasure of savoring fast food at every major chain for research. Beyond his professional pursuits, Henry brought passion and joy to Toronto's Caribbean community. A devoted participant and organizer of the Toronto Caribbean Carnival, he played mas in the Grand Parade with enthusiasm and pride. He also became a cherished figure in the culinary world as the owner of a jerk chicken restaurant on Eglinton Avenue West and a Jamaican patty food truck and restaurant on Yonge Street.In retirement, Henry embraced life with vigor, immersing himself in international travel, amateur sports, and the physical activities he once missed in his youth. Whether biking, hiking, swimming, or hitting the gym daily, he reveled in the joys of an active lifestyle. A dedicated member of the Knights of Columbus, Henry found deep fulfillment in service to his community.Henry’s philanthropic heart shone brightly through his unwavering support for the Canadian Mental Health Association and the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Canada. He contributed not only as a donor but also as a volunteer, demonstrating his commitment to causes close to his heart.Henry Yang-Li will be remembered as a spirited, generous, and joyful soul who touched countless lives. For those who wish to honor his legacy, donations in his memory may be made to the Canadian Mental Health Association or the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Canada, in lieu of flowers.
Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants from Sao Miguel, Azores. Having graduated from arts and science at Humber College and journalism at Centennial College, he more recently earned a Specialized Honors BA in English Literature from York University. His short fiction has been published in a variety of print and online journals, magazines, and anthologies, in the US, Canada, and internationally. His passions include journalism, literature, economics, photography, writing, and coffee, and he enjoys hiking and cycling.Twitter | Instagram | Facebook
Submission by Paul Hostovsky
My submissions rhyme with
my nocturnal emissions and maybe this is a guy thing but
when I send out my stuff
when I put my stuff out there
it feels like I’m sowing my seed
I mean it feels like I’m a burst dandelion
and each submission is attached to a pappus of fine hairs
like little parachutes in a wind-aided dispersal
of my stuff over long distances
and maybe this is conceited but
that’s the conceit that comes to mind
and I think I’d like to explore it a little further if you don’t mind
because dandelions produce their seeds asexually
which is exactly how I produce my submissions
which are sometimes outwardly obscene
and which do contain certain sexual overtones
but are nevertheless asexual by nature
which is to say I don’t have sex when I’m making them
though I do like to have sex after they’re done
because it’s in my nature
and because making them is like compression
it’s like trying to compress all this pressure
into the simple figure of a leaf
a floret a tendril
and I need to release all that pressure
that’s pushing up through the taproot
when I’m done compressing it into something
that’s beautiful and true
and winged
and when I get one in there
when I get that acceptance letter it feels like love
it feels like a love letter and I read it over and over
and sniff it and lick it and put it in my buttonhole or hat
and pretty soon it starts to fade and to droop
and it goes to seed and it just goes to show
that everything is vanity after the seed
because it’s not about the seed dispersal
it’s about the seed production
it’s about the making of the stuff
not the putting the stuff out there
not the getting the stuff in there
and yet and yet and yet
if you whisper your sweet acceptance in my ear baby
I’ll give you the best First North American Serial Rights you ever had
Paul Hostovsky’s poems appear and disappear simultaneously (Ta-da!) and have recently been sighted in those places where they pay you for your trouble with your own trouble doubled, and other people’s troubles thrown in, which never seem to him as great as his troubles, though he tries not to compare. He has no life and spends it with his poems, trying to perfect their perfect disappearances
Disease of a Paranoid Mind by Colin Gee
Been drinking too hard
for too long
and I got the fear
as the Irish boys say
three days in on a bender
Got the fear
got the bends
bloody gums
the Tommy Johns
There are signs for urologists
and radiologists
family doctors
dentists
undertakers
and cemeteries popping up everywhere
URÓLOGO they say in Spanish
ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION
right above the glass plate front door
No peace
My mom says take it easy
Christa tells a story about a gruesome cancer
the friend long dead
Sam says
Some push it forward
some never rest
rest in peace
Can you name all the apostles?
