Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                           "Cypress Inn Patio"

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel, and a libretto. Her
poems have appeared Carcinogenic Poetry, VerseWrights, Provo Canyon Review,
The Galway Review, Illya’s Honey, The Fib Review, Shot Glass Journal, Snow
Monkey, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Lake, Poetry Pacific and others. Of mixed
ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Townsville, Qld.,
Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title ‘The Vanishing’ was published in 2015
by Walleah Press and is available from Walleah, Amazon and Fishpond Books.
... You remained the same
For 40 years:
You – put the cat out
Of the milk money –.
The squatter’s chair –.
The imaginary Diva
From next door –.
The Pilot light,
And a picture
Of Pompeii.
Always, you strayed
My way
As before...
Grand Elysium Fields
And more
Back then
It was ‘we’
Who were
The living.
From my perpendicular
Comes rushing
Towards me.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                              The Red Carpet

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Richard Schnap- A Poem


He glides slowly by
Like a secret agent
From another planet

Receiving transmissions
To guide him to complete
Some classified mission

And sometimes he smiles
As if he’s discovered
Something that will please

His faraway masters
Relaying the orders
Only he can hear

Friday, February 5, 2016

Joseph Victor Milford- Three Poems


it rains on my heart for eternity and it is fucking awesome. you are jealous and you should be.
guitar headstock rests neck on window-pain. my knuckles are made of metal and wood. kisses.
umpfucteen bad things. shooting pool. lying to myself. morning is landing like a UFO. crime.
mailbox and lunchbox. Keats and his handkerchiefs. i saw a gaunt coyote run towards the abyss.
only starfruit grew in eden. eve had no vagina. she had salvation between her legs. Adam ran.
oracles throw bones and we break them pulling plows. our women die in childbirth. damn holy.
i tried to strangle autumn. demons came and pissed golden-red blood everywhere. i freckled.
snapping green beans into the copper bowls while squash men waited to become casseroles.
cut the grass. slur. laugh. dogwood heaves under a hailstorm. recovers. mocks you. need oil.
quarry dive on drunken memorial day. tattered tags of tongues. sunscreen salt and copulations.


cookies. credit cards. cookies. credit cards. the dark ages. cookies. credit cards. the dark ages.
i have the glacier cellphone ap. i will deploy upon you. my three-year-old just threw up. i’ll call.
parchment is what i was wrapped in and it was also my burial shroud so libraries resurrect me.
your storm in me beginning creating dark seasons to come. damn you Donald Trump Star Trek.
wingspan in my chest cavity. a coma stroke embolism aperture. wingspan in my chest cavity.
blogs guns and gaga. i will never chop down my tree but my roots are in your evangelist mouth.
i am cannibal at flesh carnival. puff pastry roadkill. powdered sugar on my lips. turkey-legs.
the idiot comes in like a tycoon. he finds the penny on heads, and he’s happy. smokes his shit.
then he unleashes his tie. relaxes. he always sleeps with his eyes open. he orders beer for all.
and he can’t pay. and it’s Christmas. he has to walk at least twenty miles. it’s love; understand?


it was after the abduction that the town Moreland began to ostracize him. the doctors’ gossiped.
it was like someone asked for rat poison at the pharmacy and then the whole town knew. Toby.
he didn’t want to go to jail—they have the wrong kinds of bars in their. dumb luck counts too.
nueral clusterings like gravel alleyways in a town before first snowflake falls. all is ceremonial.
in dream of great-grandmother she turned to wipe flour on the apron but it was bloodred blood.
he saw the afterbirth of the universe pour out of the interdimensional cervix and went pinwheel.
they still looking for proof of a giant squid. it’s like the lines that never got written by Rimbaud.
he thought Area 51 was where they kept geriatric huntsmen from accidentally shooting things.
lo and behold. tow & fold your hand. resolve and undermine. mow and sow gold. awe flowed.
hexes abundant. in pollen of the tigerlilies was the hexpollen. walked covered in this homeward.

Joseph Victor Milford is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer who is currently working on his EdD doctoral studies. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010. He is also the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, where he has compiled an archive of over 300 interviews and readings with American and Canadian poets. Joe Milford also edits the poetry journal RASPUTINand he is co-founder and poetry editor of BACKLASH PRESS.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Radio Free Albemuth

He stood rubbing
the graying stubble
of his weather beaten
face with the stumps
of his fat, dirty fingers
wrapped in torn,
filthy rags, peeling
small black scabs
from the crags of his
face ,as he slides
small exact change
across the wood for
draft beer said,
"My handle is
Radio Free Albemuth.
Bet you don't know
anything about the
book or the place
that inspired it.
I've been receiving
transmissions from
outer space long
before any one of
you ever arrived
on this planet, and
will be, long after
you're gone."
I thought, maybe,
this guy was doing
some kind of Martian
two step through the tulips,
it was  better to refer him to
a higher authority outside,
closer to the landing site of
the next divine invasion.
I'd even give him change
for the public phone, on
the corner of Quail,
if needed to call
home collect for
a pickup.

He looked as if

he'd lost a solar
lottery, been drafted,
shipped somewhere overseas
and fought the good fight
he never had a chance to win,
and all he had to show for it
was a nine inch scar through
his blind right eye, and discolored
skin from all the back
blasting napalm he
had caught dead on,
in some jerkwater
jungle town on the
edge of nowhere.
He was drinking over
time now, all day and all
night, to get back in his mind
to the place where he’d left
the dead and the maimed,
back to where he belonged.   

They were like

unstrung cosmic puppets
walking around in some
kind of comprehensive,
self-induced, comas.
The leader of the group
spoke in a dialect of slur,
projected through cracked,
pale lips by an off-stage
ventriloquist, with an evil sense
of humor, making requests
for unattainable, alcoholic
concoctions that could only
be made in an off-world bar in
a cafe like the one Han Solo
did time in between
flights, waiting for the next
Star Wars episode,
or, at least, that was the way
I tried to explain his lack of
communication skills
in terms he might understand.
"We're not getting through
to you," he said, and I replied,
"At least, we agree on something."
and found something else more
important to attend to while
he awaited new messages from
home base.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

John Pursch- Two Poems

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at Check out his experimental lit-rap video at He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Left Blank

Quiet canal,
warm cobbles,
decaying leaves…

a sun-bronzed hand
trails rust on stone.

Stained glass
connects my ribs
as sky dissolves
in teleported haze.

Silence As a Second Language

For the past ten years
I’ve been going to night school,
studying silence as a second language.

For my final project
I’m building a time machine
that will enable us to visit the present.