Pages of Us By John Drudge

A conduit of dreams 

And truths 

Wielding words

Transforming

Connecting 

A bridge 

To understanding

A window into worlds

A spark 

Igniting change

Journeys 

Of self-discovery 

Communication

The essence of us 

Challenging perspectives

Touching hearts

Crafting realities

From thoughts unspoken

Wrestling the shadows

Of imagination’s depth

Breathing life

Into the unvoiced

Evolving visions

Beyond the page

Every sentence a heartbeat

Every story a reflection

A dance of ink and thought

Leaving imprints

On the eternity

Of us

John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology.  He is the author of seven books of poetry: “March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019), New Days (2020), Fragments (2021), A Long Walk (2023), A Curious Art (2024) and Sojourns (2024) . His work has appeared widely in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.

 

Angst By Bruce Morton

We think we must fake it,

Take it as it comes, or goes.

No need to be anxious about

Anxiety. It is best to let it be,

Let tension become pretention.

We worry about worry, hurry

As we scurry to and from

Who knows where or why.

Afraid we are to be judged

So we refrain from judging

And judgment. Sooner or

Later we run out of fingernails

Anyway. Unable to scratch

The surface of our insecurities,

We rub hurt feelings, massage

Inflated and deflated egos.      

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

Doctor Theaters' Kiss By Alex S. Johnson

Having spun the eyes of

carnival

creation 

into

a tapestry of black silk cinema 

Mistress Spider squatted 

philosophically over

The navel of herstory 

With a winedash pour of

self-sufficiency

Scattered glitter dialectics to 

the four corners 

Stretched the sun's skin and

fashioned a 

Drum from it to

Procreate polyrhythms that 

rival tabla dialogues 

Rat rat tat machine gun

blistering blast beats of 

black metal

Shapeshifting to raven stretched her

guillotine wings over the

giggling quantum foam 

As coyote chuckled once more to

see humanity dash itself to

bits of pottery shards over 

shallow ideals and 

hollow men

Doctor Theater hovers at the door

of the final floorshow 

Tickets please. 

Alex S. Johnson is the acclaimed author of Final Destination: Wipeout, Jason X: Death Moon, Bad Sunset, The Doom Hippies and Bizarrely Depared. His poetry has appeared in numerous venues including 13 Mynah Birds, Misfits, Unlikely Stories, Black Noise, and much more. John Shirley, screenwriter of the cult classic horror film The Crow starring Brandon Lee, wrote of his forthcoming dark poetry collection Thunderstruck, "Alex S. Johnson is the Baudelaire of our time; the poet of the underground." Among the honors he's received are the acquisition of Skull Vinyl and The Doom Hippies by the Widener Library at Harvard University. Johnson's upcoming works include Blood Red Romance: A Dark Poetry Collection with Alea Celeste Williams. He lives in Carmichael, California with his family. 

Living Close by Susan Isla Tepper

Colliding memories 

the sad bird who lost its voice

living close to crashing waves

who could compete

I felt my own voice take a turn

hurrying down the mountain road

for the train

no time to sniff lilacs

growing wild

after that it got easier

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her stage play "Crooked Heart" will be featured in Origin Theatre Company 'May Play Festival', NYC.

Night Cap By Jake St. John

Sometimes

late at night 

when I can’t sleep

and the glasses

are empty

I wander down

the hallway 

past bedrooms 

some of them full

some of them empty

I trip over laundry

and navigate the stairs 

and head into the garage 

where I'll stand 

and look out 

into the night 

usually the moon

hangs over the yard

or at least 

a street light 

on the far side 

of the woods 

breaks through

on some nights 

coyotes yip 

the darkness 

other nights 

owls echo 

the shadows 

but tonight 

there's nothing 

so I guess 

I'll go back in 

the house

and write a poem.

 

Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Lips Leave Scars (with Jenn Knickerbocker, Whiskey City Press, 2023) Ring of Fog (Holy and Intoxicated Publications, 2022), Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of poetry. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world."

His Last Drunk By Keith Pearson

The end of the parade.