Peter James and John in a satin frock
A hanger-on
A groupie
Magdalene
hair greasy with organic olive oil and tears
dust of the road
probably flecks of uncooked chicken
made the whole town afraid
they might stay.
John
another John
said
All of them are dead now
my friends who drank like you
You can stop
He said
You can stop
He said
turning to Mistress A
But YOU
he said
YOU can’t stop
you going to be dead before fifty.
Piles of bottles in the yard
stashed in the flusher tank of the house
so you couldn’t even walk
or flush without thinking
No one mentions her.
God Himself said
Take and drink.
Going down the row the priest says
Take and drink.
Again the priest says
Take and drink
Again he says
Take it and drink of it
but we guzzle.
Going down the row
Pornomagnetic tongues out
This is my
My oh my
such a literal mind is mine.
Colin Gee is the founder and editor of The Gorko Gazette. Check out his books: The Penult with LEFTOVER Books, Left in the Lurch with Dumbo, Lips with Anxiety Press, All you want (a series of lies), chapbook and work of love from Stone Corpse Press.Twitter
Bum of the Month Club by Bart Edelman
Congratulations are in order!
Recently, you were elected
To the Bum of the Month Club,
And it wasn’t even close.
If your mom were alive today,
She’d be proud of you,
Fulfilling the destiny she predicted,
When you showed early signs
Of promise way back then.
Dad, though, had higher hopes,
Before you proved him wrong,
Flunking out of a college
You never sought to attend,
Where your sister graduated,
Summa cum laude, no less.
Mishaps plagued later progress:
Demotions and dismissals galore—
One addiction after another.
Who says there isn’t steady work?
Now, you’re settled in nicely,
Part of a distinguished group,
Recognizing your true calling.
Home sweet home, at last.
Bart Edelman’s latest poetry collections include The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023. He lives in Pasadena, CA.Facebook
Spatial by Kimutai Kemboi Allan
Always a space
Out there in the world
A large thicketed field
Overgrown with weeds
A mind blank
Writers block
Waiting for new words.
Always a space
To sin
Soil our existence
With trivialities
Dancing upon a fire of bones
Our brothers dead
We have their wealth.
Always a space
To lie in the meadow
Tufts of grass in our mouths
Bovine adventures
Sans milk
Our udders are dry
Dead!
Kimutai Kemboi Allan is a Kenyan writer residing in Nairobi. His works have been published or are forthcoming in The Stray Branch, Crescent Currents, Soul Poetry, Prose & Arts Magazine, The Wayfarer Art and Literary Journal, Everscribe Magazine, the RIC Journal, DoubleSpeak Magazine, MEN: An International Anthology of African and Latin American Writers, the Redefining Poetry Anthology by Litterateur RW magazine, the "Best New African Poets 2023 Anthology'', “Our Stories Redefined Anthology for African Writing 2023 (Poetry Edition)”, The Piker Press, Prodigy Magazine, Our Poetry Archive, the INK Babies Literary Magazine, Written Tales, African Global Networks (AGN), Ake Review, The Active Muse, The Writer’s Space Africa, The Kalahari Review, The Naluubale Review, Writers Resist and Havik’s 2020 Anthology (Homeward). He is currently working on a Collection of Poems.
