Espresso and Tequila Like espresso and tequila our love is a warm thirst to the spirit. You make me remember all of the blessings and memories we have. Dreaming of you is as a lover flying above a sky made of water. Your scent is the air of lusty touch, and the breathe for the thirsty tongue. The world is made from a beautiful star, so your heart must be my homeland. We kissed and cuddled on the longest night of the year, we didn’t open wounds. Don’t measure, just break my boundaries. This pack of cigarettes heals me from my my long glowing silence and rusty misery. Take a sip of my liquor and smile on my aches. In The Midst Of My Sorrows When I write about freedom, it’s not not a statement against any civilian. Bullets and gravestones made me laugh about how my grandpa judge life as a joke. My friend tells me that I should learn to say no, does that mean I should under_ _line every drunken moments of loneliness, and turn them into a thick hanging cords. My name never appears on your readings, Some soft hands have become more dusty I wonder if I should leave and let them inhale all the leftover breathes of this mad universe. There is no hope from the past, but why do I need to feel optimistic about today’s battles? With both of my hands, I’m writing day and night of how relaxing I am not in the midst of my sorrows. 12/24/2023 B.H.P ___________
Poetry from Sterling Warner
Campus Silk
Cynthia’s form-fitting silk dresses
struck to her body like plastic wrap as she
pirouetted across campus in pointe shoes
intentionally faced against wind gusts
pushing auburn strands of hair over cheeks
attracting an audience both men & women
lounging on the quad’s turf, eating fast food
lunches, listening to transistor radios, preparing
for exams, or writing to significant others—
past and present—in leather bound journals
filled with narrative poetry, whimsical sketches,
detailed shopping lists & occasional birthdays;
night & day, twelve months each year
she carried a collapsible umbrella, ready
to spread & protect her gorgeous locks
from rain & snow, trading silk summer
dresses for diva scarves that showcased her
face like a multi-colored picture frame.
Cascadia
Whitewater frothing
like hydrogen peroxide
foam sliding between rocks
boulders gurgling, gushing,
below natural bridges
linking embankments
on unstable shores where
wooden piles driven 42 feet
into mud, sand, bedrock and silt
once stood tall and defiant
yet remain like ragged stumps
torn off below kneecaps
where grubs burrow between spikes
as bright yellow birch leaves
float overhead then settle
like a golden patchwork quilt
upon stones in a dry ice waterway
swirling at the base of a ghost pier.
Dharavi Wall Reclaimed
Rickety realism centered
a rainbow fire escape
between two gigantic heads
Mother Theresa calls out
habit covering snowy egret hair
left hand cupped over her cheek
knotted veins and wrinkled skin
accentuated by a decaying hotel’s
brick buttresses and drippy motor—
the graffiti virtuoso’s preferred canvas.
Facing the Calcutta nun on the right
Mahatma Gandhi calmly listens
to her whisper litanies and preach
about merits of suffering and her
“call within a call” as cars below burn rubber
do doughnuts, and emit smoke, delighting
penniless pedestrians with inner city theatre
sans Chelsea Square nosebleed seats;
pervasive, sustaining, his presence
outshines all street thespians and saints.
Cosmos Conductors
Stratosphere lights glimmer
dying amid comets & meteors
racing for eternal magnificence;
Saturn’s rings appear as ridged
as steel-hooped cage crinolines
relentlessly orbiting the planet.
Stargazing eyes wander, locate
ices, silicates, rocks & gasses
winking & twinkling the heavens
like angry sparks between wheels
& tracks from lost stellar railroads
barely even flickering at dawn.
Time elapses & spectacles dim
we embrace falling stars, suck on
helium balloons & talk like high
wire munchkins anxious to fly
on any trapeze without net, certain
as Galileo, optimistic as Carl Sagan.
Like fresh water washing filth & grime
off coal miner bodies, sunbeams splash
onto alley ways & trash cans, illuminate
abandoned train depots; foreboding shadows
ground nocturnal astronomers, provide a hiatus
telescopes at rest & celestial secrets on hold.
French Doors
We slipped behind Raylene’s
family room French doors
backs to the wall, she embraced
my inexperience like a prize fly-ball
caught at Yankee Stadium, repositioned
my shoulders, easing them into her own,
kissing my neck, leaving a hickey
I wore like a badge of courage
provoking classmates’ consternation who
confined young love to dreams & imagination.
From French doors to French kissing
we advanced without rules, ignored
norms, believed our world would endure
more than an evening; Raylene pressed
her face to mine, lost both pearl earrings
in throes of passion, found days later
when her mother vacuumed the carpet,
stroking shag pile, uncovering secrets
that had become common knowledge:
Raylene’s door evolved & swung both ways.
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Sterling Warner’s Brief Biography
An award-winning author, poet, and former Evergreen Valley College English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Danse Macabre, Trouvaille Review, Lothlórien Poetry Journal,Ekphrastic Review, andSparks of Calliope. Warner’s collections of poetry/fiction include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction 2019-2022, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems (2024), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys retirement in Washington.
