I’ve been shooting at stars

all day in this Rapture

in lazy floods

hoping I strike a piece

of you so it will fall in toy diamond,

citrate frost, something I can chew on.

Your braided dream lilies looped

together with dowsing rods crafted

by an alchemist in a deleted scene

from a shelved noir. 

For this space ordained 

you, this panel graffiti in obsidian marker,

the confessional alarm

in your belly button,

and your bitten lilypad psychophage 

waits for your heart’s Host 

to fall with flipper women hissing

beneath spinning Roman columns,

hungry as light bulbs dimming, 

their receivers

ringing one 



after another

John Thomas Allen is a 38 year old poet who likes the novels of Pierre Jean Jouve, John Olson, and and Jaroslav Seifert.  He hopes that there will be a poetry arcade somewhere, someday, and a real arcade, not one with wifi.  He’s recently been in Synchronized Chaos, Dreams and Nightmares, and Veil: A Journal of Darker Musings, and in 2018 won the James Tate Prize for “Rolling In The Third Eye”, a collection of his poems. 

tickled my fancy
 
dark,
beautiful
eyes
 
the latest soul
that has tickled
my fancy
 
a hello seems
impossible
through these
constantly
changing
disguises
we need
to wear
 
but this is
what happens
when you only
find your
confidence in
the middle
of a pandemic
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
just imagine my luck
 
my mother talks
in her sleep now
 
last night, i caught
her getting up to
go walking
 
in my head, i was
thinking well, at
least she got her
walker first
 
but i know now
why all the weapons
were removed
 
i could just imagine
my luck
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
on my own
 
the more i have watched
my mother age, the more
i know i will need to end
this journey on my own
 
sooner or later
 
the hollow look in her
eyes screams burden
 
i was there long before
she was
 
now the house of apathy
has turned into a competition
 
the winner gets the last
good urn
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in a never-ending pandemic
 
sweating in a car
 
writing poems
 
exactly how i thought
it would go in my forties
 
waiting on my mother
to come out of a doctor's
appointment in a never-ending
pandemic
 
the dystopian dream never
ceases to amaze as long as
your hope has been destroyed
---------------------------------------------------------------------
slower and slower
 
i get the feeling
as the days drag
on slower and
slower during
this pandemic
 
that death would
be my best chance
to pass the time
 
it certainly beats
this shit circus
we have right
now

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Terror House Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

LET YOUR FREAK FLAG FLY 

Back in the day, back in the early ‘70s, back in high school when it was cool to be a hippie chick, Claudia read every hippie book she could find. Poetry books by Rod McKuen. Books on macrobiotics. Spiritual books like Be Here Now by Ram Dass. Be here now, be here now, be here now. Live in the present moment. Wish she could. But she can’t. Not now. After college she planned to escape her small town life, move to San Francisco, and become a Beat poet. That never happened either. The light turns red, and Claudia crosses a busy intersection. She heads down Hawthorne Street and then Tyler Boulevard and then Miller Street to Baxter Avenue. At the end of Baxter she’ll turn around and walk back. This is the daily five-mile maze of streets her doctor prescribed for stress reduction. But even though her body loves the exercise, her thoughts are anything but tranquil. As the senior editor of the local newspaper, she is consumed with endless deadlines, demanding advertisers, and a staff of headstrong journalists. No time to be here now. BOOM! Something large and hairy slams into Claudia, hurling her to the pavement. “Are you okay, lady?” her assailant asks, pulling her to her feet. It’s the old hippie on the bench outside the ice cream parlor. He sits there every day watching Baxter Avenue. “What happened?” she asks, brushing dirt from her shirt and pants. “Had to tackle you before you stepped in front of the bus,” he scolds, returning to his bench. “What bus?” she asks. Her clothes are ruined. She’ll have to stop by Macy’s on her way back. “Be here now, sister,” he warns. Claudia laughs and sits down next to him on the bench. “I owe you an ice cream cone,” she says. The old hippie smiles, staring at something across the street. She follows his gaze to the maple trees lining Baxter Avenue. It’s October, and they’re already a blaze of red. So bright they set the street on fire. Funny how she hadn’t noticed that before. 

