Lee Coursey CC




Keeping Time 
 
 
I ask, Any dreams last night? 
           Yes, I was back on that beach, that black and gold beach. 
Anybody with you? 
            Yeah. 
Who? People you know? 
            Some—some from the street. We’re just lying around, happy. 
Happy how? 
            Nodding off. Chilling. 
That it? I say, unremarking his shift to present tense, foolishly pleased that he did not say “laying.” 
            That’s it. Nothing happens. 
Nothing ever? 
            Nothing. 
Do you have a chair, a beach towel, a bathing suit, sun block? Is there sun? What is black, what is gold (I think: tar washes up on Southern Californian beaches; if the sand was black—Black Tar?). Do you make any eye contact with anyone? Do you ever think of getting up to visit with someone or help anyone in need? 
             No, why would I? Why would I help others who are not in need of help, why would I ruin a perfectly good high, why make changes to a perfectly good dream— 
              But the gold—  
      —Silence is golden. 
 
 
 
 

Progression Sucks 
 
            —Heroin is a temporary fix for long term problems 
            Unfortunately, it works 
            Try not to take the fall, cause it’s a long one 
            I’ve never hit bottom before; beginning to suspect there isn’t one 
            The whole thing might just be a looped circle 
 
 
Bottoms are like horizons 
            we don’t hit. 
Loyal supporters are like horizons 
            that recede but endure. 
Horizons are the circle we fall into, 
            our endless limit. 
Horizons are the directions 
            we think we forgot. 
No sense giving a horizon 
            a questionnaire, 
            an extended interview, 
            ethnographic treatment. 
It’s going to suck you in regardless 
            and always leave you 
            different 
            as you are. 
We met at a horizon once 
            and never let go. 
We’re holding on, even now— 
            even now that’s progress— 
            progress so near, so far. 





Where It’s Always Night 
 
            —Ferry man will take us over 
            Over where it’s always night 
 
 
When you wake up, still night. 
When you hide away, still night. 
When you light the candle, still night. 
When the suboxone kicks in, still night. 
When we resolve not to enable, still night. 
When you shower at St. Ambrose, still night. 
When you eulogize your grandmother, still night. 
When you bury the light-blotting demons, still night. 
When you take turns with your better angels, still night. 
When we surround you in a shining family circle, still night. 
When the boat man needs relief and you seize the oars, still night. 
When you repudiate the cup and reject the Stranger’s poison, still night. 
​


​
Don J. Kraemer is semi-retired and resides in Claremont, California. He has three grown children, one of whom is the inspiration behind and the first audience for these poems.

Edmund Garman CC



​
Keith’s War.

It wasn’t the seagulls 
that’d attack him 
on his balcony, 
the bin men 
that never turned up, 
the inconsiderate cars 
parked outside 
his garage when trying 
to leave, 
the kids that drew
cocks on his dusty 
car bonnet, 
when he parked
across the road, 
or the overpriced 
breakfasts in the cafe 
that I worked in,
below his flat.

In the end, Keith’s war 
was not one waged 
by anger - 
these battles were there 
to keep him animated, 
in a world that otherwise 
wanted his surrender,
since in his own words -
most people were just 
too scared to do anything, 
about anything, 
anymore.

​


​
13. 09. 2023.

How’s death? 

You once said, 
that my life 
was like someone 
trying to put out a fire 
with lighter fluid - 
that hasn’t changed, 
since we last spoke 
10 years ago 
and in truth, 
I thought that I’d 
have more answers 
to this life thing 
by now.

I may no longer, 
think that I can 
see you in crowds, 
but every so often - 
you’ll appear 
in a dream, 
to deliver some 
thought or message. 

I kept up my promise 
and carried on writing 
and since then 
I’ve written myself 
out of so many 
corridors of hell. 

Yet, I can’t help but 
shake the feeling that 
all of this, you somehow, 
somewhere, already know - 
so in the meantime, 
wait for me 
and until then, 
I can’t help but miss you 
upon this earth. 




Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. He lives in his home town of Bristol, England but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His twelfth chapbook of poetry Wild River Carry me to Sea was recently published by Back Room Poetry. Other work has recently been published in Vipers Tongue, DFL Lit, Paper & Ink Zine and Roi Faineant Press. He plans to one day build a house, amongst other things. Instagram: @gwiljamesthomas
​

Lee Coursey CC




Sister Songs 


Our phones calls always began
no one is dead--
until someone was,

and we sang sister songs of blue 
that drifted over rivers to the stars--

tendrils of light that danced in the night sky
reborn in pink blossoms adorning the trees

like the pink she used to wear so often, soft
like a sigh of goodbye.

Goodbye, we said, 
to our sun swallowed by time, as all stars are,

and as they do, she’s left a trail--
her laugh, sparkles in memory and dreams.

Ghost-echoes, laughter shimmering.

​
​

Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey. Her full-length collection, River Ghosts, was published by Nightingale and Sparrow Press and was a featured book on Black Bough Press.

Flickr CC



On Homecoming
​

​1.   The old house tries its best not to be found; shrouded in twisting locks of Spanish moss and sweeping willow branches, it is invisible     
       even from the road it sits on, and that road appears on no map, returns a blank search result. I find it only with memory.

2.    When I lay down to sleep the first night I hear noises and can’t be sure if they’re real—little taps like the footsteps of mice across the   
        wooden floor. They do not wake me but seep into my dreams, where silhouetted creatures crawl under my blankets, over my chest,   
        and when half asleep I sit up to peer over the edge of my bed I cannot tell them from shadows.

3.   The neighbor makes noises. Hammering things and revving engines. So infrequently and just far enough away that when I hear them   
       through the walls I think someone is at my door. I ignore them as best I can. I check the door every time. 
 
4.   The inside of the house has not changed except for where it has. Hands of clocks all stuck in place. Old pictures of us lining the walls. 
      The kitchen, the bedroom, the living room, all the old spaces waiting to be filled. Spiders have built webs in all the corners; mice leave 
       droppings, chew holes in the walls. Maybe that is how change works, how it should: not revealing itself until it has already passed. 
 
5.   This morning I open the window to let real light in and there is a man outside—the neighbor—standing with his back to me. Not in the
       yard but where the trees that marked its edge used to stand. In the years since I’ve been back here he has cut them down. He is large. A
       foot taller than me, a long graying beard, black eyes deep set into the folds of his face. I drop the curtains shut—I don’t want him to see 
       me seeing him.
 
6.   When I was a child I was afraid of things that lived in the cracks of things, beings I could only see pieces of. In my first nightmare
      something like a snake pushes itself through the hall outside my door, and I watch it pass, waiting for its scaly body to taper off into a tail
      end, but it never does.
 
7.   I spend the days setting traps, cleaning droppings, patching holes, but there are always more the next day, and the traps are never full.
       Where are they coming from?
 
8.   A mile down the road there is a park, and in the park there is a spring: deep and blue and green, and every minute of every day I want to
      go down to it, cast myself into it like a stone, sink down to its primal mouth, open, waiting, and be consumed.
 
9.   What is he doing? I watch him through the sliver of the window, his body passing in and out of sight. He has friends. They have shovels.
       One of his engines purrs, incessant, encircling; tires larger than myself roll past. He is encroaching, his life spilling over into mine. 
 
10.  The house keeps changing. New holes in old spaces, new noises in the silence. The traps are empty. Engines rev. The traps are full. I do
​         not look outside. The spring waits down the road, waters as new and as familiar as the morning. I check the clock. It is always the same           time. It will never be this time again. 


​

Vasilios Moschouris is a gay stay-at-home writer and Best of the Net nominee from the mountains of North Carolina. For now, he lives in Wilmington, where he is completing his MFA in Creative Writing at UNCW, and raising two unruly novels. His writing has appeared in Chautauqua Magazine, Trampset, Roi Fainéant Press, and the museum of americana. Find him at vasiliosmoschouris.com or, if you must, @burnmyaccountv on Twitter.

