Revival

Whispering echoes remind me of a time of joy   Picking through old toys of translucent neurons   The synapses snap like lightning inside of an acoustic, closed off Super Dome   Electrocuting the flesh of negativity within   Adam Brown   He has been published/accepted in Dead Snakes, Anti-Heroin Chic, Leaves of Ink, Writing Raw, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Indiana …

Thoughts and Prayers

Thoughts and prayers The emptiest of gestures Just a collection of letters posted for the world to see A world so far from your thoughts You’ve never prayed for Really Doing nothing never looked so useful Click post Move on Feel good The ring of notifications solidify your conscience Your good deed done Without wiping up one ounce of blood …

Words of Commitment Written in Sand

At low tide, they write words in the dark, damp sand pledging their love forever.   Later that evening, while enjoying each other’s company over a candlelight dinner, high tide quietly relieves them of the commitments of those sandy etchings.   The following morning, without much ado, they murmur good-byes; each moving on to new beaches.   Roy Dorman   …

The Museum of Light and Darkness

Life is a museum of light and Darkness, and we are all mere Exhibits, stored in clear glass Boxes, with labels describing our Identities in short-hand, and Vintage Latin phrases chronicling our Insecurities, and life is a museum of Light and darkness, and we All exist in its corridors and Alleyways, waiting to be noticed, so That we can make …

Strange Sugar

It was her parents dying in a tragic accident downstate.  It was being sent off to live with a grandfather she’d never known existed.  It was working at his funeral parlor in an old Victorian house by a lake the color of desert glass.  It was assisting the grandfather in a softly lit basement room of tiled walls and shining …

William Taylor Jr.

Fuck the Dead   I woke up and forgot how to write a poem and decided that writing poems was stupid.   I couldn’t think of anything to love and decided that love was stupid, too.   I went outside and the streets clanged with loneliness, the people dulled and drunk with suffering; some blatantly so, others going through the …

WARM #11

I had to move more on my own before   the wind would ever consider me a ship.   I was born far away from the ocean.  I   had to break myself to spill into the sea.   Darren C. Demaree   Darren’s poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, …

R.M. Cymber

Roadkill car blood slither, vomit, road shoulder, broken car antlers, up a hill, looks eighteen, frosty grass, shivers, entrails, air like needles, hyper ventil car late cameo in glass, commuter, brake musing, nausea, back road helplessness, call the police?, grounded, mom’s breakfast, sausage goo, failure, puffs of air, coalescence, coughing, car another payment, another day, another dollar, dad’s glare, bruises, …

Reconstruction

The power saws of my childhood sneak into the wind, great whirling   motors spitting dust, soft and clinging to the hair of my arms,   transforming me from child to Nordic beast, wild curls of blonde   lumber blurring my edges. My father’s leather-pouched belt   hovers by my ear, smelling of nails and sweat, and the chalk of …

Quite Mad

It’s nice to be me she wonders when you do not know what the time is at any shade of day.   When the dreams bring down the leaves of scorn blown by the bluster of those that know what they do.   It is so nice to be me on my own to walk the trails of private gardening. …

Roly-Poly Elegy

An April morning, or maybe March, my children and I were enjoying the medium-low sunlight, when my son, Jacob, found a roly-poly. We congregated and proclaimed it a fine representation of its species, clumsy in its armor, as if playing dress up in its grandfather’s old army coat, and concluded that it was most likely on its way home from …

Rabbit tears

On the way to see lavender flames and bloody cow tails, a bunny runs from beneath my car, tears in his eyes as if he had heard me screaming  inside my room minutes before Some mornings I weep instead   Ashlie Allen Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. Her favorite book is “The Vampire Lestat” by Anne Rice. She is …