MOVING OUT OF YOUR COMFORT ZONE IS HIGHLY OVERRATED 

This is a fact: Nancy loves her electric blanket, the leopard-print one, the one she hates to leave every morning, the one she loves to burrow beneath on cold nights, the one that never disappoints her, frustrates her, makes her angry enough to contemplate murdering someone, like, oh, maybe her husband last month when he left on a nine-day golf vacation to Myrtle Beach with his good-old-boy buddies, where he played golf all day for nine days under a sizzling summer sun, consumed nothing but pizza, wings, steak, chocolate, and vodka (the five major food groups, according to good old boys), forgot that he had a heart condition, forgot that he’s on heart medication, that he’s on high blood pressure medication, that he’s on a low fat/low sodium/high fiber/heart-friendly diet, that he needs to stay hydrated (according to his doctor), that he’s no longer 18 but 68 freakin’ years old, so it was no surprise he landed in the hospital the day he returned from nine totally brainless days in Myrtle Beach, his body dehydrated, his heart rate sky high, his A-fib in full bloom, his heart medication no longer working, so, no, it was no surprise at all when he called Nancy to let her know he was in the hospital (again) that she hung up on him, jerked her wedding ring off her finger, flung it in the trash, walked upstairs to the bedroom, grabbed a romance novel from the bookcase, and crawled beneath her leopard-print electric blanket, allowing its warmth to comfort her like a cup of tea with her BFF (who she called later that day), because sometimes you just have to escape the stupidity of married life and pretend you’re still gloriously single, that you never said “I do” when you obviously “do NOT,” because sometimes believing that you’re still single, free, and husbandless is enough to make everything right in your world. But, then again, sometimes it’s not.  

BIO:

Laura Stamps loves to play with words and create experimental forms for her fiction. Author of several novels and short story collections, including IT’S ALL ABOUT THE RIDE: CAT MANIA (Alien Buddha Press). Muses Prize. Pulitzer Prize nomination. 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Mom of 4 cats. Twitter: @LauraStamps16. www.laurastampsfiction.blogspot.com

Thoughts and Prayers

Small furry animals have crawled out of their holes for a look. Such sights! Smashed-in skulls and severed feet and angels covered in blood. Like a nasty drunk, God has been exceptionally belligerent of late. A cadaverous woman in blue scrubs who says her name is April asks, “On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain?” Strangers on social media offer thoughts and prayers. Even then, the leaves on trees instantly wither as a burning airship passes overhead. My wife refuses a ride. We cling together just like the words in a poem.

The Sadness Will Last Forever

I was scarecrow thin and often cold and trembly. When I went out in my black beret and belted black raincoat, I might easily have been mistaken for an amateur spy. I would watch with mounting anxiety as the woods filled up with snow or the horizon burned from one end to the other. For years, my condition remained undiagnosed. But just because it now has a name doesn’t mean there is a proven treatment. A physician in rural Massachusetts has failed once again in his attempt to photograph the soul leaving the body at the moment of death. 

Sunday Bloody Sunday

A gun goes off. I lie there on the carpet, more and more convinced that something is wrong with my breathing. It’s only then that I realize I should have listened when they discouraged me from using semicolons. On this particular Sunday, the music returns, like an angel with wings made entirely of eyes. Pope Francis declares from his window in St. Peter’s Square, “Don’t be afraid of tattoos.” Ha! I know what it’s like to live under the tyranny of bodily pain, forced to endure its cruel and arbitrary edicts, and no one to prevent allegorical statues of Dawn and Dusk from being melted down for bullets.

Howie Good is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest. It is scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

Space and Time

Perception of space
Folded within a corner
I see from the inside
You see in and outside

Observation of time
Outside the line
I see the short-side
You exist outside

Persistence of regret
In all my dark corners
Penitent from the inside
You erase it from memory

Lē‘ahi


 

Southside Oahu, littered with tuff cones:

Koko Head, labia minor,

Punchbowl, the hill of sacrifice,

Diamond Head, point of the ahi fish, all

grand promontories—extinct volcanic craters.