Sigfrid Lundberg CC



Father, Son

33 years ago, he was a swimmer. He wore tight speedo briefs in the school pool and swam laps and raced with his teammates. He loved the feeling of slick water sliding past his muscled arms, working like pistons up and down the lanes. 

But one day when pulling himself out of the pool he felt the soft roll of his belly against the wet elastic of his briefs. He hated that feeling. Nothing could be hidden in such tiny briefs, and a gnawing worm began to chew through his mind. What had been thin now seemed thick in the mirror.

That boy created a careful system of eating. In the mornings when his mother prepared Minnesota country breakfasts of pancakes and French toast, he learned how to take just one piece. One piece could be cut in two. One half could be concealed under the napkin, pressed apart as though it were a casualty of the meal. The second half could be carried in his mouth to the bathroom for a final pee before the school bus arrived. A quick flush and he was free of the awful weight of food for the morning.

Lunches were easier. His friends believed him when he told them he needed a few more minutes of studying in the library. So, while they all ate together in the molded plastic cafeteria, he hid away among the top racks of books on the upper mezzanine and chewed through two gumballs, savoring the sweet saliva in his mouth.

He was pleased how quickly his young body shed flaps of skin. 

He was one of the lucky ones. He was scared how quickly he became bones and sinew. He hated the Minnesota cold which seeped beneath his skin no matter how many layers he wore. He finally told his mother one morning and begged to see the doctor. 

You were that boy. Today you have a son.

Your son is a dancer. He wears tights and stands before the mirrors of his rural Minnesota dance class, plieing and pirouetting. He loves the feeling of the air gliding past his face when he jumps. 

But one day when he changes out of his tights he feels a jiggle in his thighs. He hates that feeling. Nothing can be hidden in dance tights. He starts to feel the skin on his face when he makes tiktok videos with his friends. His face feels puffy and full. The gnawing worm reappears.

He creates a careful system of eating. He insists dancers needed a special diet. He asks permission to make his own meals. He loves how quickly his young body dissolves fat. 

He isn’t one of the lucky ones. He eats one egg and half an apple each night for weeks. He shivers under his five blankets during the Minnesota winter. Soon he doesn’t have enough energy to climb out of bed.

You tell your son about the boy from 33 years ago. You tell him even though that boy’s world had no tiktok or cell phones, it did have tight elastic and a gnawing worm. 

You ask him a question. Your son’s thin face nods. For six months he sits with other boys and girls through long online sessions on body dysmorphia and countless times answers the question, “What lies is your eating disorder telling you today?” 

Six months ago, that boy graduates from the clinic. 
​
Today the two of you compare your twin minds and smile as you look up at the Minnesota sky.

​​

Susanne Nilsson CC




For Kindness

He thinks my words are too nice,
that one must be cruel to be of literary 
intrigue, ready to stick one’s knife 
into the heart of a poem and then study 
the cadaver, shun anyone’s approval. 
Why is kindness good
in a friend and bad in writing?

“Kindness is the light of life”
(according to my Yogi teabag fortune).

2.

Kindness bends, voice relents
gives up argument. content with distance, neither fighting, 
nor resistant. Am I soft 
as bird feather in his ear,
sea waves of distant traffic,
gentle as the scent of electricity?

Am I  overripe apples
that can’t hold onto limb? The forgotten 
name of a folk band that once mattered? 
Softness resembles death, 
is like kindness. 

3.

My father was happy the day
he made me cry in front of him,
he said, because I always went to my room. 
I swore at him then
instantly regretted it. This poem 
must be for him too.​




Carrie Albert is a writer and visual artist. Sometimes these merge. Her works have been published widely in journals and anthologies, most recently: The Protest Diaries (B Cubed Press), Gyroscope Review, Sleet, Plumtree Homeless Edition, and Ekphrastic Review. She lives in Seattle with her papier-mâché animals.
​

Lucky Lynda CC




While I Wait

I want to throw the same, the same, and
the same into the garbage can, let it all
nestle next to smelly tuna cans and soggy

tea bags. There isn’t a blanket thick enough
to deter a determined moth, there are no shoes 
that water can’t breach. 

