Thomas Pescatore poems



You seem to be falling out,

like fading away, playing

fool/goof/phantom/drunken joke

to grown up little boys and girls

across sad broken south Philly homes

that chug and churn like the machines

of the past regurgitating old

memories onto old faces and wrinkles

of the mourning night too

close to sunrise to remember—

too locked in twisted horns

with dead things, meaningless things

that need to be let go— a drowning

universal truth slugging its way

at your temple—a a a—

just to let you down and you brood about

these things that can’t change

next to open window and open veins,

when you’re supposed to be the one

that lives and blazes and burns—


Incoherently I’m incoherent

137 miles in hell and away

like fading rivers pulled under heavy roads

of gray dawns—I’m connecting these thoughts

drying out—


You seem to be losing your grip

on where your reality resides—




Some Change for the Time Man


Anchor me down with the past…

I’m a floating helium-centric

goon of the heavens babbling

incoherent love songs to the sick—

oh well, it was a mighty cause

when I fought it, when I remembered

what it was, but now I’m ground

up in old groundhog day

senility starting 8 hours behind

the sun and escaping into the night

only to sleep never to live

never to live—I’m a lay about—

society bites me, keeps me moving,

I’ve fallen so far from my feet—

they’re dragging toward the gorge,

an endless plastic coffin filled

to the brim with only the faces

I’ve known, the ones with

concentric circles spinning round their

golden heads—that’d be us Joe—but

they stick the swords to our backs and the

planks vibrate to the frequency

of the queen’s machine—

there’s no footing, there’s no branch

only falling—


Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row. His chapbooks Trapped in the Night and A Magical Mistake are forthcoming in 2013.

Conversations Overheard

there’s a guy in the restaurant booth just behind me and he’s trying

to score. he’s telling the girl sitting in the booth with him all about his

trouble at home, about how he’s going to finally confront his girlfriend

and just ask her what the hell is wrong, because she’s been acting

really weird lately, and he needs to know if maybe she’s pregnant

which he seriously doubts because they hardly ever sleep together

anymore, if she’s had a nervous breakdown and needs

professional help, or if she just doesn’t care about him


anymore. the girl in the restaurant booth just behind me hums

sympathetically, says this situation must really be hard for the guy

says he’s been a really good guy to stay with a woman

so obviously troubled for as long as he had. I hear her ask

the waitress for another drink, make it two, and I

am suddenly so happy that the man sitting in

the booth with me is my husband, because


it would be so easy, so horrible

to be a part of that couple sitting just behind me.


by Holly Day 



Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minneapolis school district and writing classes at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published books are “Walking Twin Cities” and “Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch.”


Jeffrey Park poems

Field And Stream


Wisps of acrid smoke shimmer in

the shy rays of the rising sun.

Crows like motes in a bleary eye

circle, hypnotized by the smell of burnt

flesh and glint of twisted metal.


A broad stream runs through the field

and in its icy depths a slender figure

struggles, her rose-tinted gills fluttering

weakly, born down as she is by the

unforgiving weight of modern arms.




The Aggregate Man


She likes to introduce him as a man

of many parts – her little joke –

occasionally she goes on to demonstrate,

enumerate the provenance of his

various bits and pieces,


Here’s something we picked up in Cairo

not quite a perfect fit

but one can’t have everything

and, oh yes, this doodad cost a pretty penny

but we just had to have it.


Because his movements tend to be rather

jerky, not quite suited to cocktail-party

mingling, she prefers him

to stand in the corner once the show

is over, out of harm’s way.


So there he stands now, motionless,

his mismatched eyes

shifting almost imperceptibly, tracking

the random motion of bodies

and admiring their component parts.




Baltimore native Jeffrey Park lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school and teaches business English to adults. His poems have appeared in Requiem, Deep Tissue, Danse Macabre, Crack the Spine, Right Hand Pointing and elsewhere, and his digital chapbook, Inorganic, was recently published online by White Knuckle Press. Links to all of his published work can be found at



Low in the ghostly zone behind the dam

beneath the bleached cliff and black water line

left by the river’s sudden abeyance

I wait as a wetter season arrives,

the thaw’s flow. The cracked floor absorbs

faster than the rain falls, shines the seams

but does not heal. High above tall houses sit

on the former shore. I am not alone.

The curious and researchers scavenge

the small structures, invasive and native,

that suffocated wildly, slowly, here

while power company customers

marveled at the mystery and the scale.


Park Rangers on two week assignments

with per diem field their theories, where the pressure

relieved, how a river could all at once retreat.

Other manmade lakes have disappeared, say

the experts calmly, say internet entries,

rare, yes, but explicable, and now locals

speak with authority on aquifers and sediment.


My functionary’s possessiveness

lured me here, like to a past regime’s auction.

Before it was submerged this rural land

had to be cleared— that was my office.

Evictions, expirations, foreclosures,

by legal means the place was carried off.

I remember the map grid colors shift

red to blue, like with any project,

the deadlines met in fretful succession.

Accomplishing the place, I used to walk

the dirt path behind the school’s woods

where the tired river was kept and tell it

how it would sweep away the school, the woods

the foul line’s white lye from the baseball field,

up a last run of the sledding hill, put

a hand on each of the pillaring hills.

