Sunday, November 29, 2015

Stefanie Bennett- Three Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry & has poems appearing in
Dead Snakes, The Fib Journal, Shot Glass Journal, Pyrokinection, Ink, Sweat &
Tears, The Provo Canyon Review, Eskimo Pie, Poetic Diversity, The plum Tree
Tavern etc. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born
in Qld., Australia. Stefanie has been nominated for The Pushcart & her latest
poetry book “The Vanishing” [2015] was published by Walleah Press & is
available from Walleah Press, Amazon & Fishpond.
ANYTHING GOES: for Macaque’s Menagerie   
Moving house:
The snails
Are out
In droves –.
... Upon my
It’s 3
To breakfast
And back.
The tortoise waits
For the post
To shift
Of its own

Noel Negele- A Poem

About My Good Friend John

It happened usually
at dawn, while the sun started to come up
and we all wished the night lasted for two days-
when we came down from
the drugs hard,
our feet feeling like truck tires
instead of feathers
that we talked about the really serious stuff-
Syria, Hamas, immigration problems
world hunger, pharmaceutical companies
extremists, conspiracies, enviromental downslides
and there was always this bold guy telling us
about economical wars going on
and that we were really close to something awful-
this in truth was only a way of coping with sadness
talking about worse things
though we were, and still are, poorly educated
and the majority of us with criminal records.
But anyway, this is about my good friend John
leaning over the plate- a plastic straw jammed into his right nostril
just after I've told him to it call it a day,
that we had done enough self destructing
to last us for two life times,
my good friend John falling on the ground
flapping like a fish out of water,
foam coming out of his mouth
his eyes nowhere to be seen-
death rocking him hard before
taking him from us,
my good friend John
the more good looking one
the kinder one
dying in front of our eyes
bringing a flash in my mind
of him laughing at fourteen years of age
all rose-cheeked and careless,
remaining still, suddenly, at last
like a puppet whose strings were released
as if someone up there got bored
or disgusted more than the usual,
my good friend John
who is no longer
like so many good people out there
leaving us behind, remorseful and horrified
for all the chances of kindness we missed,
for all the love we came short.

John Pursch- A Poem

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.

Clockwork Dogs

It turned out to be dogs coughing, all this time, these eons. They were patiently, steadfastly, marking the minutes as a sort of public service, keeping time for humankind. A best friend, not so easily replaced by wristwatch after all! How fortunate that bark was far more accurate than bite. The dilatory canine phlegm fixation, day by hidden hour, by translucent sunrise silhouette, by carefully shepherded human trundle into pewter fasting, hobbled by irregular rhythmic groans and mottled cream in cobbled cacophonous dialects of interspecies interface, relying on denormalized unitary lurches of penny-ante lorries, waxing wagon wheels, turpentine evaporating in midday sun. Meanwhile, way out west, random bipeds were slinging lead at a thousand feet per second, staggering from dry deserted ghastly wooden towns to rivers full of foolish pyrite wishing wells, pressing fat of hand to iron butt of cigarette polonium, speckling the years with flecks of splintered wood, bleaching bones, quiet horses, and the vast uncounted dispossessed of canyon, plain, and forest; shrouded wanderers who calmly went the way of coughing clockwork dogs.

Michael Ceraolo- Two Poems

At the Ball Park (2)

the parks' public-address systems
were done away with,
the fans at the park with three choices
of how to receive game information
(and the constant music,
some of the choices allowed one
to reduce or eliminate the music,
there were those few who chose
to eliminate the information):
to read it off the many smaller video boards
that had replaced the single giant board
(ever-declining literacy levels
made this the most esoteric choice);
audio/video apps for one's mobile device(s)
(the most popular choice);

                                        and three,
audio/video streams implanted
directly into the brain once a person
had reached the age of majority
and could legally choose to do so,
of course there were those who didn't wait
and had it done illegally
(this was the least popular at first
as the bugs in the new technology
were worked out,
                          but it eventually grew
to be solidly the second-most popular choice)

At the Ball Park (3)

Another innovation
was the excess section
This was not for standing-room fans
once the park had reached
its seating capacity,
as it had been in the old days,
rather a special section
for those dedicated to excess,
whether food or drink or real or
simulated game situations
There would be vomitoria,
overnight accommodations for those
no longer able to drive or teleport,
those who chose this section
knowing they would be subject
to strict scrutiny of their sobriety
if they wanted to leave
(it has never been noted
how much wisdom was found
by those who traveled this road)

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

Michael Keshigian’s tenth poetry collection, Beyond was released May, 2015 by Black Poppy.  He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals most recently including Poesy,The Chiron Review, California Quarterly, and has appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications with 5 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (

On a quiet night
I saw a dying star
streak to its demise
behind a moonlit hill
bordering the horizon.
A wolf immediately began to howl
a lugubrious taps
and the universe stopped twinkling
for a moment of darkness
in honor of the fallen comrade.

