Boxing Year

By Michael Verderber

My heart has been rung dry. My steam all but fizzled and my drive crashed. I feel like every time I turn around, another fist is waiting to land – a collision course trajectory.
        I am strained, drained, and up against the ropes. Left hook, quick jabs. Rabbit punch. These ropes hold me up and keep me from falling.
I wake, no time to train.
I wake, the bell rings. Jab, jab, uppercut. Jab to the job. Uppercut to the theatrical. Must keep my head up, can’t drop fists. Can’t leave an opening. Here comes a right hook right to the heart. I brace for more. Side step, quick step back.
Bell rings, men to your corner. I breathe for a few hours. I don’t hear a bell but it is back to work. Water bottle full of coffee rejuvenates.
Get back up. Get back up!
Life goes in for the kill. Hook, hook. He’s got the wingspan. Tears away my feathers. Leaves me flightless and gloveless. This fight is a juggling contest, but I am the pins. In any given second, I will fall.
Knees are starting to buckle. Right knee caves under the pressure of the gauntlet. It has got to let up soon, right?
Right?


​

 About the author: Michael Verderber is a Texas playwright who specializes in writing plays and disjointed poetry.  He has three books - “[nonspace]: theatre off the stage” (Fountainhead P), “Twas the FLOP Before Xmas” and “Still Standing Still” (both Sarah Book P) and has been published by VAO Press, The Thing Itself Journal, tNY Press, and others. His plays Libertad and The Problem with Robot Dogs were both staged Off Broadway in New York City and he was the Aug 2014 winner of Playwright’s Express’s "Best Comedy" for his play "GPS" (tie for first) in LA. He may be reached at [email protected]

Hope over Fear

By Janet Crawford 

Silent
Cold
Fear
Dripping
Imagination
Gripping


Caress
Cajole
Embrace
Distress
Evoke
Calm

Nightmare
Over
Eyes
Stay
Firmly
Shut

Avoiding
Memories
Preparing
Resilient
Thoughts
Again.


(Author note) This is a take on the idea of a  six word story theme as a poem remembering therapy sessions, during a process known as EMDR which re organises memory to take away the instantaneous impact which it can have even years after trauma. Peace was established and memory no longer controlled thinking. This may not be a technically accurate explanation for the therapy but it is the one I can live with day to day .





Quiet Moments

Listen to the sound around the space you stand in
Hear the way it swirls and echoes through the air
It transcends your meaning as it invites others in

With  a sense of belonging it envelopes every being
Wrapping them in a protective embrace with a deep understanding of them in that instance

Welcoming newcomers and old friends alike
The sound is still, yet slowly changing

Silence, a peace of mind
Or
A peace of heart
You decide...

As you embrace the space
that the Quiet surrounding you creates




A Look At Love

Love isn't cuddly, and squidgy and warm
It isn't all gooey, or bright like the dawn
It isn't something which you can poke with a stick
Without fear of the crumbling effect of each hit.

Love is a fluid, fragile, evolving oasis
Which we can look for and not find,
Even when the view appears perfect in its arrangement

Love is answering my questions, especially those I daren't ask,
When I let you into the chink in my armour, and you still wish to share my path
When I squeeze your hand, with an intensity in my fear, which sharpens your breath before it wipes away my tears

Love is the knowledge that my best days and worst nights
Will be viewed in equal measure, with sadness or delight
By a look or a smile, or a shrug of the shoulder
We can tell each other so much, without a word appearing bolder

Would you go beyond your comfort zone, if I led you on a mystery?
Would you trust me to protect your heart, because of our shared history?
Would you be aware that in every situation, and in every instance
I'd put our shared opinions ahead of my own existence,
To be a part of something  bigger,
without fear or resistance

This to me is Love, my Love, a notion of devotion
To be part of a shared, complex situation ahead of my own emotions




​

 About the author: Janet Crawford 47 year old Scottish writer, Falkirk based ( the home of the Kelpies ), writes from her heart and hopes her sometimes stirred emotions show clearly through her work making for an enjoyable, thought provoking read .