Still Jaded by Wilson Koewing
It was a Facebook memory that found me on Jade’s page. I’d been deleting the memories for as long as I could remember but could never seem to get rid of them all. In her profile photo she was posing with a leg kicked up, smelling a sunflower. She was involved, and had been for some time, with a chef in Australia where she’d moved several years before. As a side project they ran a Louisiana themed Cajun food pop-up which they both positively glowed about. The Chef was good looking in a general way. Nothing distinct to remember about his appearance. I imagined him having the most stereotypical Australian accent possible. Jade had dyed her hair light Auburn. During our years together I’d never given much thought to her being seven years my junior, but as I’d recently turned 40, I couldn’t help but envy her youthful glow. It had been five years since I’d seen her in the flesh. The last time was during the two weeks she left our shared Denver apartment at the end of which I was to vacate for good. I can’t recall why she came by, but it was snowing outside and dark early that time of year. I was playing a baseball video game muted on the television and streaming Parks and Rec on my laptop. She sat on the couch across the room watching my reaction each time a joke landed that she knew I would enjoy. It was something she’d always done, and I could never stand it, but that night, on the outside looking in, I felt for it a painful fondness. We’d barely lasted two months in that apartment, which was a shame. It was a great place. I’d seen us in the clawfoot tub, candlelight. Smoking on the side porch, snow falling, red wine. Strolls over to South Broadway or Wash Park. Hobbies, crossword puzzles and tea. A chasing of youth or a fighting of years or a graceful succumbing. And though I’d have trouble defending myself, the truth was I wanted none of it back. Missed nothing. Not really. While once gushing, the wound had cauterized and been healed for so long all that remained were the digital scars that presented themselves through the opening of random screens instead of a rolled-up shirt sleeve or pant leg. I don’t remember Jade leaving that night. Or what she was wearing. Not a single word spoken. Only that I glanced over at some point, and she was gone.
Wilson Koewing lives and writes in Marin County, California.Twitter
Nothing, Really by Makayla Carmichael
He couldn’t even remember who’d started it. But his thoughts were consumed with it as he waited in his parked car for her plane to land, waited for the discomfort that would follow, seeing her again after a week as she would climb into his car, the awkward embarrassment and anxious excitement. He could feel the heat between his legs, the subtle stiffness, and no, he wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t imagine. It just wouldn’t happen again is all. He was determined. Hell, he hadn’t even drunk that much that night. It had been lust, pure and simple. He was a fuckin’ bad boy, always had been. And he’d been without it for so long, his wife sick and well, just not interested anymore. Maybe in time she would be again when she was feeling better. He was stuck. But he loved his wife, he really did. There was just no way he’d ever leave her, never.And he’d innocently, generously really, offered to drive her cousin back and forth to the airport because it was hell to park there, to just leave a car, hell and so much shit to maneuver, if not familiar, so it was settled then, his wife insisting to her that it was not a problem or inconvenience for him to provide transportation both ways. She’d arrived at their house the day before her flight out and he could never stop himself from comparing the two since they were just a year apart, their appearance. And she was beautiful as was his wife, both with beautiful faces, rotund in body though his wife had become and disinterested in sex anymore. Her cousin was beautiful, he’d often acknowledged only silently to himself as he’d looked at her face over the years, her profile as she ate at the big Thanksgiving table, eyes moving down her smaller frame. Still, there had been nothing there, nothing between them. He’d never said it until that night she’d arrived and after drinks and dinner out and more drinks back at home when he’d just blurted out, you’re gorgeous, his wife gone to bed already, the two of them left on the couch together. And at some point she’d said it, maybe asked him, to touch her down there, with his hands, just finger her and he had, he goddamn had, been without for so long, he’d done it and it had been so fucking sweet, touching her like that, in and out, he’d wanted more, she said no, it was ok, it was enough just to touch it like that, warm and moist on his fingers, tight too, he’d liked it, imagined more. She’d gotten up off the couch and he’d followed her like a puppy dog on her heels, wanting to be touched too, holding himself in his hands for her to take, but she wouldn’t so he’d been confused. Women. They want it and they don’t want it and he was supposed to figure it all out. So, they went from the couch to the bedroom and bath and back again, her telling him to touch it and then telling him to stop until he’d said, “Get on your knees.”