 

Rules and restriction translated to challenges,

saucer-shaped Diamond Head called me;

outside the renowned Fire Control Station,

its new and aged military facilities prohibited

all access to taxpaying civilians—daring infiltration.

 

Sneaking into the naturally fortified crater, eluding

camouflaged guards—real or imagined adversaries—

I stealthily advance; my body clothed in red trunks and tan skin,

blend into tropical surroundings, melt, into plentiful vegetation

encircling the cavity’s inner rim, entering the military mystery maze.

 

The apparent sound of bullets buzz by,

pierce the dense, dank, jungle undergrowth,

expose themselves as culex quinquefasciatus brown mosquitos

vicariously breeding in stagnate water—feasting

on a liquid banquet from my exposed legs and arms.

 

Damp, corroded chambers cut in the cavity resemble

Alcatraz cells: steel beds hanging from rusted chains,

ascend 560 feet from the floor past bunkers where

solid concrete walkways shift to a natural tuff

severe switchbacks negotiate the interior crater’s sheer slope.

 

The rugged trail morphs into steep, stone stairs through a

225-foot tunnel to a fortification that one directed artillery

fire from batteries beyond; reaching its pumice plateau,

approaching a mammoth navigational lighthouse,

I scan the Oahu’s sandy shoreline from Koko Head to Wai’anae.

 

Historical playground for humpback whales,

oblivious the area doubles as a coastal defense vista.

tropical trade winds brush my face, activating imagination

while the capacious, comforting, cacophony

of Kanaloa’s waves crash like rhythmic pahu far below.

 

**********************************************
 

Bing Thieves

 

Campbell fertility

fruit cannery pioneer

Santa Clara gem

I long for fruitful harvests

silicon wasteland reclaimed

 

Ripe cherry orchards decorated the valley

like Christmas Tree ornaments, round, red,

eye popping orbs drew visitor’s attention

away from migrant farm worker camps

or miserable wooden boxes—an excuse

for a home—enjoyed by a cheerful few.

 

And yes, these orchards offered adventure,

growers aimed two barrels, shot rock salt

in our butts as we ran from their groves,

buckets full, bandito mystique undeniable,

dire warnings from our parents

school authorities—all elders ignored.

 

Best times never knew the worst yet to come

as stainless-steel chains uprooted tree trunks

tar and concrete smothered fertile fields,

and children grew up dodging street traffic

gathering in malls, frequenting cyber cafés—never

swaggering, searching, pilfering full-grown fruit…

 

**********************************************
 


Cracks of Light

 

Our empty hearts     once filled

with unflinching     alacrity,

agitated overnight     we stood

by oil radiators    metal accordions;

cast iron dragons     as discolored

as seasoned     crêpe pans

heated our     hands while we

embraced     common sense

depression;      huddled together

like snowed-in     hostages

sharing their     communal discomfort

in sweaty     submission,

our restless     blues cut through

a hauntingly     sober silence

like a machete     blade slicing

dense jungle      undergrowth

incessantly     screaming out

for social    emancipation

when      disunity and whimsy

displace     crude manners

dwarfing     responsibility:

lockdown     solidarity.

 

**********************************************



Tilt-a-Whirl Madness

 

Lock yourself down, hold on tight

you met the height challenge

cork shoe lifters shot you up

two inches & ruffled hair made

you appear gigantic, in control,

ready to spin like a stuntperson

make centrifugal force your own

gravitational pull your companion.

 

Fold brazen arms behind padded

lap bars, secure yourself & strangers

who ride sheet metal thrillers & share

danger’s safehouse; youthful mouths

missing teeth laugh & scream

like delighted children escaping

tides that grasp ankles as they

scamper from surf to dry sand.