Photo taken By Eddie McEleney
Autumn 2015.
Whilst reading at a local event.

Laundromat Blues

By PW Covington
​
Friday night
7 or so
Washing T-shirts and boxer-briefs
Coin operated
Clink, Clink, Clink

Fat, young, mothers
So Beat and beautiful
     they don’t even know it
So blessed, so magic
Universal

They tell their only babies
To
“Leave the man alone”
As they scoot on the floor
Before
The Dr. Pepper machine

I am the only man in this place
And so, I must be danger
I must be
Lethal
I must be
     washing the cat pee
          from my yellowing
               white under-shirts
Then,
Into the dryer
Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh

I’m sorry, young mothers
For defiling this cleaning place
This sacred space
     with my dirty laundry
          with my searching smile

So, I cross the street
For some Thunderbird wine
And bide my time
Outside
       behind
The Laundromat
Glug, Glug, Glug

Removing stains is never easy
I thought I saw
Herbert Huncke’s reflection
Behind the big, silver, clothes dryer
In sheet metal sheen
But,
     it was only me
And angelic Beat toddlers
And coin operated redemption
And Thunderbird wine







Value Menu

Sometimes, I get too big for the world
My problems
Worries
Fears
Grow so large
That I must go out
Down the street

To the fast food shop

I will choose an item or two 
Of some value menu, fried food
Just before noon
When the line is full
With hurried diners
On lunch breaks
From jobs they hate

“2 dollars and 98 cents, please”
The counter clerk will say
And I will riffle in my pocket
To produce quarters, dimes, and nickels,
Down to the last three pennies
Exact change is the only way this will work
It takes a while
So,  I begin sharing
All about the troubles of my day
The fears I can exorcize no other way
Padding the tale with back-story
I mention peoples’ names that no one here knows
The “I do not give a fuck” look on the worker’s face
Is a god-send, as I lay coins on the counter
Line-standers behind me exhaling and shuffling feet
Impatiently, unwillingly, receiving my confession
Then, instantly, tossing it into the rubbage bins behind them

Perspective attained for less than three dollars
Less than 400 calories, if I order right
Less than two minutes…too long, really, for my fears and minor miseries
The fast food workers let me know
The line behind me, lets me know

And as I lay the last few coins on the counter
I smile at the refreshment
That comes from no longer
Carrying 
All that
Loose change
Around

I walk away with a paper sack, full of reconciliation
My sacrament complete







For the Birds

I hold no deep
Affinity
For the small, brown, birds
That gather
At my red feeder,
Hanging by a wire
From my front yard pecan

But, I spend a portion
Of my Air Force pension
Every week
At the market
To buy packaged seed

I would miss them,
I suppose
If I could not hear
Their peeps and trills

From my sunny, winter, morning
Coffee porch




  About the author:   PW Covington's work is inspired by the Beat tradition of the American highway. His short fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and his poetry has been published by academic journals and underground 'zines.
 Covington has been invited to read across the Western US, including by the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival and at The Beat Museum in San Francisco. Covington's latest collection of poetry "Sacred Wounds" is published by Slough Press. www.PWCovington.com

Hurt

By Jazmen Bishop


Every choke got a little harder, his grip felt like he was a pro at this. 
So silly of me to think it would stop after the first I’m sorry.
His words are what made me stay, words that can now be called lies.
The hands loosened, and for a while there were smiles but behind the smiles 
were hurt pain and anguish. Soon the words tightened up and soon they hurt worse
than the sweaty hands on my throat. The tearstains turned into permanent bruises.
Bruises turned into bad memories and there is no erasing those the bad memories
turn into hateful filled holidays. Still I stayed, praying that things would get better.
And now what do the kids have to remember their once close-knit family?
Silence, silence kills all.