“No,” she’d answered insistently. It was ok. It was enough poking in and out like that, touching her. It was enough, had been so long. Then he’d bent her over or she’d bent over the guest bed and he’d done it without asking, just put himself quickly in and out of her, his thing all hot and stiff. It had been quick, but she’d said, stop, it hurts and he had, but it had been too late, he’d been inside her. He wasn’t big, maybe she’d hadn’t even felt it much, except there was a little blood, he’d noticed afterward, next day, making up the bed again. It was his chore after guests stayed. The drive to the airport, an uncomfortable trip between the two of them, friendly, they’d talked of his wife, smart and ambitious, how hard she worked, blah blah and no mention of the night before. But she’d hugged him goodbye at least as she’d exited his car. He had felt good, her body close to him again just briefly. It was all okay. It was all cool, just something that had happened.Anyway, it was done and now he sat waiting for her after her week away, remembering and thinking he must make it clear to her on the way back to the house that neither of them could ever tell anyone what had happened. He was sure she would agree, as they were family and all and had more Thanksgivings to share, no, it would never be told. He was consumed by thought, by longing, by denial. Crazily he wondered if he’d found love again. He didn’t even hear or see the emergency vehicles until they were almost upon him, where his car sat, just a short distance from the airport. He’d left early so as to be on time and he’d felt strangely excited with a stomach of butterflies, fearful but anticipating of her return, their drive back together to the house. While she’d been gone, he and his wife had discussed her one evening, having drinks on the back porch, his wife telling him she loved her, that she was her favorite cousin even, no trace of knowledge of anything that had transpired the night before she’d gone.Now there were ambulances, police cars, EMS, all with sirens blazing, racing past him and why? Suddenly he saw smoke rising over the airport, past his line of vision which was obstructed by the terminal. People seemed to be stopped in their movements, amassing in areas, trying to get out of the way of the rush of emergency vehicles, the officers and paramedics running inside toward something going on in the back of the terminal. And he’d lost track of time, she was supposed to text him when she landed, but it was way past he suddenly noticed. He exited his car. In this mess no one was going to ticket or tow him, he figured. “An explosion,” someone said to a person near him and it was chaos really, suddenly no one seemed to know what direction they should be headed, away from or to and they just were scattering and gathering to ponder, to be thankful it wasn’t them because people had been hurt, bad, people might have died. He felt his insides drop and he thought he might need to use the bathroom suddenly. He stood still, listening to the conversations, the screams too.“…a bomb…”“…near the luggage carousel.”“…body parts on the floor and so much smoke…”“…blood everywhere,” they said. He couldn’t move forward, couldn’t see it, he just stood listening and visualizing it in his head, creating that horror scene, finding her beautiful face, her broken body on the hard floor.And within hours it was confirmed, she was dead. His wife had the information already from the news, all over the internet and wasn’t it just awful, losing a cousin like that, losing a virtual sister almost. He would return home without her, his car, passenger-less and him just in a fog. Maybe he was relieved or disappointed or just empty, just something he’d never felt before, something he couldn’t share with his wife, would never share with anyone else. It was just there inside him now, making him breathless. He drove home. Later that night, both of them sitting on their back porch again, a sleeping dog at their feet and his wife saying, “I can’t believe she’s gone. I just can’t believe it. Hold me.” And he had, silently, stunned as she continued. “I mean, I, well, I can’t believe she was just here a week ago in our house and now she’s gone. Such a waste, so pretty and all. Fuckin’ terrorists. Fuckin’ sons of bitches. Dammit,” cuddling up closer under his outstretched arm. He brought his beer to his mouth and swallowed large, still silent. There was just nothing else to say is all.
Makayla Carmichael spent most of her life as an accountant. Retired now, she is seeking to reclaim her soul through her writing which was suppressed for many years. She has had stories published in several obscure online literary journals that she hopes will haunt her readers for the rest of their lives.Instagram
j ack dream by Sean G. Meggeson
.........terrestrial shiver
.........cross comfort
.........flower thick by
.........name by map by
.........spring ice sprint
.........by 200 then
.........arrangement
.........rather
.........met t ere m agus
.........un plural kept
Here lies Sean-the-Pawn who went to school with nothing on. Now he's fertilizing the lawn.Twitter
february by Natalye Childress
for three days, breathing
.........the same air. for a short hour,
standing in the same flurries.it won’t always be this way,
.........but at least we have the moon.
if only you could see it. butyour night sky is lit up like a
.........football stadium. it’s lit up like
a fucking christmas tree.
Natalye is just a happy kid stuck with the heart of a sad punk.Twitter
The Shadows of Our Minds by Claudia Wysocky
Can...................I
touch...................your
hair?...................Place
my...................hand
on...................your
shoulder?...................Feel
the ...................warmth
of...................your
body?...................Your
presence...................my
anchor,...................keeping
me...................steady.But...................in thedarkness...................of the nightwhen...................I close my eyesand...................feel you nearI...................knowyou...................arenot...................here.
