January 2019 | John Sweet, poetry
in a room, blindly
Not lies, really,
but truths that can’t be proven.
The ghosts of Aztecs,
of Incas.
Parking lots.
Palaces.
Man rolls the dice to see which of
the children will starve,
and then the bomb goes off.
Seventeen dead, blood everywhere,
the pews of the church on fire.
The runoff from the mill
dumped into the river.
Close your eyes and picture it.
The first time we met and then,
two years later,
the first time we made love.
Oceans on every side of us,
wars to the south,
to the east,
and I told you you were beautiful.
Had no words beyond that,
only abstractions.
Only need.
Thirty seven years old and
suddenly no longer blind and,
in the mountains,
the killers were making new plans.
In town,
the streetlights were coming on.
It seemed almost possible
we would find our way home.
aesop’s blues
in the cold white light of
febuary mornings
in the shadows of obsolete monuments
where we no longer touch
this is the world defined by
indifference and rust
this is a handful of salt held out
to christ while he dies on the cross
a gift without meaning
or offered with nothing but malice
a man walking slowly across
the frozen river and
then gone
sends his love
which is worth nothing at all
by john sweet
john sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living. A believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to all organized religion and political parties. His latest collections include APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press) and the limited edition chapbooks HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A BASTARD CHILD IN THE KINGDOM OF NIL (2018 Analog Submission Press). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.
January 2019 | poetry
Fuck immobility.
Fuck politics and divisiveness and apologists dressed as peacekeepers.
Fuck the world of white men.
Fuck the need for Pride,
the need for a celebration so vibrant
erasure becomes impossible.
Fuck loaded arms, deathly, bragging,
the pathetic “I’ll fuck you up” of people wielding them.
Fuck empty arms,
mothers, babies, partners ripped out of reach.
Fuck prayers drafted like business letters.
Fuck bad luck, the wrong day or moment or side of the street.
Fuck luck and survivor’s guilt and the lingering curiosity
for whether tomorrow will look different.
Fuck therapy and the gods that make it necessary.
Fuck the brilliance of storms from a protected room.
Fuck the protected room and its confines.
Fuck those who, protected, engender storms and then sleep.
Fuck me, and this bitten-down tongue, swollen and resentful and silent.
And fuck you, by the way, reading this,
or maybe just fuck the miles between us.
by Chelsea Hansen
Chelsea Hansen is a freelance musician and English graduate residing in northern Colorado. She has poems forthcoming in early 2019 for Door is a Jar magazine. In between creative projects and an 8-to-5 day job, she spends her free time walking river trails and marveling at the wide expanse of the plains.
October 2018 | poetry
Somewhere
West of the Mojave.
In a dream
I don’t remember.
In that space
Where water amputates,
Land,
And everything,
We cannot burn grows,
Wild.
I am Mother.
I am Mother
To a daughter, born
Early,
Composed in a turbulent sea.
Surfacing, with skin and teeth,
Umbilical cord,
Tied off,
Knotted,
Around her neck,
In protest.
I am Mother.
Child of the corner.
Lotus flower
I wear you like a wound
Struggling,
To understand
Your language.
I cannot turn away.
They say, a mother is always
Letting go
Of her children.
I hear you.
I see you.
In my daydreams
In my nightmares.
I cannot turn away.
She takes a Permanent
Marker,
Crosses out my name.
i am mother.
by Sheree La Puma
Sheree La Puma is an award-winning writer whose personal essays, fiction and poetry appeared in such publications as the Burningword Literary Journal, I-70 Review, Mad Swirl, and Ginosko Literary Review, among others. She received an MFA in Writing from California Institute of the Arts and attended workshops with poet Louise Mathias and writer Lidia Yuknavitch. She has taught poetry to former gang members and theater to teen runaways. Born in Los Angeles, she now resides in Valencia, CA with her rescues, Bello cat and Jack the dog.
October 2018 | poetry
In the headlights, fingers of fog weave
over the road, a seamstress just beginning
to patch together the loss of hours and years,
the maybe not and the not there yet.
