Napkin miscellanea 
  
 Following a footnote
 abridged to engross
 Japanese standard
 spellings
  
 gravediggers translate
 promotional resources
 as autumnal studies
  
 useless links condense
 their informative
 relations.   
  
  
 humbled razor sharp
  
 Zen winter coat symmetric PVC pipe
 head a flowerpot 
 earlobe an extension cord
  
 fleeing flea circus attitude
 adjustment cucumber cart
 telephone bra strap app
 scratching iron shackle papal
  
 smeared lips volcanic ash
 pile style smile cesspool
 HorroR escape hot RoD    
  
  
 stone cold malfunction sprain
  
 backend that burps & slides
 so close to bearing shed
 farther than a ski slope swirl
 salamander can of shoefly pie
 leagues before JULES VERNE
 marathon a con a palm
 swan that sprays to play
    /
       /          /
 /            /          /             /
                                /
  
 and no other than another
 bundled cut & razor shaped
 well-versed & terse & tenses
 a parody of electronic hearse
 screwing lightbulbs from exterior   
  
  
  
 Reside where danger lies
  
 Geysers originate artificial weaponry
 on the imaginary look of future
 temporarily shares dimension
 shamed Greco-German empiricism
  
           mainly a latter gift
           aiming inheritance
           into the discourse of
           irredeemable anthropology 
  
 specters pave the epochs
 blind emancipation backwards
 dwell on media theory legacies
 enveloping essential non-endeavors
 conflating forbidden w/ jealousy
 preserving diffuse critique
 the center of the every day  
  
  
  
 Pragmatic convolutions
  
 hotbed of MONARCHY
 the human wart blasted
 feathering itinerant quarrels
 & unleashed furious press
 from their rejected ramparts
 came sighed relief
 hunted by runaway laity
 but one CRITIC presses play
 while another MOUTHPIECE repeats
   

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press, 2021) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in Coven, Spontaneous Poetics, Ygdrasil, Expat, Selcouth Station. RASPUTIN, Train, Fugitives & Futurists, Otoliths, M58, Punk Noir Magazine, Beir Bua, and Scud among others. joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com

Shards of color 
   from
    Broken Dreams


 It's all that's meant
     by Time 
        it seems 


     Our Love stands
                   TALL
           Above Our 
clouds 


     And drowns 
           the Lakes
       Beneath gray Shrouds


      to mend the nights 
                    & heal the Days 


Where songs
       Reach out 
    & ARMS swing 
             High


    And Lofted Breath
 
    I'll rise
         I'll rise 


the Breeze catches the wind
    exhales an earthly mist


 I'll walk the plains and sweep 
               the grasses until
                    I forget to count
                     the Dawns ♡

They are tired too

The pained crunching 
Echoing like voices 
Down the stained hall of my old apartment.
Beneath the soles
Of my bare feet,
Those heart-shaped leaves are confined
To a rough powder of broken shapes and pieces,
Those crushed artifacts harshly prodding
At my exposed heel.

The crumbling vines holding
The once vibrant grape leaves, 
Grasping at the decomposing trellis that
Continues to be their supporting factor, 
The one thing keeping them from dissolving into the rotting wooden slats below,
Cheering them on from the not-so-side lines as they
Cling with all the might contained in their frail limbs,
Once thriving but now, 

That ancient, tea-colored beige, like the dust that clings to the windshield of her old Mercedes as the wheels grumble across the trembling metal bridge, like a game of “will it hold me.” the only game those broken pieces of hearts know how to play.
Silky sandpaper, my fingers dragging along in the muddy foliage of the garden, coating my fingertips with the texture of life, only in a childhood background.