​About the author: Jazmen Who is 25, has been writing for  ten years now.  Her favorites are short stories and poetry.  All based on life experiences. She hopes that others can learn through her trials and tribulations. She hopes to have her short story collection out by 2017.  She currently resides with her children in Virginia and spends every free moment she can get writing and improving her gift. She also runs her own Facebook page called Jaz-Mania. Stop by sometimes she loves to make people laugh.

THE PTSD BLUES IN 3 Parts

new job 
 
less than
6 months
back from
Afghanistan
and I’m
losing money
fast so
when the
prison job
came along
I took it
even though
my psychiatrist
said he
could not
imagine
how I
could get
better working
in that
environment
 I did
not understand
what he
meant
 
the first
time I
went into
an inmate
extraction
the guards
removed a
convict in
hand and
leg cuffs
while I
treated a
young inmate
unconscious
bloody and
swollen with
4 teeth
scattered
across  the
concrete floor
 
I remember
feeling at
home for
the first
time in
months.

 
NOSC Erie
 
I had
blown my
cool one
day at
drill and
the officer
in charge
referred me
to mental
health
counseling
 
after that
I would
get  phone
calls from
chiefs and
officers just
to check
on me
and how
am I
doing and
was I
OK
 
I was
working a
third shift
job in
the County
jail and
I was
only sleeping
about 3
hours a
day and
there was
a ringing
in my
ears that
sounded like
a telephone
and every
4th inmate
was a
vet who
blamed the
military or
the war
for their
drug habits
and drinking 
for the
assaults or
beating their
wives
after awhile
I stopped
even
pretending
to listen
it's hard
to hear
that shit
with the
sounds of
helicopters
and wounded
soldiers
screaming
in my
ears.   
 
 

bed

the cots
we slept
on in
Afghanistan
were no
wider than
your shoulders
so I
would sleep
with my
hand on
the rail
to remind
myself
not to
turn over
or I
would fall
out of
my rack
 
5 years
later
in a
king sized
bed I
hold onto
my wife’s
hip at
night
the bed
is bigger
but their
is so
much farther
to fall.





About the Author: Matthew Borczon is a writer and nurse from Erie, Pa he writes about his experience at camp Bastion, the busiest combat hospital in Afghanistan from 2010-11 and all the problems he has had coming home. His work has been printed in Big Hammer, Rasputin, Dissident voice as well as many other journals and his chap book A clock of Human Bones will be published by the Yellow Chair review in Early 2016.

The Years Go On For Years 

By Marc Lengfield

Then in the beginning something fell was fallen like low rain on the forehead, droplets of diminutive bees the release of a hum of wishing for one last game in the end times one last game lasting of elbows and parts.

Then in the beginning when the midnighter called when on the scales the wind weighed out its syllogisms, payment for old debts of Saturday afternoons. 

Then it was the beginning time before the terror dollars rolled up the farmlands before the teleprompter’s secret orders droned the desert.

Then it was the beginning yet again an extinction of autumnal stars and one more destiny isolated and purified walking alone along deep highway sheltered in snow flurry.

Then it was the time called onset when the gloaming went further, looking sideways to ask
 
"Where are you now my friend and what company do you keep? Whose name lights upon your lips like a small bird closing its wings one simple act of detached faith driving back the last century?"

Like you I’ve bet hard at the grasshopper races posed delicately in my declensions given ill to the futures market.

One day for me and for you on the skyline an ovate sun blinks its scattered gold down on the valley villagers stroking the necks of black swans and clutching lapis lazuli.

In the streets the new people pocketing the implicate order, smoothing out the discrete.

When yourself the split bird and one side mute. 

Everyday breathing slowly at last.

In the beginning the timing of a pearled dialectic. 

And finally the quotidian reprieve.

Dead spaces lay themselves down sleeping.

One day your heart beating and more intensely

The evolution of your shining.