An interrogator offering the world

to a captive with yet no plans to turn.


I had not thought that care was taken

to excavate the concrete foundations

and expected the grid of the old town

to lay itself out to my memory

but it is gone. Below the arisen lake

currents of sifting sands, like drifted snow,

plied under the remains of the houses.

I must stand still feet above the streets.


Expected, too, descendents of the civic clubs

who fought us to hold some sort of event,

bragging on our failure, lamenting the waste,

naming those founders I had to hear

so much about. But if anyone beside me

remembers the place, the red-fronted armory,

deploring voices, they are silent now

and perhaps as perplexed as I am, turned

trying to triangulate the past by hill shape.


But now real rain, tiny meniscus bursts

as puddle joins with puddle, making pool.

The path winding down from a parking lot

turns back to bottom mud fastest of all.

The Ranger post and its generator

will be left behind, a useless landmark

to those being told to walk quickly, now

in the suddenly stormed over sundown.

As I step over a hasty escarpment,

that ancient river, your silver push,

the tall houses, their brown lawns, are dim

but soon, electricity and flowers.


Whatever weakness briefly gave, it holds

now where at the foot of the dam a rising bank

highlights and enfolds the grades, and rolls

at me, like a man made a promise. Take it

now like a shallow bay returning, recover

the floor, the height of the cliff wall, hurry

above my head, by river and rain, come

like the tide. Make me run for my life.


by Keith Seher


Keith Seher works out of the Cleveland area, and has been writing since he was 13. I belongs to a number of poetry groups, including the Butchershop, and private workshop which has been meeting for more than 45 years. 

Douglas Luman poems

Rehab Rosetta Stone





i call myself a name in the mirror



word on loan

radiant ray’s repo man

keeps bringing me back here

to the bathroom sink

washing my mouth out

to sing a diatonic drop

of golden sun

never reaching mi,

a name i call myself in the mirror









when we walked before day-break

men in the garden grew a skeleton

that looked like a hut,


brick-layer skin made

from adobe mud cast from ground’s dust

baked by builder-chefs, culinary sun.


we were enslaved to construct

pyramids over lunch

out of grains and fruit.


men cooking the hut

ate, too (as proof, i once watched

one eat a whole lemon bar)


went home after heat-waves

preheated afternoons.

we went to rooms like refrigerators.


i wondered why they went home

when they were done building

never considering


that i lacked the strength

to build a hut,

or eat a whole lemon bar.






– after Edward Elric



gods buy humans

at the grocery store:

one kilogram phosphorous

two kilograms lime

three grams silicon

five grams iron

four liters ammonia

eight grams fluorine

twenty kilograms carbon

trace amount bromine

thirty-five liters water

one quarter kilogram salt,

eighty grams sulfur

pinch of cobalt

roll into a ball.

make oceans boil.

cook for one hundred years,

bury in the soil






(transitive verb)

i have learned these verbs

still i only see bones

in the sentences


when these doctors speak

words like scriptures

they think themselves gods


when they whisper

I will remake you

you will rebuild you.





Douglas Luman’s work has found forthcoming publication through other journal outlets as well, including (forthcoming) the Toad Suck Review, uCity Review and Epigraph Magazine.


Elizabeth Jenike poems

Swallowing Sounds Like Boiling Water


I can feel a word

crawling up my esophagus

like tequila

in a red dress

or the kitchen table

that I swallowed when

my grandmother died.


I should have slipped into

the word when I married,

or when I learned to

measure coffee,

or when I first shrank

from small hands, small toes.


One day, it will become

more than a word.

It will be a song

a eulogy

a dissertation.

It will be or has been

my mother’s hands

made of flour

boiled in chicken bones,

and her smile

heavy with the weight

of the kitchen table

in her stomach.


One day,

I will be old enough

or brave enough

to speak the word,

or write it in a journal

that may be read

by my daughters.

I may finally cloak myself

in the word and allow it

to rush from my esophagus

where it is now stuck.


But for now, I let the word


linger like a tickle

in my throat

or a flame

under the teakettle

of my childhood.






On the commute home

the clouds form a table

atop four grain silos,

each grand, different.

It reminds me of you.

The top of the table is

covered with papers:

marriage certificates,



Beneath the table

grows the pile of rejections:

unworn house slippers,

discarded candy wrappers,

an album of pictures that

doesn’t belong to us.

A box of ashes teeters

on the edge of the table.

If it falls, will our life

have happened at all?


I pass beyond sight of the table, and

I remember that it is only clouds.

I forget them as I continue home.




Elizabeth Jenike is currently a master’s student of creative writing at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, where she serves as the Fiction Editor for Oxford Magazine, the graduate literary publication. She received her undergraduate degree in creative writing from Northern Kentucky University in 2012. Her poetry appeared in the 2010-2011 edition of NKU Expressed, and her short story “The End” was published in the 2009-2010 edition of the same. Most recently, her flash fiction piece “How to Dye Window Treatments” was published by the undergraduate literary project ObsessionMag.

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud