Mirrors Of Winter

Under a dark moon

on an empty road I run

past my frozen breath.

Thinking of her in 

delicate  nightwear

cheaply bought yet

worth a revealing 

fortune when she wore it.

Were we anything more

than a blur of circumstance?

Brought on by trays of

drinks served and emptied

truncated clips of film repeating.

I run past the park of rusty

locked gates, abandoned

as any hope we had at the end.

New tears freeze scarlet

cheeks to a savage burn.

Insane to run when its eight 

degrees at 1 am, but I must

move forward I tell myself.

Until finally home to wonder

in an endless hall of mirrors

cracked in the reflected  truth

of all my past mistakes.

Colder Than The Coffee

After

A brief dalliance

a few days

lasting too long…

We meet

a second & final time.

She said her coffees

getting cold

before adding-

say what you must

no louder than a whisper

I have friends here &

It won’t change anything.

But she doesn’t let

me speak…

There was no going

beyond us being

a footnote with 

every inch a lie.

Undone by words

over politics

calling her mad king

a fascist fool, undid us.

Despite sex I thought splendid.

At this outdoor

cafe with a fine view

of the beach she continues

to talk. Calls me politically

immature and  leftist crazy

while I think of the sex.

This is pointless I say

as she shifts to the border

to illegals and Ice.

.

I look up

almost certain

yesterday’s clouds 

have vanished.

Replaced by impostors

formless as our future

that lasted two evenings.

Undone by the truths of naked polemics

that unlike our bodies-refused to meet.

Winter Frost

It takes half

lost innocent hours

after midnight

but the city

quiets some…

When I go for late walks

my tall shadow’s

lack of jewels and my clothes

many hands past second

on most days, keep

predators a broken

two step dance

multiplied

away.

But tonight

I see a face

grim as an ambulance

time betrayed, just

as late for the

dance with

fortune, slowly

step out of shadows.

Outline of a knife

I see, begin to run.

He tries but can’t

touch my hours

in the gym.

I leave him in the dust

like life has and

keep running past

the exits where

stop signs lie

you’re getting anywhere.

I keep running

In  a cold sweat

this worst of 

a fierce winter

can’t stop.

Closer To Distance

This failure of closeness you claim we have

issues of displacement that all manifest

when you say commitment or likewise words.

That infer or swallow whole both our paths 

divergent in chaos yet somehow blessed

to last and linger past all truths left blurred.

But I’m at a loss when you ask out loud

if we’re adults or sharing its pretense 

not to answer questions, time will address.

Marriage or children, a house, or allow

ourselves a plan to dare the consequence

of a joined future sacred vows may bless.

I’m 40 you say, no longer a kid 

I nod, say nothing that you won’t forgive.

Rp Verlaine lives in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He taught in New York Public schools for many years. His first volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames& Drinking was published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales, Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of three e-books titled Lies From The Autobiography vol 1-3 were published from2018 to 2020.  His most recent book, Imagined Indecencies, was published in February of 2022A new volume will be published in spring of 2026.

NO KINGS RALLY – 10/18/ 25

The tangerine-faced king—

his crown is spikes of gold—

beholds some seven million who renounce him.

All 50 states are filled

with swarms of chanting woke—

some in costumes; all with homemade signs. 

*  Dissent is patriotic

*  Proud Vets  * Free Tylenol

*  We have a Constitution, not a king

*  Our only king is Elvis

*  Power to the peaceful

*  ICE should be for skating, not for hating

The tangerine-faced king

prepares a counterpunch—

an AI video: he flies a plane

and drops brown diarrhea

on throngs of peaceful marchers—

his enemies!  He showed them! He’s the king!

The excrement-encrusted

still throng with mocking signs.

Under muck, the messages are clear:

* That stuff trickling down isn’t prosperity.

*  Jesus:  OMG, you guys! That’s not what I said!

*  Charlie Brown: Dear Great Pumpkin,

    Please do something about your evil cousin.

*  Inflatable T. Rex:  Donald T–

    Rex everything he touches!

*  Lowly Worm, driving a red apple:

    My other car is RFK’s brain.

*  Know your parasites:  Dog tick (photo);

      Deer tick (photo);  Luna tick (orange face).

While fat king fantasizes

about revenge, the mob—

millions, zero gunshots, little trash—

dances in the streets,

sings some protest songs,

united to support democracy.