Midnight and he walked
the narrow trail away from the lake,
becoming aware of night’s blackness,
isolation and mystery
surrounded him upon the winding path
as the breeze followed, its breath chilling,
sending a shudder to his core.
He gazed up, implored the stars for comfort,
but was astonished at their minuteness
within the immensity of ceiling.
Life is more meaningful
when he ponders beneath the leaves
of the great oak in his yard,
his children enhancing gaiety
instead of the smallness
that now invades his being,
this infinitesimal, singular particle
meandering in the dark,
lost in the complexity of an explanation.
There have been times,
under the same set of stars,
when his eyes widened
and the folds of his brain absorbed
those blinking messages from the universe
that transformed him into the nature
of all things, belonging
to an existence much larger than himself,
a child of the cosmos, his mind
a tiny compression of space dust
that saw beyond the veil of all things
without a need for explanation.
But indeed, on this night,
the invisible hand has dropped the curtain.
He is afraid to float, perhaps drown
in this sea of black without notice.
He searches for the moon or a guiding light
for passage, perhaps the sun will arrive early
to show him the way.

After all these years,
through all these nights, 
dank and dim,
moonlit and starry,
it happened,
a new star was born,
another bright light appeared
and he witnessed its inception,
a potion, a power, ignited
in the midnight sky.
He glanced upward
through the window of his room
to see the distant candle flare
as it illuminated his surroundings,
fantasies dancing upon his pillow,
around his head,
warm breaths of possibility
enraptured his bed.
Even this late,
his heart buried deep,
exploded and the evening’s black mesh
blazed into joy. 

Saturday, November 28, 2015

Alan Catlin- A Poem

      The Vampire

 "There was this guy that
 hung out in school who always
 dressed up like Bela Lugosi.
 You know: complete vampire deluxe
 attire including white face and
 cape.  Rumor had it, he slept
 in a coffin and went to class
 always dressed in black.
 Someone told me, they saw him
 drink a glass of blood but I
 thought that was a bit extreme
 even for Ithaca.  He was weird
 though, no doubting that.
 No matter how late you staggered
 back toward the dorm you might
 sort of see him tinkering with
 the hearse, of course, he had
 a hearse with wall to wall carpeting
 and quadraphonic sound.
 God only knows where he got it all
 because it was like new.
 I guess his people had money,
 old money, if you know what I mean.
 Let me tell you that was one campus
 that didn't look forward to Halloween."

Chad Repko- A Poem

Short BIO: Chad Repko is a poet from Pottstown PA.

The Evolution of Self

it's true what they say
it's not the years,
it's the mileage
to grow
and gain such knowledge
of self
the struggle between
the soul and the mind
with the body being the battlefield
that gets weighted in time

they say you look old
but i still like to fuck in the rain
some things change
while others stay the same
through capitalism
the zombie filled cannibalism
that sick one-eyed Willie green
pump caffeine into the machine
see your time flushed down the latrine
and school pride
of friends and family that have died
east side
where the rival towns collide
I don't need that damn divide
for as I am grown
that hatred need not apply

across time I have traveled
through books, through timelines
by the skin of my teeth
I have battled
through constants and variables
through love, through love lost
through space and energy
back to love's synergy
but never blinking off course
because there has always been a source
the eyes, the stars, the galaxies
upon galaxies
that do not end
but yet a planet
that rests on our tiny shoulders
how beautiful our short life grows
before the dirt begin to enclose
grab your friend and fucking love them
we have already seen it all
it's been hard-linked to the brain-stem
with our little time here
we can stop the train
that's quickly headed for the cliff
so that our children
won't have to see this abyss
but luckily
your rules do not apply to me

and you ask
"what do you see when you look in the mirror?"
I see mileage

and my future

Friday, November 27, 2015

Stefanie Bennett- Three Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry & has poems appearing in
Dead Snakes, The Provo Canyon Review, The Mind[less] Muse, Shot Glass Journal,
Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Lake, Eskimo Pie, The Plum Tree Tavern etc. Of mixed
ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Qld., Australia in 1945.
Nominated for The Pushcart, her latest poetry book “The Vanishing” is published
by Walleah Press [2015] & is available from Walleah Press, Amazon & Fishpond.
... Told to “get off
My high horse”
I tried:
The horse flew
And so
Did I –.
The tree that
You felled
Was mine!
Put it
Surrounded by
Grey days
You lose
When love’s
In the wash.

