experts

i’m surrounded by experts
wherever i go
in my walk-around listening-in days
they appear out of nowhere
carrying their wisdom
and give it out to all who will listen

just recently  
i’ve encountered an increase of them
sharing their knowledge vocally 
like the woman on my local jetty
telling her friend
how to fix up her marriage 

the man in a park
giving information to another
about buying a rental property
the boy at a beach
explaining to his mate
the trick to skimming a rock on water

the guy sitting with coffee in café
instructing a young bloke
on what to do with his money
the girl in a busy bakery
advising her friend 
on what to have for lunch

and on it goes more and more 
every day in every way  
these fabulous experts 
directing those they’re with
on what to do
and how to do it

i thought to myself 
while on the bus yesterday
i don’t think i’m an expert at much
and while i’ve certainly done 
plenty of things in my life
doing things doesn’t make one an expert     

but with so many experts 
who have so much to say
i don’t think the world needs any more
so i’ll keep walking-around 
and listen-in when i can
to the experts and their expertise  


Stephen House has won awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s been commissioned often, with 20 plays produced, many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts to Canada and Ireland, and an Asialink residency to India. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His poetry is published often. He’s performed his acclaimed monologues, ‘Appalling Behaviour’, ‘Almost Face to Face’ and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ widely. His play, ‘Johnny Chico’ ran in Spain for four years.

Ripping Off the Band-Aid

Remember the roller coaster of emotions you felt as a kid when you fell off your bike or did something else to earn yourself a scrape wor- thy of a Band-Aid? I remember falling off my bike and skinning my knee more than once as a child.

At first, I felt the rush of pain as my knee hit the gravel, followed by the burn of peroxide once my mom began to patch me up with her first aid kit. Then, after we both blew on it, I felt the cool relief of the Neosporin and a Band-Aid to protect the wound so it could begin to heal.

In some ways, grief was like skinning my knee. After the initial pain and shock, I covered up the wound after the funeral with pleas- antries and a return to daily life in an attempt to heal. But just like wearing a Band-Aid, at some point, you need to rip that thing off and expose your wound to the air so it can finally scab over and fully heal. I had been dealing with my grief on a surface level up to that point, only allowing myself to know the depths of my heartache. It was finally time to excavate my sorrow and bring my pain to the light. I decided to join the Young Widows Grief Writing Workshop and braced myself for the necessary healing that only spilling my emotional guts could bring.

Our group’s first virtual meeting was on November 8, 2021. Five of us shell-shocked widows assembled on Zoom, and Joan quickly introduced herself and explained how each session would work. We would start with a short poem or writing excerpt and then be given 
about twenty minutes to write how we felt about the writing, followed by each person sharing what they had written with the group.

Before Joan gave us the writing prompt, she asked each of us to introduce ourselves. It was awkward enough to meet for the first time online. Add the fact that each of us had lost our spouse within the last year, and you could cut the anxiety with a knife. Thankfully Joan had run these groups for a while and did a wonderful job holding space, including silence, for us to begin to open up.

The introductions were as painful an ordeal as you would expect. All five of us widows were in our forties, and each of us had kids. In comparison, I felt lucky only having one child who was now a teen- ager versus the other women struggling to piece together their lives while also caring for one or more children under the age of twelve.

Even though my situation was slightly different, for the first time since Al died, I felt truly seen and understood. Some of the women had a spouse die from illness, having to experience the added pain of watching their husband suffer for months before passing away. A couple of the women were like me, having their significant other stolen in an instant.

After our round of introductions, it was time to complete the writing prompt. The assignment was deceivingly simple. Joan asked us to free write for twenty minutes, using the phrase “This grief is ”
followed by a description of our feelings. I grabbed my purple-and- gold embossed journal and proceeded to bare my soul. Oh boy, here goes nothing . . .

This grief is debilitating.
This grief is insidious. It seeps into every thought, every move, and every breath in my lungs.
This grief is selfish. It won’t allow me to take my mind off it and comes back with a vengeance at the slightest hint of joy.
This grief is sad. More sad than I’ve ever felt in my life, and

I’m scared to feel this way for the rest of my life, but I’m terrified to let it go.

This grief is lonely. I don’t know how to connect with others sometimes because they don’t understand the magnitude of my loss. This grief is haunting. It fills my nights with thoughts of him.
With longing and regrets and desires to wind back time to have our love all over again.
This grief is awful. It sucks the life out of you and makes you wish you were dead.