​About the Author: Marc Lengfield lives in Florida where he teaches Mathematics at a local University.  
​

Another Poor Bus Soul

By Sinead McKeever


The street is still 
The air is biting 
My frozen finger tips and nose 
Causing it to wrinkle
The lights on the trees twinkle 
And you are caught in a small wrinkle 
Of time 
A fleeting moment 
Pause 
Rewind 

A red man turns green 
A small man crosses the street 
And wonders where the rain went
Cracked lips 
And cracked pavement 
Cracking open so slowly 
That no one notices 
Eventually cracking so wide 
it will cause a black hole 
and swallow the whole city inside

A smile on the face of a small child 
Is as beautiful as all the seven wonders 
The sunset over the city 
I stand upon hope street 
And wait for the bus 
My only hope and wish would be to see you again 
Maybe if there was a dream street 
I could meet you there 
and stand under the stars 
Like before 
The stars, they shine 
But your eyes would have the brightest twinkle 
Caught in a wrinkle 
Of time
Pause.
Rewind

You turned a light on in me 
And I can't switch it off 
It's a sunny part of my mind 
Of the daily grind
A little star to the planet of my heart 
But it's becoming too heavy in orbit 
Great heavy space rubble and star dust 
Let go I must 

The streets are dirty and old and bruised 
Yet somehow brand new and glowing too
Buses sail along these streets 
Holding a host of souls and hopes and dreams
In its' seats and overhead compartments and
Overheard conversations

Mind your head, watch your step 
on the rickety bumpy ride 
Careful, don't stare,
Or make eye contact with anyone 
God forbid you connect with another human being
Another Poor Bus Soul,
We're all tired and old inside,
Don't you know? 
Tired and tied to the bus lanes

Don't break any social norms 
This place is already so forlorn,
Take it easy,
Sail along 
The bus knows where to go 
Watch the world whiz by your window 
Ding
We grind to a halt 
Don't forget to thank the driver 
As you step out into the world 
The cruel world and its' liars 
We're all freezing cold
Shivering in our souls.

How strange, 
To connect with another strange human,
In this strange world
Walk down this road alone 
And get on the bus alone 
One small soul amidst a host of ghosts 
Sit in the shadowy corner
and watch the faces 
The local, the foreigner
All united in the bumpy ride
The bus moves swiftly 
The city sailing by your eyes

Get off the bus and go about your life 
Then get on another bus 
Maybe number five 
Drive into the night 
Deep and black
And go somewhere else 
And never come back 



​

 About the author: Sinead McKeever is from Northern Ireland, started writing poetry as a young child but hid it very well from teasing siblings. Inspired to write by: walking around Glasgow, especially at night, the beautiful and wild Irish/ Scottish countryside and people,  funny things friends and random people say, bad breakups, dodgy student living situations, such as: ceilings collapsing etc. Loves spooky things, maybe because born on halloween. Thinks Glasgow is one of the greatest places on earth.

A Misunderstanding

By Aria Riding
 
 
After I left your house I went to a new house. I burned down that house.
 
And the house next to it.
 
And I burned the nine guitars and three organs and keyboards and an antique accordion and a banjo and all the instruments you used to play for me, because I was sick of when you didn't play them for me and they just stood there or hung on the walls or took up all the space I could've used to fill up with my things instead….
 
And I burned the record collection because I'd spent two weeks alphabetizing it and I'd probably got a couple of them out of order and you wouldn't care enough to double-check if I'd screwed up.... I burned up all the things you didn't notice I'd cleaned, so I wouldn't be resentful that you hadn't noticed.... And the three hundred dollars you'd just taken out of the bank, because you were probably going to spend it mostly on vodka and I would drink slightly less of the vodka than you would…. And I burned up all your computer stuff so you wouldn't have to worry about
those fifteen years of music you'd made and just hoarded, you could just take a look at what happens when people don't do something with their work, you know, have ambition to really get it out there.
 
I burned up your procrastination....
 