Richard Schnap- Three Poems


I remember their eyes
Windows that revealed
Cold empty rooms
Lit by dwindling candles

And I remember their lips
Muttering the words
Of childlike songs
Set to funereal music

And I remember their hands
Clutching the remains
Of scavenged cigarettes
And cheap bags of dope

But I forget their names
For they’d invent new ones
Aliases to deceive
The harvester of souls


In the evenings I’d sit
On the balcony and watch
Trains slowly passing
On the nearby tracks

While inside my wife
Shed her heavenly costume
Revealing the serpent
That lurked deep inside

And as her rage grew
Like a gathering tempest
The men on the boxcars
Would wave and smile

As I waved back and wished
I could somehow join them
To be carried away from
The fangs of my night


I remember the crimson candles
Set in their shining brass sconces
The dark and brooding landscapes
Shot through with a lukewarm light
The shelves of books of wisdom
Penned by the world’s great authors
Forbidden to ever be opened
Like tombs that were sealed shut

And I remember the windows
Covered with layers of curtains
To impede any rays of sunlight
From finding their way within
For this was the house of shadow
Reflecting the mind of its master
A man who built an empire
As dark as his endless night

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

John Pursch- A Poem

Hyphenated Dreams

The map of Watchingstoned, T.V. was imprinted in her head decades ago, as part of a general lobotic neural restructuring, preparatory to the final invasion of most of this quadrant of the galaxy. With trillions of brains entrained on a countably infinite stream of hyphenated dreams, escape was limited to strictly stowaway comportment, behavioral nuance confabulation, easily detected by the overseer routines. Omnipresence had become de rigueur, state of the artiste, swelling before the central directorate’s dusty bureau of watch fob patina and purple montage casualties of sworn honesty, slowly penned into franked openness, country spacemen daubed with just a tad of traditional broomstick welt, cardboard cutout personalities gone sour in the wind, sockets deftly stroking the saliva off youthful digits, flinging prospective recon agents carefully to windswept aisles in landing pattern disarray; frazzled forelocks singing of ashplant Wednesdays, swollen begonias, and torment tarnation trapezoids tripping on idiosyncratic lassitude.

“All in a dazed shirker’s sunlit path,” Lola mused to sweeping swoon of bifurcating bundled data bleed, frost congealing into lost memories of the Old West, of cottonwoods and hickory pipes in fragrant sage, stagecoach rodeo assemblage fonts of memorized acculturated dustpan towns, saloons in jumpy finger twitch to ball-peen clamor’s noon surprise, peritonitis steeping in sundown stew. She shook the cobwebbed images of aging misty cowlick swirls, revealing new galactic arms in fully granulated precision, looming huge in sudden sod approach necessitating wave collapse, the slam of shoulder straps against her clavicles (how many had she snapped in early breathless simulator rides as just a girl, if only she could swap retain rescind the rain of endless soporific days again in tunneled time mache) absorbing shock to drain in rivulets of wicking perspiration into fetal nonchalance beneath the huddled millions.

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.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Death on the Installment Plan

“I have learned that Jesus loves me
because the TV tells me so.”
      Daniel Jones, “After forty-six days on the Psycho Ward”

The script he was a character in
had him tricked out like some
vagabond mountebank without
a license to sell, all his wares lost
in the apocalyptic ruins of the place
he was stumbling out of like Steadman’s
Macbeth carrying a locked suitcase
full of heads leaking blood on a ruined,
rutted road, ace archer’s arrows instead
of a necktie, shafts bent where they
hit his chest, or like a refugee from
a burning wood, Bierce characters
from The Wilderness trying to escape
the conflagration and finding an original
Twilight Zone episode of the Holocaust,
a Dresden bombing like Slaughterhouse 5,
one that never made it from a cutting room
floor, a young Robert Redford as Death
with a medicine bag making house calls
in the tenements, ghettos of a vanishing
world, handing out vouchers for his
treatment, down payments for a layaway,
pay as you go installment plan.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