*  Fight truth decay

*  Who the hell’s Aunt Tifa?

*  If you’re not anti-fascist, what are you?

*  Hate won’t make us great

*  No troops in US streets

*  Help! Make Orwell fiction once again

Old tangerine-faced king,

your subjects have one dream,

one goal:  * CLEAN-UP ON AISLE 47.

We’ve caught the woke-mind virus.

Now we’ve got empathy 

and critical-thinking skills. Yes!  We, the people.

Copyright 10/2025 Patricia Doyne

The Coming

(+)

The coming

cut of transference

is already

here

(+)

start of fire

stiff of smoke

to buy and sell

and pay bills

(+)

color code

on our skin of sin

feel of ash

between fingertips

(+)

I’m on the roof

before the flood of ink

taking a nap

above the streets

(+)

fake

sacrifice

I’m poor

and needy

(+)

my eyes

opening

veins

and slowly closing

(+)

my blood see through

character

soft sun of shadows

before the storm

(+)

loaded pistol beside me

ready to dream

for the great cause

but probably with little effect

(+)

my cell phone expanding

way of the world

six six six

near to overtaking all

(+)

saying no to the mark

of the coming beast

will save your soul

if you know the Word.

All the Years to Arrive

Here

Yes, yes, I am near the edge.

No, on the edge.

All the years to arrive here, at the edge.

All the memories. All the chances.

All the chances taken and not taken.

Time changes with the wind but we still push petals round and round

going in circles.

In circles.

Cards are played. Cards are held.

Secrets are kept.

Secrets are known. We earn things. We steal things.

Mostly, we stumble. We stumble into living.

But life, the life we lead,

has little to do with living.

Look at the sea, how beautiful it is! It exudes so much feeling.

Like dreams. Like sweet dreams that dance at night. 

They dance at night. But become just dreams just dreams in the daylight.

Guarda il mare, com’è bello! Trasuda così tante emozioni.

Come sogni. Come dolci sogniche danzano di notte. Danzano di notte. Ma diventano solo sognisolo sognialla luce del giorno.

One more step. The last step.

The heart hungers while the mind mingles with all that is false, yet true.

One nail then another, then another. How swiftly we unfurrow.

How swiftly we become what Gatsby said, “Of course you can.”

As the spirit leaves your body.

Mentre lo spiritolascia il tuo corpo

Philip received his M.A. in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published six books of poetry, Three novels, including Caught Between (Which is also a 24-episode Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/)  and Three plays. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.

and this is what that feels like

it creeps into you backwards

with its bug eyes on your feet 

on a tight leash

fold and unfold 

as the woodland comes to life 

in surroundings

i wave she waving

must run

rice cake wars 

once factories made sure

still jolly reader

really bad got bored 

rather than wait

the creature stirred

who would have thought 

of virgin lands

with ringing crystals 

so debauched

who then is watching

this unprecedented growth

through a soft lens

reach for a cigarette 

vodka

this world

has become a dark world 

murdering catamites 

behind a white picket fence 

what is on offer 

we bring you plate

ransom note 

thought circuits bathed in flaming gravy

simple weird moments in a deep bass slot

fine dimly wondered march acoustics

sirloin beef broils there bypassing breath

this infernal whooping through my mucus

has transformed the cold machinery of war  

break out the psalms and trance-like simul-

ations before the god of winds caresses 

your last breath counting your sleeps in a 

sound-proofed chamber recycling waste 

for a jollier death my knees have turned 

against me and now they’re spreading so 

there’s little else left for me to do 

a little bit of ghastly’s gone astray go 

check for mail and mow the lawn and 

throw your groceries in the bin this must 

we see it flows through graduated forms 

a stasis tube containing light a play with 

something different new concerns 

providing stranger personal effects 

aesthetic coffins 

ripened love buds please 

dear uncle am i then the one 

am i a shade of energy 

pulsating in and out 

of love of time 

not out of hate of signs 

but talk of peace

that mimics all the body’s core

and fights what should have made a 

difference and yet appears in more and 

more degrading revelations force fed 

into my conscious mind it’s what is 

endlessly desired discover walks and 

roots in forestation that renew then 

take up huge amounts of time – the 

moments must so easily slip by be still

and concentrate as best you can with 

myra hindley on your knee a flash of 

bottled radishes pressed up against your 

spine that so inflames the rash that your 

humanity decries



down by the river

good news on the

other side of doom

treat yourself like

a king for once in

your life

and here i thought

that meant line up

all those that need

to be killed

oh, those things you

aren’t supposed to

say out loud

yet the tragedy goes

on

maybe if i hit the lottery

maybe if she really loves

me

maybe if the books start

selling

maybe if i actually cared

to bother people to know

i exist

comfort in sitting in the

park and scribbling madness

while the world burns for

the thousandth time today

drove down by the river

didn’t see any vans

or the homeless

i’m sure they found them

decent housing, right?