This grief is a part of me. Like a scar I’ll never get rid of or a wound that won’t fully heal.
This grief is surprising in its depth and complexity, and magnitude. It swallows anyone and anything in its path.
This grief is special because it’s shaped by the love I had for him.
That’s why I cling to the grief some days in remembrance of him.
This grief is necessary to honor my pain and my experience. I need this grief if I ever hope to deal with the terrible thing that happened to me and my son.

This grief is confusing. Some days I can talk about Al and laugh, and other times if I catch a glimpse of his picture out of the corner of my eye, I’m enveloped in tears.
This grief is strange that way. No rhyme or reason. No predict- able pattern or warning. It’s just raw, primal emotion of a love lost and a heart broken in two.
What comes of this grief? I hear it wanes over time, but at this stage, I’m skeptical if it’ll ever go away.

I looked up from my journal after reading my piece to the group and was instantly comforted by the all-knowing eyes of other women who also had been thrust into the rotten club of widowhood.
For the next twelve weeks, I showed up to our grief writing group faithfully. Some days I dreaded attending because I knew during the 
session the pain of my own loss and the loss of the other women in the group was inescapable. The fact that my grief was inescapable in these meetings was the unexpected gateway to my healing.

Afterglow Theorem:
Let 1 equal you and 0 equal the void.

0 + 0 = 0
0 - 0 = 0

0 + 1 = 1
1 + 0 = 1
1 - 0 = 1

1 - 1 = 0
0 - 1 = -1

     Q.E.D.



Jazz Warmups:
Tortured yesterday means tortured today
only if you write it.

The more guttural the scream
the more intelligible.

Sam Shepard serving Nina Simone ice cubes
for her scotch: this is my thesis.

Oblivion obscurity christs still air—
everything's a target for revenge.

All heavens are alike
each hell's a hell its own way.

No one notices
a diamond among diamonds.
Splash in some horseshit.



Toro bravo:
I see a pair of ruby lips
I ignite.

My nostrils blast smoke.
I charge.

Hundreds of banderillas
regal me

yet I remain
standing.

Love, please—
if you won’t

deliver the final blow
let me.


Brooks Lindberg lives in the Pacific Northwest. His poems and antipoems appear in various publications. Links to his work can be found at brookslindberg.com.

Fort Safeway

The Safeway 

Near his apartment

Now has

Several kinds of barriers

Inside the store,

He’s learned that

This has been done

To make it harder

For people

To shoplift,

A sign

Of the times.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.

a painting i did (not) finish

walking into my room
those i know always stare at
a girl trapped in the gray canvas
yellow bonnet covers her brown hair
that two sides show two individuals
her with a sky-blue dress
with wrinkles from the hot sun-day
but what they wonder
is why she has no face?

i tell them:
do you know about a girl
whose face a tone of mud
a neck colored with the noon sun
and white hands that
resemble caucasians?
do you know about a life
of black, of yellow, of white
intertwined
a product of differences
that belong to no home?
she has no faces
she has no races
she lives in the shade of her own
hands hugging one another
for support
for reassurance
but they are still searching for something
in this murky liquid
she is standing in the water
she is drowning

or instead, you can say
i don’t know how to draw a face
or how to finish the dress
that my little stupid story
is covering up for the lie
for why her skin has three colors

i guess you should know better
about a girl who has no face
because in real life
she has no face, either
search for her in the dark
search for her in the water
has she blended in
or is she waving in vain?


Bach Le is currently living in Hanoi, Vietnam. From young, Bach has had a deep interest in poetry, shown through his works in both written poetry and poetry slam. Through poetry, Bach unveils his insights in life, across topics from love and self-identity to grief and loss.

Ah Smothering Slumbers                                       

Peter? Paul here. Yas that. One Paul here. That is precisely what I said, do not lay down the game-play of your usual fairybabe of a long tail over me. That is because. Wait wait wait. 
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha smothering slumbers ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha 

Okay say that hoot what you will be ready this time though. This time will be different because I will be because I will be scribing I will be scribing down will be scribing down a be scribing down a precise down a precise and a precise and a precise and a tangible and a tangible a tangible record record of your entirely-entire line of the usual spew. 

Wait I hunt up.
It’s been weeks since then what fool can’t look this over in an hour it were me they’d been off my land by dusk that day. 
I hunt up a.
That day. You know?  Ha ha ha ha. 
Hunt up a writing.
Ha ha ha ha ha smothering. 
Up a writing implement.
Slumbers come over kmaerflentefpohawt. 
A writing implement. 
Whheartf tahtiesr all is ha ha ha.
A suitable writing implement of the necessary.