The headline of The Weekly World News
proclaimed: 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse
Photographed in Arizona just days ago!
And all I could think of was: Where else?
The badly out of focus picture of the boys
accompanying the headline suggested some
bad dudes, pissed off riders of the purple
sage hell bent for a tour of duty exacting
rage, retribution and revenge.
At first, the picture suggested nothing
more exciting than every other fraternity
party I had attended, in another life
as a college student, but looking closer,
the one riding with the mace held high
over his plumed head reminded me of body
language peculiar to a certain kind of
Neanderthal who majored in weight lifting
at the local university.  In fact, the whole
crew could have been the front line of any
college football team and hadn't I just
waited on them, collectively and alone?
               Wasn't I rude, as well, recently, even? 
And wasn't it here, with the lights low,
the clock with its frozen hands stalled between                          
early morning hours, that I had raised my voice
to ask for last call, and these same men
had emerged from the shadows, the names
of the living and the dead escaping from
their lips?

The Dead Man Walks His Dog

He should look older
but he doesn't,
he's been dead too long.
His skin should be wrinkled
but it isn't,
his face is as smooth as a silk sheet.
He should be emaciated
but he's not
Let's face it, his body odor is unbearable.
He is, well
something of a dead issue
even now as he walks his favorite dead dog
down main street
holding the leash near soiled fire hydrants
watching the traffic with a stiff, vacant                                       

All the neighbors comment:
"What's he doing now?”
“Walking his dog?”
“He should know better
and keep to his own kind."
That old dead fool
walking his favorite dead dog
this one last time.

Monday, November 9, 2015

Robert League- Three Poems

Terrible Gas Mask Man

Hopped from my bed
to the other side
of the room,
the terrible gas mask man
hidden at my feet,
but he was not there,
no fumes, no vapors,
no grating sound, just
an empty wooden land
with a few curls of dust.


It was real 
that distant space
we landed on, we
knew it, and should
have stayed up,
but look at us here
now, me remembering,
you forgetting,
and both of us 
somehow regretting.


Small popping sound
and we are gone, gone,
going to a new place,
one where you can
speak, I can finally
listen, and stop pretending,
except I know when
we get there, through
those blue portals
and green mazes,
through the ice lands
and over hot lava,
I will still be pretending,

JD DeHart- Poem & Art


Whether it is the Frankensteinian
man plugged in,
uttering a few ancient verses
while another awaits,
or the face stretched across the path,
blocking exit and peace,
they are creatures that haunt,
products of mind.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems & Art

Three Haiku

aliens attack
transform the world into a
ball of candy

i didn’t enter
planet raffle, the airfare
is not included

martian colony
lots of work available
except for lifeguards

                                                 "Far Far Face" 


John Pursch- A Poem

Human Indication Myths

Like nose, slight posies, sand dozers down the steeply peopled ouch of hysteresis haunch and hunchback histories we know as -- well, wad do sweet nullities of sheer lobotic frenzy ever know… 

Moderately notched, slime a frayed hemp vacuum, propping up vowels in stray morphologies of emulsified burbles in waistcoat sex pipes, hostile to evenly tolerated mumbler fields, squatter neon sighs suffusing peerless titled paperweights of human indication myths, just one foundry kit after another knockoff biped strolling clean and easy, drowning sordid fecund streets of glossed Americon cityscapes with scads of scabies, tabulated sourly by sacked tumescent insurance sheen in deeply parried alternatives to fate, straightjacketed by syntax, played to breathless bowling scores of parity in split-ten sawdust, popping buttered gals within allotted sandstorm seas, plopped in concrete webs of carbon beaneries, coffeehouse cacophonies of soggy stranger lullabies, flopped gracefully in corner booth to self-reliant bootstrap module spectacle and fuel-retardant microwave insistence breed. 

Cameras replace the scene at twice the framed ration’s tailored blip, missing frequent dings of stumpy-necked originals, yes actuarial papal submariners for once, rarely encapsulated by distracting messages, and who could’ve expected pandas or condors or these dazed oven-minders to notice or fraudulently record heavenly slightest blots or bolts or biologically reasoned bits of knowledge paste hobbling candy tinkle tinsel breath to remotely dissemble slum lord dentifrice delays along these linear knees?

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.