Claudia Wysocky is a Polish poet and photographer based in New York, celebrated for her evocative creations that capture life's essence through emotional depth and rich imagery. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, her poetry has appeared in various local newspapers and literary magazines. Wysocky believes in the transformative power of art and views writing as a vital force that inspires her daily. Her works blend personal reflections with universal themes, making them relatable to a broad audience. Actively engaging with her community on social media, she fosters a shared passion for poetry and creative expression.
Cars and Traffic: Hugh Blanton Reviews Tim Dodd's Galaxy Drip
Tim Dodd's acerbic new collection of poetry does not give the reader a warm welcome—the epigraph is taken from Raymond Chandler: "And the commercials would have sickened a goat raised on barbed wire and broken beer bottles." Ace Boggess, author of The Prisoners and Escape Envy, says of Dodd: "Timothy Dodd writes with the energy and frenzy of a man being chased by assassins, hell hounds, the police." A lot of the poems in this collection are like an octopus wriggling its way through the eye of a needle, astringent and prickly with vividness. If you want headstrong verse, Dodd's your man.Dodd's latest book, Galaxy Drip, with echoes of the Beats and the Meats, is tragicomic and often wincingly peculiar. He's not a confessional poet (at least not in the solipsistic fashion that is becoming popular today), but there are threads of public accusation throughout the book: "your uplifting dinner is another creature's/ tragedy, demise." "Each early morning, we millions believe: worker/ ants for our colonies." Some poets are described as lyric, others as narrative, Dodd wears both hats well. Automobiles and traffic (including a Peel P50 that will send Yanks running to Google) appear often, including American's addiction to their cars. Filippo Marinetti and the Futurists would have loved to have seen Galaxy Drip. (There's also an ode to Greyhound bus stations, a sort of tribute to Americans who have divorced their cars.)
Dodd has a natural, unforced and slightly imprecise meter, a reader not paying close attention will miss it. From the poem "Statehood":.........Sherry's sipping sherry,
..............Dick's drinking whatever;
.........red Florida sky dazzling
..............behind their new beach condo.The poem continues on in similar rhythm for thirty lines, never letting up. Dodd's poems don't unfold, they carom downhill at high velocity. There's no milking the endings—he just walks out the door. In "Life and Death in East Wheeling" he wraps it up: "In thick air float strange opportunities,/ and I think a moment of all the little empty jobs we do." That's an ending even David Lerner would like.If a poem stumbles because it's too wild, it's because he's raging with excess. At fifty-three he can no longer be called a younger poet, but his poems brim with the energy of someone discovering poetry for the first time. His poem "The Boxer":.........Only the laundry room
.........knows his lime green
.........shorts, for in the office
.........they hide under dark
.........grey suits as he phones
.........and files, traffic sliding
........ outside the window.Times are not propitious for poetry—the Instagram poets with their uplifting vacuous guff and poor-me trauma are selling thousands of weightless books while poetry of substance goes unnoticed. The honest prosiness in Dodd's poems shows off his poetic chops, he swaggers through his verse both cocksure and whimsical. He writes on common enough subjects, but he begins in odd places and you never know what you'll find when you turn the page.Dodd puts his lyric talent on display several times throughout the collection: "the day is forgivable, maybe life is livable." "all laid to casket, surrounded by/ the mess of modern roads, traffic." (There's that traffic again!) "I've neatly noted/ Maybelline isn't make-be-// lieve. "End of the line, out of time, nothing comes alive." Dodd's a poet better quoted than described. In his poem "Cornstalk in Point Pleasant" he may have been conjuring Raymond Carver, but if so Carver's got him by the scruff of the neck:For our cheeks are pockmarked
not by love or lust, but by hammer
blows, sugared teeth and gasoline.