And I burnt the cream-colored 1970 Mercedes that had broken on the way home from you buying it for me from a Swedish guy named Malcolm and we just kept it in the yard and had a few picnics in it, and you were going to fix it so I could have a car to drive, and then you didn't fix it and it just sat and sat in the yard and this was such a waste and so I burned it up. Also I burned up the cremated remains of your aunt who had died of breast cancer, who your family
had divvied up and given you a little of her and you were keeping her in an Altoids tin, and I was getting addicted to her, smoking her, and she was burnt up anyway, and is again. And I burnt up the mummified cat you found under the housebecause seriously, the way you had it hanging in a frame, it really wasn't all that symmetrical. I made sure to burn up everything any of your ex's might have given you..... I made sure to burn up all the unicorns because the unicorn thing was never going to stop otherwise. I made sure to burn up your collection of identical red suitcases, because really, what you do, I'm just stopping you from hoarding. Same thing with that collection of identical brown button-up shirts, and the Switched On Bach record, you had twelve of those, how am I supposed to alphabetize twelve of the same thing. With F: for fire. I burned down our house so we could have fun thinking of songs with the word Fire or Burn in them, but there are none, and I was going to reference every single one of them here but instead: I burnt them. I burned down our house and our bed. I burned down the house so all the songs about fire could have special meaning for you and me, but I burnt all the meanings along with the house and the songs. And I made sure we could spend a lot of time in thrift shops getting identical suitcases in a color you liked better than red. I know you didn't like red very much. I made sure to burn up all my red clothes, actually I burned up all of my clothes, every single stitch, in case maybe you thought some of it wasn't that flattering and you weren't telling me. You always said you liked me better without a bra. I burned up your clothes too because it is really superficial, how much you care about having a particular unique style.
 
And I burned up fifteen years’ worth of journals I'd kept, notebooks I'd filled up, because I didn't want you to read them, even though I don't think you would ever read them, I could have left them all open for you on the floor and you wouldn't have peeked, but just in case you wouldn't be able to keep my family from reading them after I died, I made sure to burn them up. Because I'm not always sure you can protect me from other people getting to my secrets, so I burned up that unrealistic expectation. And I burned all the photos of my dead grandma I had loved so much, and the photos of me as a child, and the photos of happy times I may have had once, so you wouldn't be hurt because I'd loved people other than you and had happy times with people other than you. I burned up the little blue plastic bunny-face ring from a vending machine, that I'd given to my grandma and she'd worn it until the day she died, and then I got it back but I didn't want you to be hurt because I might have liked this ring just as much as any wedding ring you might have picked out. Look, I even burned up the porch where we'd put out the bowl of food for the stray kitty to eat but then the raccoons would come up on the porch with their big pink rat noses and eat all the food, and so now there isn't a porch so we don't have to chase off the raccoons so the stray kitty can have her food. The stray kitty is out in the bushes, the scorched black bushes, I burned them up too, I'm sorry I didn't burn up the stray kitty, but she wasn't really yours, and she'll be stronger now that she has to find her own food somewhere, and just deal with this and adapt. I burned down your house to help you adapt.
 
But it was still all a misunderstanding.



​

 About the author/artist: Aria Riding is a name once used by my sister. I started using it, to change how people thought of the stories when I performed them. Then several people began to perform stories, saying they were Aria Riding. I then started using the name to help publish the stories of friends of mine who have various forms of madness, who cannot handle the horrible grind of submitting stories themselves. Aria Riding is now being used by several writers of different genders, persuasions, mental health states, and ethnic backgrounds as a solidarity project. Through this experiment, she is trying to write a more complete author. Recent publications include Gargoyle Magazine, Atticus Books, The Adirondack Review, etc.

A. Riding is the author of "The Exhibitionists," a series of interconnected triggers, or stories about the unspeakable present: the things we suppress, and continue to do while denying that we do them.

Riding never goes out, is never seen, but her emissaries run Psychomachia Theater, a fringe space showcasing underrepresented/innovative arts/performance/letters (Seattle) and the dissident art/performance/butoh group Danse Perdue: website: www.lostdance.com.