Ha ha ha is all tahtiesr whheartf.
Sharpness to show up no matter. 
Kmaerflentefpohawt overcome slumbers.
To show up no matter how.
Smothering ha ha ha ha ha. 
Show up no matter how long.
Ha ha ha ha know? You day. That. 
Up no matter how long it.

Day. That dusk by land my off been they’d me were it hour an in over this look can’t fool what then since weeks been it’s. 
No matter how long it lies.
Peter? Paul here.

Peter hey Paul here hey hey hey listen; ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha slumbers smothering ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha which all gets all true no matter how long it lies unread. Hello welcome to Weathering’s Wheelsup-SuperBalanced-storage-acid-fishing-sinkers supply house and brainypup breeding farm. Because it may lie a very long time it may lie a very long time unread may lie a very long time unread and unread, Peter lie a very long time unread all over all under, Peter my lie a very long time unread down under all over its varying selfnesses, Peter my man a very long time unread. 

That’s as if lost in the woods and coming into a pack of wolves. Peter my man, because very long time unread. Peter my man, because there long time unread. Or out in a grove of wild feral beasts, it would not know fear. Peter my man, because there may time unread. We’ve all up to four souls. Peter my man, because there may be Peter my man. Four only no more availably after our last inventationary. Because there may be no my man. A tiny man. 

Because there may be no one more adequate man, because there may be no one with because there may be no one with the urge to wilding down and down and, there may be no one all over this space. No one to step out leading in many more other tinier men. With the necessarily there may be no one with the necessarily strong be no one with the necessarily strong stomach no one with the necessarily strong stomach to be one with the necessarily strong stomach required to be with the necessarily strong stomach to there yell hey hey hey, Barbazee. 

Peter up? Paul here. Yas that—go on.
Okay to be able the necessarily strong stomach to be able okay to necessarily strong stomach to be able to okay okay dispassionately strong stomach to be able to dispassionately review, but when the wrong okey-dote is like a bulge on the throat cross all this house of scale model non-barbary ape people in their big gamer’s village, the stomach to be able to dispassionately review. It would not know fear, lacking the experience and having no reason for fear. The to to to to be able to dispassionately review the red be able to to to dispassionately review the red streak able to to dispassionately review the red streak sinewy to dispassionately review.  

Beforewhich stands that—that—that being there uh! That black pepper! The red streak sinewy steely dispassionately review the red streak sinewy steely and review the red streak sinewy steely and strong the red streak sinewy steely and strong!  Add in green bell pepper, red bell pepper, onion, and mushrooms and red streaks all sinewy steely and strong in its streak sinewy steely and strong in its graphicularity sinewy steely and strong in its graphicularity. Is it because of—but—consider a career as a technical specialist, in Man Vessel’s new citrus house emergency cedar weevil treatment service. Is it because of that business about—to boot! 

Jawohl, steely and strong in its graphicularity and pull and strong in its graphicularity and pull out strong in its graphicularity and pull out the in its graphicularity and pull out the bit its graphicularity and pull out the bit parts. Is it because of that business about tipping the bellboy? Graphicularity and pull out the bit parts. The blood normally harmlessly flooding the body will act as a poison. All and pull out the bit parts. By speaking so softly as to be indecipherable. All needed pull out the bit parts. 

No point the inside. Et et. All needed to out the bit parts. That business about and about and. Inside the outer-side.  Tipping the bellboy? All needed to nail the bit parts. Cook over medium high heat until evenly brown. All needed to nail you bit parts. Tipping the bellboy and tipping and tipping? And know the real secret is that all flameheights are regulated by the single frontwise master control panel. All needed to nail you as needed to nail you as being the to nail you as being the one nail you as being the one—a true innovation only at Bison’s tree service! 

Having as being the one having pressed being the one having pressed me the one having pressed me down one having pressed me down in torment. Down in torment. Down in torment.  We learn of the techniques of illumination from two sources: from uncompleted manuscripts that allow us to observe the interrupted stages of the work and from the directions compiled by medieval authors. Torment unceasingly through this all. Okay? Through this all. Here I am armed. This all this all torment there. Now me I the ready-man. There I found out the guts. Yah readily ready the man all unafraid. To say it. 

Hippo. So say it I’ll scribe it down Peter. Peter pete and repeat eh et ah. Say it now I will scribe it down that’s all as the Kmaerflentefpohawt overcome slumbers.
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha slumbers smothering ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Okay Mack, now. Now you get a turn.