I stagger outside and puke

behind a dumpster.

Been a long time since I tasted that

awful burn.

My best shirt marked with that stink.

The rain on my face may be just tears.

When I can crawl I find the front door locked.

I sit on one of the chairs on the porch

and in time the rocking

no long makes me sick.

Like a boat finally run ashore.

I would practice walking

if I could stand.

Across the valley the mountains

are frosted with diamonds.

It is the most wonderful thing

I have ever seen.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

I’m in Trouble By Jay Passer

 

Like being torn apart and eaten alive by a frenzy of sharks

I remember being squirted out of my mother

but not too well

Delivered with deluxe chopsticks

weaned on soy milk

stored in a shoebox.

I’m in love with a pubescent fantasy construct

born from a SuicideGirls babysitter

it’s terrifyingly

overwhelmingly

obvious and passé.

I’m buried in a heap of bird feathers

I’m a moron dressed as a matador

a surgeon operating on double-A batteries

a pterodactyl in a tutu.

She’s not the usual kind

she’s not somebody’s wife sister cousin grand-niece 

baby-mama auntie stepdaughter

she’s not even a she or a he or a he-she or she-he

or anaconda or spider-monkey or zebra

or fire hydrant or exhaust pipe or keyhole.

I’m in love with my own damn self

my predilections

my insecurities

my obsessions staring morosely back at me

from the mirror hanging on the wall

the wall supporting the ceiling

the ceiling keeping me from shitstorms and sunburn and 

the world in chaos and dubious heavens and the Man Himself

and by the way

That son-of-a-bitch owes me 4 decades worth of rent.

I’m in trouble

because I’m in love with the Mona Lisa the Queen of Sheba Venus de Milo Joan of Arc Esther Hadassah Madame Curie Camille Claudel Isadora Duncan Tawakkol Karman and that one Thai cutie from Blackpink.

I’m in love with a cross-country-bound Greyhound busload 

of traumatized Nobel laureates

with a goldfish posing as a mermaid

the natural spawn of an apocalypse cult

squid ink and bird droppings.

It’s a testament to acceptance of the boomerang’s return

Meat on the grill and a pain in the neck.

I’m in love with 

trouble

a child’s scrawl on the face of a flower

horns spurting from halos

black seas of chlorine

cool rain for blood.

The poetry and prose of Jay Passer has appeared in print and online periodicals, magazines and anthologies, in subterranean basements and men's room stalls, cave walls and space shuttles, since 1988. He is the author of 15 collections of words, symbols, diatribes, missives, isms, schisms, rain drizzles and blood fizzles. A cook by trade, he's also dabbled in daubs, photo-montage, reverse Feng shui; while failing at mortician's apprentice, news butcher, and criminal savant. Passer's most recent chap, Son of Alcatraz, was released in February of 2024 from Alien Buddha Press, and is available on Amazon.

Snaggletooth Muppet By Manny Grimaldi

My printers outlast my shredders,

I believe in scissors more than a pen.

I rip up my notes, rarely keep records,

and burn my manuscripts in salty fens.

I find certain words are static charges

alive with present shock and rumble:

annoyance, dryness, blockage, sludge,

black-swan and crumple, 

the color cyan: piercing, glancing,

inhospitable—the nut straight at poker,

the sound of all-in, then raking the chips 

by a dribbling drink,

and your drunken sister doesn’t care

if she’s wearing mascara at your mother’s

second wedding, and the faces 

of the clowns doing balloon tricks

for your upstart kids start to frown.

There’s always a brat that knows

where the rabbit went and tells

the crowd. That was me in nutshell.

My story to tell. It is rare I formed

a partnership with a human

lasting more than a couple of years.

My teeth have never blunted.

Manny Grimaldi is a Louisville, Kentucky poet, a spit and a cough just west of the "bourbon trail".  He is the managing editor for the poetry journal Yearling out of Lexington, Kentucky.  Years ago, his drinking got arrested and thrown in jail, and occasionally Manny has marched on its behalf.  Manny is also a clown.  Personally, and by training.