—————————————————————-

the little joys of life

watching porn in

the waiting area

while mom is in

with her therapist

somewhere freud

is smiling

temptation is the

volume button

with the next

person two

chairs away

these are the little

joys of life these

days

and here they

thought i was

going to be the

president or a

teacher

some educated

thinker meant

for greater things

all while i’m

betting the over

while studying the

odds on baseball

games in japan

————————————————–

one bad saturday night

most people are shocked

when i tell them i first

thought of suicide when

i was eight years old

but then i tell them

about being sexually

molested by a female

cousin

how my father hated

me for being born in

january instead of

december

and they start to

understand

and then we get to the

time i tried to set myself

on fire at seventeen

i go on and tell them

my will to live is now

stronger than ever

but, as this world gets

crazier and crazier, i can

never say it won’t cross

my mind again

fuck, we’re all one

bad saturday night

away from that

shotgun in the

corner being the

last woman we’ll

ever kiss

—————————————————-

every second i exist

sanitize my mind for

the thousandth time

today

it still won’t erase

all the hatred and

pain my eyes take

in every second

i exist

i never remember

it like this as a child

of course, that utopia

never lasted long

either

we are always one

shit stained pair of

underwear away

from the end of

the world

some are expecting

jesus

i figure it will be

more like hiroshima

i had a homeless guy

tell me the only things

that will survive are

the roaches and keith

richards

he liked telling that

joke while drinking

out of a brown bag

he’d offer me a swig

for three cigarettes

he then would ask for

a light

the second swig always

tasted sweeter

———————————————————–

peel back the layers

it’s the low hum

of an air conditioner

meant to dull the

senses almost to

the point of sleep

so the therapist

can peel back

the layers of hate

and abuse and all

the other shit over

the years and get

to the core of what

every therapist knows…

you’ve been fucked

since childhood

and that is precisely

why i don’t waste

my time

give me a shot of

something strong

a good conversation

over a meal and the

occasional beautiful

woman to possibly

fuck and life would

be as good as possible

i can think of plenty

of better options for

that hour that is

costing $200

there has to be a

game on some

channel

———————————————————————

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s a three time Best of the Net nominee and a soon to be two time Pushcart Prize nominee. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine and Yellow Mama. His next chapbook should be out soon. You can find him gambling on basically any sport he can possibly watch. He does still have a blog, although he rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

when our brain shuts down

There are no apparent limits

to science if vintage photos

of naked beachgoers can

change the way we think

about near-death experiences.

Postmodern Polka

(A Tom Beckett Title)

At first glance oxymoronic, yet there is an overlap.

Both parts autobiographical. The teenaged bassist, classically trained but now playing pizzicato, filling in at the local Polish Association’s New Year’s Ball — 57 varieties of potato salad, & just as many polkas — wearing an occasion-obligatory tuxedo borrowed from his father, one pants leg folded up a little bit because his father was lame, had one leg shorter than the other. That was one uncomfortable memory; another that the other three members of the quartet each received twice as much as this fill-in bassist, a fact revealed inadvertently when the organizer asked the band to play for a longer time, &, in offering an additional inducement, admitted what he had already paid.

The postmodern part comes a few years later, when the musician, now tired of carrying his bass around balanced on his shoulder because most taxis in the city were too compact to contain it, discovered he had a small ability with words.

inquiry

to 

see where

the antecedents lie

404 error

I go looking for the

early prognostications

by Bruce Sterling on

the potential rise &

rise of link rot. He was

probably correct, but it’s

impossible to be certain —

many of his given links

have rotted away.

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A Love Supreme

My dreams — when

I remember them — are 

invariably in black 

& white, but I com-

pensate with a John

Coltrane soundtrack.