Office Office by Sanjeev Sethi

You came dressed
in hesitation and hope.
I greeted you like one
does on a Monday.

By then our weekend was warehoused
in an unlit corner of my coxcomb.
Unwittingly your awkwardness
exerted to ignite it.

One day in a another situation
you will be exculpated.
Growing up is a skill.
I took my time.

SANJEEV SETHI is the author of three well-received books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: Off the Coast, Drunk Monkeys, Degenerate Literature, Haikuniverse, The Penwood Review, Squawk Back, W.I.S.H. Press, Easy Street, Novelmasters, Zarf Poetry, Postcolonial Text, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

In Wild Hunger by Joan McNerney

Thirsty for blackness searching tunnels
tasting empty wells. How many times?

Ten times ten times ten. Ten thieves
have stolen our souls.

Lost in ignorance with plastic eyes and
cosmetic sneers, they find illusion
in their own reflections.

Seven times seven times seven.
The shards of their mirrors are crushed.
Slivers of glass will be their food.

Many are lost to poverty stranded in
pools of despair. They crouch in
corners, eating the air of distrust.

Three times three times three
faith     hope     charity.
Which is the greatest of these?
Do you know true charity?

Tracing old constellations to find
nourishment. Though I have heard
the great silence,  stood in golden warmth
filled with pure light…I am not yet free.

One times ones times one.
In wild hunger and thirst,
starved by sorrow, dressed in tears…
searching for comfort.

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Camel Saloon, Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Halcyon Days, as well as several Bright Hills Press, Kind of A Hurricane Press and Poppy Road Review anthologies. She has been nominated four times for Best of the Net.


Politics by Melanie Browne

I’m tired of the slipstream,
I need…
not a war
on the seafloor
as for who should be
I lament
my feet are in cement
I don’t know how
to lobby-
my knees are too knobby
I’m tired of watching
I need a new hobby

Melanie Browne
Melanie Browne is a poet and fiction writer living in Texas with her husband and three kids.

Brushes by Hanoch Guy

After Joni Mitchell

I live in a paint box
squeezed between rusty cans.
Crayons pile up.
Brushes irritate my nostrils.
The box is flung open,
Olivia throws out carelessly everything.
looking for her balloon.
Flat on the floor
Run over by mice.
A hairy hand throws me back,
winds me.
A brush in hand
I paint the floor
from a split open pink can.
Crayons draw green purple circles
The baby laughs and throws up.

At night the garage is quiet
except for the red Rambler coughing oil,
dreams of another cross country.
Marveling at the Grand Tetons
and the majestic Pacific shore.

Hanoch Guy spent his childhood and youth in Israel surrounded by citrus orchards ,water melon fields and invading sand dunes. He is a bilingual poet in Hebrew and English,.
Hanoch is emeritus professor of Jewish and Hebrew literature  in Temple University
He has taught mentoring and poetry classes in the Musehouse center in Philly.
Hanoch has published poetry extensively the US,Israel and the UK in Genre,Poetry Newsletter, Tracks , the International Journal of Genocide studies Poetry Motel,Visions International,Voices Israel and several times in Poetica where he won an award
He has also won an award in the Mad Poets Society.

Mirror Prayer by Willie Smith

Eat shit, roll over and die,
I face my day with every cast of the die.
Ah, don’t ask why in the mirror I spy
this oddly even cast in my eye,
as if the mind hobbled in a cast. Just
ask to – to stay in God’s eye just –
flee my reverse face trapped in the glass,
while I recite this verse for a cast of one.
I – bar through fist – eye at infinity –
contemplate, through thin flesh,
the humdrum on today’s plate:
iced veins at the office,
marching in vain
to tedium’s fife and drum.
To the job I hate, never make me late.
Eat shit, roll over and die,
I fear my day with every cast of the die.

Willie Smith
Deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. For further palaver re NOTHING DOING (Honest Publishing, 2012) & OEDIPUS CADET (Black Heron Press, 1990) please see amazon or the publishers’ websites.

Anxieties and Nights by Sudeep Adhikari

It is the vapor of something, I don’t know
a nebulous longing in the guise of an ache,
that rises to fill me up with your diamond eyes.
Anxieties have wings; existence is a drag.

The air is a constant lack, I breathe.  Bones chime,
and fill the vacuous spaces inside my body;
the interference pattern of death and boners.