I drive three hours to my mother’s house,
arrive an hour later than she expects,
still she’s waiting with dinner. She’s
seventy something, I’m forty-six, we’re still
mother and son. Before I’m finished with
the salad, she wants me to accompany her
to two parties this evening: a birthday
and a retirement. Between the roast beef
and mashed potatoes, it’s all guilt. I continue
to say, “No,” mentioning the chainsaw and splitting
wood for the stove, playing basketball with my son
and friends, and, of course, the drive, and in case
exhaustion isn’t enough, I accept the label
of neglectful son, and whatever else she serves up.
Plato, Socrates’ prize student, when he was eighty,
attended a pupil’s wedding party,
and during the celebration retired
to a corner of the villa to sleep in a chair.
He stayed there until the all-night revelers
returned in the morning to wake him,
but he had slept too far into the Elysian fields,
leaving us with the question: Is it marriage
or a party that leads to the death of philosophy?
by Walter Bargen
Walter Bargen has published 21 books of poetry. Recent books include: Days Like This Are Necessary: New & Selected Poems (BkMk Press, 2009), Trouble Behind Glass Doors (BkMk Press, 2013), Perishable Kingdoms (Grito del Lobo Press, 2017), and Too Quick for the Living (Moon City Press, 2017). His awards include: a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship and the William Rockhill Nelson Award. He was appointed the first poet laureate of Missouri (2008-2009).www.walterbargen.com
October 2018 | poetry, Pushcart nominee
Chess
Inside one Russian doll is another,
dressed in a different nationality
and inside that one is yet another.
and so on until all of them
gang up and storm the opera house
demanding to see the mayor.
Which of them crossed the border
may depend on fingerprints
and the next referendum.
As one nation collapses,
another rises up from the same dolls,
each a pawn in a clever sacrifice.
Flatliners
So now the earth is flat
Since nothing’s truly round
Not even a plutocrat
Rolls without a sound
On wildlife habitat
Hydraulic drilling pounds
Skinning mountains flat
Unearthing sacred mounds
The Fed’s still keeping track
Of stocks that leap and bound
Payback for any kickback
Their graphs are never round.
In jazz clubs singers scat
Audiences spellbound
Because the earth is flat
Keep both feet on the ground
by Michael Karl Ritchie
Michael Karl Ritchie is a retired Professor of English from Arkansas Tech University with work published in various small press magazines, including The Mississippi Review, Margie, OR Panthology – Ocellus Reseau. He has had three small press chapbook publications and Winter Goose Press has just published his collection of poems Ampleforth’s Miscellany (2017).
October 2018 | poetry, Pushcart nominee
Eyeless
When your eyes suddenly fell out,
leaving you blind as a bowl of soup,
you frantically began feeling around the floor.
On your hands and knees, crawling carefully
to make sure you didn’t crush
one of them with your four-legged steps.
Feeling nothing but grunge and grime on the that old linoleum,
you became more panicked with each passing second,
realizing, now that your eyes have fallen out,
just how filthy this world has truly become.
Noisy Noose
The spirit has slowly evaporated,
gradually turned jaded throughout the years,
quelled, wrecked by the jarring persistence of cacophony
that pours through the veins and hallways of this world.
Inspiration melted to a feeble pulp by the noisy noose
of the boisterous trucks and verbose dogs
that populate the neighborhood, filling the air,
the never-silent wind, with an incessant clamor.
The poet’s soul will soon be laid to rest among the din.
The Prevalence of Nothingness
Churning the nothingness into a somethingness
is tried. Doesn’t work.
Maybe half-works since I see
kids gathered
in the abandoned parking lot.
It’s like they’re living my youth
which allows me to vicariously relive it myself.
Hail pours from the sky.
Gravity still works.
That is, at least, for now.
by Heath Brougher
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void Magazine, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He is a multiple nominee for The Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Award. His newest book is “To Burn in Torturous Algorithms” (Weasel Press, 2018). His work has appeared in journals such as Taj Mahal Review, Chiron Review, MiPOesias, and Main Street Rag.