Poetry from Devin Rogan
This Doesn’t Take Place In Florida I live alone in the woods but I am still less alone than Most people in human history Because I have a phone In a few days I will go to a funeral In a big city Where someone will tell me his life story He grew up in Florida Has returned to Florida It was hard for him in Florida Which sounds exactly like Everywhere else I have been to Florida But not for a long time So it is not part of my life story But most people have the same life story If you just insert your own details Mentally replacing “Florida” for Your personal “Florida” I have considered my life In its totality and strangeness More recently than I’ve been to Florida So basically I was in Florida If Florida is a metaphor For the place where things happened In your life story Instead of it being the state called Florida Sometimes I wait for a new life I wait for it to emerge from the trees I wait and I wait And it does not appear But that does not dissuade me From trying again at some point in the future At a funeral people will try and tell Someone’s life story Since that person is not there to tell it They do a decent job usually Considering it is not possible The World Where it Rains The rain is continuous and forever Nobody knows how long it has been raining It has been raining since we can remember So long that now we don’t call it raining anymore In the raining world I decide I will Quit my job and move far away Then go grocery shopping To celebrate That it will always rain Before anyone speaks to me they are beautiful In the aisles they are being beautiful They have come out of the rain to be with me And we will frolic among the groceries But then they speak to me And ruin it all I think of the specific flavor of candy I want to buy And I can’t recall the brand Or maybe they don’t make it anymore So yes, we can want things that are gone I guess We unconsciously pine for the sun That we no longer even remember Or who people could have been Before they started talking I think about When I move and When this is no longer “my” store I will love it so fucking much then But not before then Somehow That night it stops raining when I am at the gas station It is just me and the gas station Oh and also the guy that works at the gas station I remember that I miss everyone who is not me and the guy at the gas station In the world where it is not raining now It can be different Because when something changes you know It has just begun changing And soon it will be the rest of everything changing Forever And it will continue this way And I will move far away And be in the sun Leaves (Leaves) A mental image of me covered in leaves Exponentially decreasing in size relative to the pile of leaves Completely minimized by nature (leaves) Until eventually everything else becomes secondary to leaves To the massive foliage dome of leaves Nothing else matters but the leaves But these are just imagined leaves I made up for this poem So there are no leaves actually And the world is as it is And I say it is a pile of leaves In a poem about leaves Which is to say Metaphorically and not literally so
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
---------------------------------------------------------------------- the chinese alphabet i dread the holidays mostly because i grew up on dysfunction normal shit is as foreign to me as the chinese alphabet but i'm old now crazy left years ago i seek the quiet never minded being alone, just never wanted to be lonely the phone won't ring on christmas all my former friends have their families and the friends they are using now i'll turn on some music something dark and melodic we never even bother to put up a tree anymore somewhere charlie brown is laughing ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- while alone in the shower she reminds you of a ghost from your past listens to mozart while humming in spanish pretends to play the slide trombone while alone in the shower her kisses taste like you were born on the wrong planet she once kissed me on my lips and told me to close my eyes i never saw her again --------------------------------------------------------- plastic bombs in the sand insomnia dances like a lost lover strung out on neon lights and a gentle line of cocaine think of all the years since our lips first met then ponder how each of us should already be dead rainbows and smiles plastic bombs in the sand maybe one day the poor won't have to fight a rich man's war i know long after most of the planet ceases to exist you ever learn to speak another language yeah i can say fuck fluently in nearly all of them that's really all you need ------------------------------------------------------ make believe brilliance blah blah blah long lines rising prices i knew there was a reason i never wanted children and all the good alcohol is too expensive and the shit i can afford is only meant to harm the liver faster i put on some charlie parker and wonder which will come first the first line of a poem or a fresh vein don't worry if i can't afford the alcohol how the fuck can i afford the drugs poem after poem make believe brilliance blah blah blah maybe santa should actually bring me some scratch offs that are winners ---------------------------------------------------------------- way too early in life the darkest eyes cover up the most pain her smooth skin tasted like all my nightmares made into an off broadway play the twinkling lights are supposed to be joyful you've seen too many movies about small towns backwoods killers and all the children that succumb to reality way too early in life the holidays are rarely happy no snow for christmas just rain endless fucking rain misery fit for everyone around here J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Dumpster Fire Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Asylum Floor and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poetry from Shloka Shankar