Seething

In a mornings
misty gloom 
filled with 
a violet haze
and a hateful, 
violent phrase.
Walking reviled 
hallowed grounds 
of this faceless 
waste of a town, 
a graveyard bench,
seething of stench, 
in the winter's hush, 
enraged bristling brow 
as the fairies dance.
A demure romance, 
in the winter's flush, 
cascading downy boughs
by the graveyard bench, 
the ruby lips grimace
while my teeth clench; 
muted swans chaste.



​

 About the author: Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet/Author/Digital Artist originally from Hampton New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has been writing for many years and enjoys hiking, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. His published work can be found at numerous print venues including:
http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com/
https://leastbitternbooks.wordpress.com/
http://promomanusa.wix.com/
http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/
http://tuckmagazine.com/

Battery

 

The alarm detonates

      In my skull

Spurring sunlight

      To punch my face

 

I crawl out

 

      Into the bathroom

Into the kitchen

      Slithering into the clothes

I laid out the night before

     

      Near the coffee maker I calibrated

To erupt simultaneously

      Within this disaster area


Supercharged jet fuel

      With color & consistency

            Of the La Brea Tar Pits

 

An attempt to reverse the Benadryl

      Melatonin

            Warm milk

Mixed with ZzzQuil

 

Compensating for bed sheets of Poisoned Ivy

      Pillow stuffed with broken glass

Dreams of gremlins gnawing my face

     

I down my breakfast:

      Cardboard-flavored power shake

 

I pack up my lunch:

      Overripe cold cuts on stale bread

            With a moldy apple

 

I’m ready to go

      I’m already late

     

To the windowless dungeon

      So I can be put in stocks

And flogged for nine hours

 

Keys, wallet, cell phone,

      Along with yesterday’s mail

            And several poems

I’m reworking

 

      Thrown into my backpack

Thrown onto my back

       Thrown into the car

            Along with myself

 

I turn the key

 

      I try again

 

Battery is dead








Nanotech Rug Cutting
 

Mister McAfee spent

endless hours in his lab,

studying nanotechnology,

and training interns.

He always felt stuck inside

an infinite time loop

entanglement.

 

One day he took a cab,

holding one suitcase,

wearing goggles and lab coat.

He traveled a strait line

to the goth club,

“The Crusty Tomb.”

The girls with the corsets

and fishnets

loved his costume.

 

The music pulsed DYM and Diverje.

The crowd bounced around

like photoelectric particle waves

as he was their nucleus.

“Don’t worry – I’m a scientist!” 

he said at a high frequency.

The power surged.

 

Silence, Darkness.

 

He now lives

under a new name,

Professor Paradox.

He is their DJ, and manager.







You're Boring, Your Friends are Annoying, and it's Cold Outside

 No, I’m not going to your Super Bowl party.





Cradle

 friends of mine said
“we’re going to play
some baseball”
I believed them
I didn’t notice the shovels
 
I can’t see, can’t move
my skin burns, bones throb
phone, shoes, wallet are gone
vital liquids drench my clothes
 
I try to slow my pulse
saving the air in my lungs
I writhe, bend, shake
dirt spills into the gaps formed
 
worms burrow in my nose
drinking fluids for survival
they slide across my face
preparing their home
 
I feel vibrations - a pounding
they jump up and down
I open my mouth to scream
more earth seals the space
 
I hear their laughter
my friends stand above
having their fun
while I'm here
 
still here



​

 About the Author: Nick Romeo is a multidisciplinary artist, musician and writer.  His writings have been published in “The Brentwood Anthology, by Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange,” Uppagus, Rune, StreetCake Magazine, Eye Contact, Syzygy, and others.  He was interviewed for Pankhearst's Fresh Featured poet of December 2015.  Nick lives in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania with his wife and cat, Megatron.  www.pittsburghartistregistry.org/accounts/view/nickromeo