There is rarely a rise anymore
from these alcohol-damaged gullies:
neither language, nor pride,
nor our pant-legged peckers.Galaxy Drip is Dodd's third poetry collection (he already has a fourth on the way, Orbits 52 from Broadstone Books) and he's also got four short story collections under his belt. He's got an MFA from UTEP and he even has an Instagram page where he exhibits his paintings. There's no such thing as an ideal poet—it's actually a poet's limitations that invent and define them. Dodd's virtues have his defects surrounded, snarling, "This, this is a poem. Kill your automobiles."
Galaxy Drip
by Timothy Dodd, 76 pages
Luchador Press, $15.00-----Hugh Blanton's latest book is Kentucky Outlaw. He can be reached on X @HughBlanton5.Twitter
I Love Your Tweets by Tim Frank
They’re not tweets,
They’re postmodern sculptures
Beneath cerulean skies
Flexing like deltoids
Riding hired yellow pushbikes
On my toilet seat.
everythin gonna turn round when stop thinkin i’m tom green by Travis Shosa
everythin gonna
turn round
when stop thinkin
i’m tom greenno more
jumpin on pink
fuckin couches
platformin rabbits
with tha chaos drumsno more
playin
with muh sausage
no more
jokin
bout tha lonely
no more
performin
every convo
no more
pretendin
everythin ok
no morenot todaybuteverythin gonna
turn round
when stop thinkin
i’m tom green
Travis Shosa (they/them) is a confused boy-adjacent creature creating ugly little word nightmares. Travis Shosa does not endorse their own poems, merely expels them. They have recently trespassed in Maudlin House. They have also written about music for Pitchfork, Bandcamp Daily, PAPER, The Line of Best Fit, and others.Twitter
Crippled Fingers on the Ouija Board by Laszlo Arányi
Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, visual poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: „(szellem)válaszok”, „A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya”, „Kiterített rókabőr” His poems in English have appeared in over a hundred journals. His new books are: "Delirium &...The Seven Haiku" (Published By DEAD MAN'S PRESS INK ALBANY, NY 2023), „Sacred anarchy! Poems and Visual poems" (Nut Hole Publishing 2024).He has been nominated several times for international awards. Known spiritualist mediums, art and explores the relationship between magic.Twitter | Facebook
HUMAN SQUEEGEE by Theodore Wallbanger
seconds struck at zero mark
decades lost on image doves
sucking wind from other
plastic injected pill boxed chums
everlasting boredom rails
fucked with shit snot sandwich fails
snap laugh trails of discovery
would unleash rampage destiny
time existed to initiate
new hope a change a quick refrain
we cull
ability to hypnotize
allowed for organic heater rides
of excavation with robotic eyes
my human squeegee
provided me
cleansing breakthroughs destroying
human bullshittery
squeegee optics
smashed all lies
from grown up toxic lullabies
scraping souls helped fill the vaults
with rotting flesh
we primed with salts
the cakes we baked from
the fakes would take
us all to a cosmic
wonder place
A wonder funk spirit living in a labyrinth of spectacle releases word bangs from his fingertips while smiling as Theodore Wallbanger. Prose pops with rampage sauce cascade rhythmically from dimensions Wallbanger thrives in. The frothy balance of Wallbanger’s published work has not been released into the wild as of this cheery, blueberry blurb. Run your eyes across verbose lines that shimmy-shake like an erotic pancake, urging you to spin toward the lands of imagination.Twitter | Instagram
Two Poems by Reza Jabrani
Jabrani
I met someone, a thousand someones, on the piss-steeped streets
of Philadelphia, studying English, learning America.
I was young. Thick-haired diligence. Perfect posture.
They said, by way of greeting, “nice to know you, Jabroni.”
I replied, exasperated, “that’s Jabrani, Ja-bra-ni,”
to which they said, to the last man, “well, Jabroni,
maybe we were wrong. Maybe it’s not so nice after all.”
I stoop now. Bald apathy. I’m fluent. American.Used Condoms
Lie like shriveled slugs
in dewy grass, slimy
with some strangers’ sex.
Hello, spring.
