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.

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.

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.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
to try harder
 

i usually have to be

pretty fucking close

to drunk off my ass

to try to talk to any

beautiful woman

i don't know

 

i remember a night

in a club back in

my twenties where

i approached this

gorgeous black

woman and said

some gibberish

 

she laughed and

told me to try

harder

 

i laughed and said

something stupid

enough to make

her smile and tell

me to go get her

a drink

 

when i came back

 

she was making out

with some other guy

 

apparently, i wasn't

drunk enough for the

beer muscles to kick

in

 

but i did enjoy her

amaretto sour
-----------------------------------------------------------------
the locusts
 

happiness is

one of those

rare events

anymore

 

i treat it like

a comet or

the locusts

 

it's not what

i want in my

life, but i

suppose it's

just the way

it is

 

they say

money can't

buy happiness

 

well guess

what

 

neither can

being poor
----------------------------------------------
in cowboy boots
 

drove past a woman

mowing her grass

in cowboy boots

 

i smiled

 

got home to find

my grass being

cut by the cousin

that molested me

as a child

 

i don't think

you'd call this

a smile
--------------------------------------------------------
the lines of pain
 

trace

the

lines

of pain

on this

broken

face

 

the

sweet

caress

of your

bloody

fingers

 

may

it be

the

last

thing

i

remember
--------------------------------------------------
looking for trouble
 

it's been years since

i went out drinking

looking for trouble

 

the last time that

happened i was

taking a girl to

go buy crack at

seven in the

morning

 

after a long night

of drinking and

fucking around

in some strip

clubs

 

looking back

 

i probably should

have had her buy

some for me


J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review and The Asylum Floor. He has a new book out with Casey Renee Kiser from RaVenGhost Press, Altered States of The Unflinching Souls. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Avianics

Slightly south. Woolwash

Lagoon. This is the black

swans’ waterspace. Their

movement full of grace,

calming, better than yoga

or deep breathing. & across

the water two raptors, prob-

ably black-tailed kites, para-

llel paths & then a sudden

plunge, swirling, turning &

turning in the gyre, a perfect

double helix courting ritual.

They near the ground. Any

smaller bird goes running.

Eventually, fly species

Children may resist the bug to experi-

ment at times & get adult authority

but their great rental yield is

inspirational & transformational

so I Entreaty for Your Collaboration

in Reception of a Help validating &

prioritizing old-growth forest remnants

& never went to the authorities.

My agonist aunt writes

To dampen the effect of sex

pheromones on the mixperson

when making a cake concoction

from backyard grasses & pain-

reducing medicines, it is often

efficacious to include infusions

of green tea with bee honey &

Citrus limonum to reduce any

antagonism &/or destructive

conflict arising in nearby gynes.

An / epic art / fraudster tells all

Here in the Tampa Bay area, the

big-eyed children — alluring,

at times unbelievable — deliver

a musical version of caveat emptor,

swinging easily into the melody

even though their grasp on the

words is a bit rough at times &

the wifi on the property isn’t al-

ways effective. Still, being able

to sit in a lawn chair & listen to

intermittent music is better than

adhering to the mitigation hier-

archy. Maybe reset the network.

Or, perhaps, calm down, lie flat.

other than illicit acts

A common phrase among

scientists & students is that

a cartel exists, induced by

climatic & anthropogenic

factors, & that could quite

easily cause changes to the

serotoninergic & immune

systems of linguistic search

engines. But more research

is needed — another common

phrase from the same cohort.

GOD, THE WAY TO DIVINE LOVE

A Psalm-inspired prayer for God’s way to Love: “Show me Your way to love, O Lord, Teach me to love like You, with a heart that’s pure and true....”

My heart is true to you my Heavenly Father. I have witnessed pain in many ways in my heart. Without you, my heart refuses to continue in life. You have restored my love for you each morning.

Each day when the sun rises and the cardinals sing. I whisper to you my love and praise your Holy name. It is your grace above all else I received from You. You remind me that my life has not been empty, But rather full of joy, and, serenity, and grace. Your grace has released me of much suffering.

Many times I have knelt at the altar of lights. It is the warmth of Your divine goodness I found. I have seen the stars and the moon shining bright. It has been in the cool early morning I pray to You. Each
prayer there is mercy which fills my heart. Each breath and each heartbeat reminds me of Your divine nature in which all of creation breathes. My heart beats slowly, as I listen for Your whisper of love.