Singular Universe “What you do not have you find everywhere.” — W. S. Merwin Words harden in recollection. Pull each one towards you, cry like they seem evil. Lay out some traps for half a dozen—it’s a craft: fool an infinitive into holding out for hope. You don’t need a permit to live inside your head— put a foot on the ladder. Copy out a line: the sounds of a singular universe being built. Call to Action A great deal of latitude and an abundance of caution can be an isolating experience— what greater enemy does one have than oneself? When the ink hits the screen, it is an indispensable bit of programming—the totality of what you did or said in the aboveground world. Source: A remix/cut-up composed from select words and phrases found between pages 11 & 60 of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin. The Creative Process Imagine the scent of fine paper in summer— a time when one’s taste exceeds one’s abilities. To sense your decay is not the same as loving it. A bromide about the creative process is that you are often nostalgic for a candy you have never even tasted. Or, to oversimplify, it is the erasure of mortality in the sometimes-painful present. Source: A remix/cut-up composed from select words and phrases found between pages 20 & 86 of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin. A Rainbow Every Day for R Carry off a little darkness one piece at a time. I’ve been around for long— there’s a reason why all sinners are saints. You’ll know it’s me when I come through the road to happiness. Allow me to introduce myself— a victim of the times, the gods they made of you and me. We didn’t start the fire and tell the world that everything’s okay. What else do I have to say? I can’t take it anymore. The words inside my head—a blitzkrieg— but what’s puzzling you? I get a unicorn out of a zebra, the truth from a thousand lies. I erase myself, clean this slate with the hands of a believer. I can’t be what I’m not. There’s a game called circle— as heads is tails. I’d love to wear a rainbow every day. Source: A remix/cut-up composed from lines and phrases from the following songs: “Sympathy for the Devil” by Rolling Stones, “Man in Black” by Johnny Cash, “One Piece at a Time” by Johnny Cash, “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel, “Believer” by Imagine Dragons, “What I’ve Done” by Linkin Park, “No Matter What” by Boyzone, and “I’m Not Afraid” by Eminem. Shloka Shankar is a poet, editor, and self-taught visual artist from Bangalore, India. A Best of the Net nominee and award-winning haiku poet, Shloka is the Founding Editor of Sonic Boom and its imprint Yavanika Press. Her debut full-length haiku collection, The Field of Why (Yavanika Press, India), was shortlisted for the Touchstone Distinguished Book Awards 2022. Website: www.shlokashankar.com | Instagram: @shloks23
Poetry from Mitchel Montagna
Paradise
The light is growing dimmer
I cannot feel to cope
I hear less than a glimmer
of the prayer we call hope.
At night we clocked the bold stars
Felt waves of sweetened pine
Traced out maps of ancient scars
through tears that soothed like wine.
I dreamt I still might find you
We’ll ride that mountain train
Where comets trail behind you
and moonlight pours like rain.
Come watch that golden glory
Attend the sky with cheers
It shimmers like a story
told for ten thousand years.
Her midnight eyes are glowing
I swear they shine for me
And stardust keeps on flowing
where heaven used to be.
I pace the halls like a zombie leaking
blood and fire:
It must have been the fog, injecting a
disease I cannot bear.
But when I tried to set it down,
it burrowed into my throat.
I will never sing
at birthday parties again.
Turned out that sip of molten lava was
really an invitation to the cosmos.
All ‘round the rooms, explosive
tangles of lightning and wire.
Their sizzling and thunder orchestrate
like a sadist’s tune.
The waiting, at least, is familiar:
Remember those vacant afternoons
stoned on lethargy, confusion
dissipating to disgust.
Creeping shadows reflecting
the loneliness in your eyes.
When you touched your face
you found it numb as earth,
like you were buried already.
On the Brink
The mountains stretch behind me
Wind blew me out of town
The morning sun will blind me
I rode the highway down
My friends won’t let me settle
I begged for scraps all day
Their mouths turned harsh as metal
They tore my heart away
The sweep of time will bleed you
It forces you to roam
Somebody else might need you
To find their way back home
A gauze of fog has lifted
As dawn broke through the cold
Bright banks of snowflakes drifted
I saw foothills painted gold
God’s Will
You stand against the gentle
tides, that urge you back
into the deep; this terror’s
surely racked your bones, to
cross that bright and mighty will.
Your sadness staring down
the surf, as glassy-green
as emeralds; the sunlight
glinting off the waves, and
dancing brightly in your eyes.
All the gifts you’ve conjured
up, and all the dreams that
colored you; they seethed until
they burned your hopes, and
dried your blood with bitterness.
You cannot let them pull
you down, and drown you in their
soothing waves; too horrible to
go in peace, then find your
soul still cries alone.
A Silver Sea
If you are somewhere still
What a story that would be
Of a girl’s dance down a hill
to leap into a silver sea
Splashing far beneath the sun
Where the diamond waters glide
Drifting out till day is done
to disappear beneath the tide
Like a mermaid gently flows
Through shadows dim and deep
With her skin soft as a rose
and her face relaxed in sleep
What answers did you find
In hidden gold to take
Or leave untouched behind
like ripples in your wake
The sea is dried away
Scorched by an aging sky
Then a field of ashes lay
where spirits went to die
Poetry from Noah Berlatsky
The Nose My nose has started to lean to the left. It happens when you get old. You’d like to stay on the straight old road But you get old and lean to the left. The path you’re on, it starts out straight. To love, to truth, to fame. Then the nose goes off on its own, on its own And you circle back round to the grave.