Almost feeling drowned, drained, in the lack of moisture, the lack of care the ignorance thrown upon their once-photosynthesising 
faces



i stand by, 
not interfering with the natural order of the way things always seem to play out, 
the branches scrape at my shoulders as I pass, opening new wounds that I'll leave for time to heal.
yet both the leaves and i seem to be defeated by 
something. maybe 
just the heat of this smoky summer afternoon, 
giving false hope at comfort as it smears into 
shivering shoulders in the evening light. 
exhausted 
by that never ending cycle of hoping, 
my spine buries itself into the dirt, 
liquid seeping down 
through my roots, 
nurturing the vines, 
bringing life into their 
pretty faces. 
i lay here, 
fading,
they 
thrive.

  
 
 organic suns
  
 the frogmouth’s argent
 my letter opener
  
  
  
  
 broth froth
  
 the winning egg
  
 mu
 mulberry
  
  
  
  
 after anchor
  
 in a chair, cheering
 grass / elementary
  
  
  
  
 silo norm
  
 NORAD wolves
 awash in crows
  
  
  
  
 us---a
  
 burger, uh,
 grapes  
  
  
  
  
 o.o.o.o
  
 walk
 wall
  
 wauk
 waul
  
  
  
  
 bio/graf
  

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). 
His poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://www.MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.

the money was tempting though
 
i had a
woman
send me
an email
today
 
offering
me three
thousand
dollars
a week
to be her
sugar boy
 
i
congratulated
her on finally
reaching
rock
bottom
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
an empty church parking lot
 
mothing makes
me happier than
an empty church
parking lot on a
sunday morning
 
i'm sure if a few
things would have
gone different in
my life
 
my thoughts on
god would be
totally different
 
although, i can't
help but think god
played a role in all
of that
 
so, the least of what
should happen is all
of the sheep going

broke
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
under a tree
 
i used to write
poems under
a tree
 
across the street
from where my
girlfriend at the
time used to live
 
she saw me one
morning and told
me to stop stalking
her
 
i said just a few
more stanzas
to go
 
the cops didn't
understand that

either
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
have it both ways
 
sometimes i feel like
not being afraid to die
hasn't exactly worked
out for me
 
i somewhere lost the
desire to still live
 
i should be old enough
to know you can't have
it both ways
 
but a stubborn asshole
doesn't always get to

choose his own reality
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
new neighbors
 
the beauty
of living
around old
people is
you will
have new
neighbors
every few
years
 
of course,
none of
them will
be that
lonely
housewife
you always
heard about

in the suburbs

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

Out There

It’s out there
We must drive in it
Walk in it
It’s out there
It’s too much with us
Getting and spending
We get it
Understand what we
Have done
Wasted our powers
Given our hearts away
Lost the tune
Forgot the words
The weather changes
Sealed in the politics
Of now
Of what we did
What we are doing
It’s out there
That’s all
Just out there
The earth of it
The air of it
The water
Collecting the evidence
Details it will use
Against us
It’s all out there.


Climate

This hot breeze holds the afternoon
summarizes it in a brief moment
says so much about what we have
these days – too much sun, heat,
a few clouds that give into the days
spinning by, so little rain. This is
the climate change they promised us
warned us about, while we were too
busy with other things, things that
seem trivial now in the nineties, in
this heat wave, in this drought. We
air-condition what we can, we sit
in any shade we find, fill plastic pools
for the dogs, joke about running
through the sprinkler like we did as
children, a game we no longer can
play. The news we hear and watch
doesn’t bother mentioning this any-
more, as if the scientists have given
up on us, realize playing Cassandra
didn’t help, doesn’t help and like us
feel this hot breeze, that summarizes
what’s left of our afternoon, this brief
moment that says so much about what
we have done.


Rain

We used to say, farmers need the rain
whether We knew they did or not,
but now We all need the rain
like today it rained all day
not just our lawns and lakes
but our spirits too
need the rain
bogged down the way We have been
in a spiritual,
a psychic drought
tired, dry days, one after another
till today
We all needed the rain
and it came down
all morning, all afternoon, this evening
beyond trying to satisfy our lawns and
our lakes, the sound of the rain 
the ticking at times at our windows
the whoosh in the wind
and the calming hush of it 
bring a peace along with it
a whole day of this peaceful sound
of rain
We should all now say we need the rain.