 

Quartz lights flash perpetual chaos

in motion as the platform rotates,

seven swiveling cars test fortitude

resolve, & moxie, daring bold riders

like yourself to sidestep carnival sawdust

spread on the floor, eerie remains

of motion sickness for those out of sync

victimized by Tilt-a Whirl indifference.

 

 

**********************************************


Tipping Point Snapshot

 

Cars roll down the inner-city gullet

vehicle lights flashing as dawn’s early rays

part mist & unveil crosswalk shadows;

 

old school skyscrapers jut up towards heaven

protect flying rodents—portrait ready pigeons— 

that nest below stone-crafted window ledges—

 

scarlet scavenger eyes fixate on pedestrians below

looking for careless hands fingering croissants,

& street vendors dropping hot dogs & soft pretzels;           

 

drummers begin beating empty 5-gallon cans

under concrete bank porticos; audible rhythms echo

miles up and down Broadway, rebound off structures;

 

street singers & mimes soon join in the fray

destitute but happy, many homeless yet carefree,

hats & guitar cases welcome unlikely prospects

 

as the strip begins to buzz & people shuffle

in line for blocks awaiting Starbucks to open,

fuel & task soul-fed inspiration with caffeine;

 

meanwhile, escorts saunter home, recline

on their own beds—sleep uninterrupted. Restful.

Free of twilight visitations when overweight patrons

 

pin them with passion’s pretense allowing groans

to rise & fill voids like subway grate updrafts

decelerating wind as noisy as traffic horn banter

 

Manhattan minstrels, hucksters, & saints

approach tipping points, regain equilibrium,

& embrace yet another good morning’s night.

 

 

How everything turns away…
~ W.H. Auden, “Musée des Beaux Arts”

to its small purpose, the plowman’s hands holding
reins and plow, the shepherd’s gaze upward
inventing stanzas for the month of June.
The lowlands are pasture, the terraces arable.
Stouter to the myth Breughel has seen
the far-away world of fate close to his world.
The local and contemporary eye
has pictured that as this in terms of home.
Green is the sea under a thawing sky
as unlike Greece as Shakespeare’s Rome and Rome.
A partridge clutches to a waking vine stock.
Columns accent the city far below
with its harbor awaiting the ship that may be expensive
and delicate, gliding on a stiff breeze.


 
Palirunus Marginatus

Not everything red is a lobster.
But the part of us fed to love
pried from our armor and prominent claws
is easily imagined all buttery succulence.
Instead it refuges further beneath the surface
in a different ocean without grammar,
spiny and recessed. It has shed its defenses
though remains distinctive with hair-tenuous
antennae precisely watchful enough
to sound us from its other side of the world.


 
With Seaweed

Dreams are dreams only—once woken from.
Everything ran slower in that sluggish
element where your hair floated freely
with the seaweed and love became a salty
buoyancy of smiles and stinging tears.

I was subsumed with the acorn barnacles,
sea vases and the translucent baskets
of Venus’ flowers, learning my sessility
under the hover of dead man’s fingers that clothed you,
a spiny carpet of urchins at the bottom of my feet.

There you were: Belief made you, in entries
of the log books of sailors from flooded
explorations, in your blended topos of history
and myth, topmost human yet by
our day’s thorough fathomings no more than tale

and so there I dreamed, dimly yet surely
aware of my natural shores, little by little
insisting I must breathe as speech
intoned beyond words to the single unbroken
high C beyond me in the pressure of my hearing.

 
Conch

I kept
turning away
to become
the staircase I climbed
from the bottom up
spiraled by the encompassing
element,
hoist
up my mast
for a Hindu ceremony’s
music of the spheres,
my door given way
to this riddle
of speaking mouthless
from an exterior
I unfolded at one with.

Michael Todd Steffen is the recipient of a Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship. His poetry has appeared in journals including The Boston Globe, Everse Radio, The Lyric, The Dark Horse, Ibbetson Street, The Concord Saunterer, and Poem. His second book, On Earth As It Is, will be out in early 2022 from Cervena Barva Press.