Missing things still wander, still wait to clasp my hand. 

So I make sandwiches
and drink tea, but plant moon flowers at sundown
and keep my shoes by the door.





Continental Drift

We are tectonic plates 
in a house of misgivings, 
knocking together 
then apart, lava flowing 
dull-eyed & destructive 

closer to the village. 
It’s said life passes 
in the blink of an eye 
while we become set 
in our ways. In my heart 

is a vase of dead flowers 
crying without tears 
for the sun, each skintight 
night strangling it 
a little more, a little more.




Charlotte Hamrick writes, reads, and photographs extraordinary everyday things in New Orleans. Her writing and photography is included in a number of literary magazines and in the Best Small Fictions 2022 and 2023 anthologies. She is Founder and Co-EiC of SugarSugarSalt Magazine. Sometimes she writes in her Substack, The Hidden Hour.
​

Mike Fritcher CC




Addicts bent 

​
There is no romance in writing..it's like cleaning a toilet bowl..everyday....over and over..with a dirty brush...wiping it clean with your tongue
 
Behind the dance of writing... there is the romance of it cloaked in the corner... that bounces in the distance off of roads uncharted.... there is a lifestyle of thought, literature and characters stalking the cobbled streets of far off towns ...caped and cloaked in boudoirs....a loveless state of longing for words that pull us past whats real and hangs you out to dry.....into a confusion unseen..creeping there..as the addicts bent... 

"They got this down to a science." she said..."you are the mouse...it, the trap. The problem is the trap is invisible..it waits, baited in your mind...the work we do is so we can see it in the corners....spring loaded and waiting to snap" 

I forget, that's the problem 
​
But i hit some real greazy shit today ..a real slippery slope on the edge of nowhere Montana..in the battered loam of nothingness here strung out across the prairie...in Butte...what am i doing here?...stalking the writers house...standing at Kerouac's grave in my head, reading Mexico City Blues on social media...driving into the abyss...it scared me by reminding me how i get sucked into this romance ..enamored...until I’m unclaimed...until it turns into this kind of toxic dance and i start to lose, very subtly the ability see the true from the false...and it slowly becomes the core disfunction...the bad feeling in your gut ...the obsession with the adjective instead of the noun...the flair instead of the craft.....the lust and not the love.... the dreaming instead of the seeing.......the me and not you....the story and not the life...the myth and not the man...then the lights blink...the crossing bars come down on your connection.....you find yourself gone....like the famous writer... hopeless....a useless drunk...dying in his own legend...staring holes through his good for nothing...



​

​Jeff Finlin is an American artist, songwriter, author and yogi. He has released 15 critically acclaimed albums around the world, authored three poetry books and two books on yoga and recovery. He is currently living and working in Colorado.

Donald Lee Pardue CC



​
Small Robberies

“You’re ugly,”
my best friend decides,

“where you have lots of beauty marks.”
Guilty, I hair-hide

my face, generously sprinkled.
We’re twelve so I believe her.

Tall boy at the pizza place
wispy dark lip, fresh-muscled

guards the take-out window
breathes her in--

already bloomed—high T-shirt bumps
and cheekbones, long lucky hair.

A hostage on the sidelines,
I haven’t learned this game. 

Legs burn, bicycle trails her home.
Back in her room she orders:

“Turn around,”  
so she can change her top.

Cross-legged on the shag, I do. Then steal
a glance in the corner mirror.

When dusk falls summer nights I run the block, 
her house to mine.  

Like mockingbirds, we trade a call
I still feel in my throat. 

Years of dusks descend before I hear 
her echo true--

a warning cry
of future thieves.

​

​

Lisa Romano Licht’s poetry and other work has appeared in Blue Heron Review, The Westchester Review, San Pedro River Review, Steam Ticket, Please See Me, Mom Egg Review and elsewhere, and was selected for The Year’s Best Dog Stories 2021 and Vita Brevis Press’ Nothing Divine Dies, both anthologies. She lives in Rockland County, NY with her husband. Find her on Twitter:@LRLwrites