Reza Jabrani—that’s Jabrani, Ja-bra-ni—writes coarse prose and crude poetry.Twitter
everything splits eventually by Sreeja Naskar
.............the tree opens like a mouth
.......& the mouth has teeth
& the teeth are roots
.....still choking the names out of soil.
............(they scream in lowercase.)i saw a deer unfold itself
in front of a truck —
slow as a hymn /
quiet as surrender...............& the body—
.........opens like
.....an apology:
.................too late. too soft. too much........................the sky
................is blistered red
.......(again)
..............something holy spills
............through the seams.
........................not light.
........................not yet.
.....skin splits easier when it's warm.
i learned this when i tried to hold you.
...................(you leaked.)
..............(i didn't stop you.)my ribcage blooms backwards—
..............petals / bones /
....................empty rooms /
.......whatever god left in there
..............is feral now...........the trees are cracking.
(they said spring was coming
.....but they lied.).................i am not
............grieving the earth
.......only the way it used to feel
..before it started
..........screaming
..............under my feet...........somewhere
..................a boy opens his mouth
.............& only ash comes out...............somewhere
....................the ocean forgets
.......to hold its shape.........................i bite down.
........something iron leaks.
.....(this is how i pray now.)
Sreeja is a young poet who tried to grow up, but words just kept getting in the way.
Literary Magazine Submissions
For micropress submissions, look here.
Tell me a story unlike anything I've heard before. I'm not looking for the kinds of things you'd find in a university-run literary magazine or a journal that's existed for a billion years. There's nothing wrong with those stories, they're just not for here. Take some risks and worry about it later.
Dazzle me with prose, poetry, or some third thing. The only rule to note is that if your submission is over 2000 words, it's a very hard sell. You can send multiple poems or micros, just keep it reasonable.
Please only have one pending submission at a time. It makes it way easier for me!
Simultaneous submissions are all good. Let me know if you need to withdraw something at [email protected].
Submit your stuff in a Word document (or a jpg or png or whatever if it's hybrid.)
Stuff is published as it is received. Please give it a look over to make sure there aren't any big errors, because if I like it enough, it may be published with them. The only changes that I will make are in the formatting. This is only so it looks good online.
Include any handles you want tagged.
If you give a bio, write it like a mini eulogy or something. Basically, just get creative. I'm tired of the cookie-cutter, soulless, and promotional bios. Y'all are writers; you can figure it out. Ultimately, bios are not necessary.
I'm just publishing the stuff, you have the rights to it.
I will get back to you in 10 days. Feel free to let me know if there are any issues during that time or if your stuff has been accepted elsewhere.
Send all submissions to [email protected].
Eulogy Press is run by Dani Shoemaker.
For those who care, here's a list of things she's written.
Micopress Submisions
Eulogy is taking submissions for short chapbooks or chapbook-adjacent projects. Think poetry collections, novelettes, and short plays. That said, I am open to a pitch on anything. Like the literary magazine, I want this to be a place where far-out and experimental stuff can find a home.
They will be available in print in small batches and online. I also hope to have an audio version of each project recorded by the author that will accompany the digital version. This is not needed, but appreciated!
If your project uses epigraphs or includes found poems, I will work with you in securing permission to use the source material, but it may not be possible to publish some projects if permissions are not given.
I'm not looking for novels, more collections and novelette-length stuff, but you can send me anything and I will consider it.
There will be an intensive editing process for most projects, and the final publishing agreement will not be made until this process is over.
Authors will receive 85% of the profit once production costs have been factored in. That 15% will be used to help fund secondary print runs in the future.
Send chapbook and novelette submissions to [email protected] in a Word document, and I'll review them and make a decision within a month.
No need for a bio, any social media handles, or any fancy cover letter. Just say hi!
Autocartographies
Autocartographies charts a journey through life, beautifully illustrating its metaphorical topography. From the valley of Automythos to the heights of Balancing Rock, experience every ridge and plateau from the voice of Eva Alter, who blends confessional, found, and shape poetry into something that somehow resembles a map back home.Autocartographies will release in early October of 2025. Preorders will begin this summer.Physical: $4 + shipping | Digital: $2