Sometimes, I want to buy me a lying drug,
telling me that I am living a Bollywood movie.
It sucks, but it won’t go forever.

Do I want to be comfortably fooled? Or do I want
to be naked down to my last molecule ?

I am not made in schools, books or churches. And
I am not going to drag the corpse of last few thousand years,
like I am told to. One of these days, I just want to
be a duck or a stupid pig. What are you going to do about it?

“Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form. “… Diamond Sutra
“Form is background. Background is form”….M.C. Escher’s Sutra
“Wave is particle. Particle is wave”…Heisenberg’s Sutra
“Matter is mind. Mind is matter”….Jung’s Sutra
“Nevermind”…..Cobain’s Sutra

I am going to have a slice of sky for the breakfast today,
to celebrate the oneness of sublime and junk. And of course,
you are not invited, because you and me are always one.

Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal. His poetry has found place in many online/print literary journals, the recent being Red Fez , Kyoto , Your One Phone Call, Jawline Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Yellow Mama, Fauna Quarterly, Beatnik Cowboys and After The Pause.


Bay City Bombers by Alan Catlin

They were the women’s beer league
champions four years running.
Most were built like Bay City Bombers
after Raquel had left the team, all, that is
except for the pitcher, short fielder, and
second baseman, all of whom looked
like pixie dusted vestal virgins but were
known to scream like harlots when their
men went down hard where it mattered.
The MVP was part Calamity Jane,
part Blaze Starr, an authentic bad momma
who liked to play softball while the sun
shined and hard ball all night after post game
parties. “I’m the MVP all right,” she liked
to say in between shots of Ole, “Most
Valuable Pussy.” Made the police blotter,
the six o’clock news, and the DWI Hall of Fame
all in one night, driving so far over the limit
she was medically dead. Created a drive-in
door and window, totaling a car and a Stewart’s
Convenience store, in one go.  Was quoted
as saying, after the EMT’s scoped her for
obvious signs of injury, “I never felt a thing.”

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

Midnight Adventure with Alice and Ralph by Jennifer Lagier

A pussy is a terrible thing
to waste, Alice tells her lover.

He is on his back, drowsy.
She has ridden him hard, taken him deep;
now he is tired, ready to nap.

With one hand, she caresses his cheek,
places her pouty lips on
his open mouth.

The two tangle tongues.
Like it or not, he is becoming erect.

Alice sighs happily,
climbs astride
as he grabs her hipbones
for another wild coupling.

She is swollen and moaning,
calling his name,
unfolding like a flower,
already wet.

Jennifer Lagier has published twelve books and in literary magazines, taught with California Poets in the Schools, co-edits the Homestead Review, helps coordinate Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium Second Sunday readings. Newest books: Scene of the Crime (Evening Street Press), Harbingers (Blue Light Press). Forthcoming chapbook:, Camille Abroad (FutureCycle). Website:

North Island; Artisan * by Stefanie Bennett

The bone carver works
At the heart
Of the matter.
Weds mortal
To its other-half with
As lean
As acquired logic.

Some dream-polisher.
The calm dexterousness
Of race-formed
Aeons before
That horded

Not for him the near Gods,
Haka, or reptilian
Myth. Just
White cloud strung
Osmotic gravity
That grows
Within his fingertips…

A rare gift. Blood
On the tourist dollar.

{*North Island = New Zealand}

Stephanie Bennett
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel & a libretto… tutored at The Institute of Modern Languages & worked with Arts Action for Peace. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia. Her latest poetry title with Walleah Press is “The Vanishing”.

Fairy-Tale World by John Grey

In the fairy-tale book, there’s illustrations by Rackham.
If the words themselves won’t give you nightmares,
I guarantee the pictures will.
Red Riding Hood is so innocent, you’ll fear for your children.
And the wolf is fooling nobody.
Not even the worst grandmother has teeth that sharp,
snout that long, hair that thick.
But that’s the point of childhood isn’t it.
Start with the nightmares and grow from there.
Aren’t we all grounded in witches hauling themselves
up towers on a princess’s long gold hair.
Or dragons in caves. Or giants smelling blood.
By the time the warnings come around
to strange men in cars, kids from rough neighborhoods,
we’ve shuddered from clutching trees, invidious gnomes,
larcenous beggars, talking toads and, worst of all,
little boy and girl devourers.
The predators, the tough kids, just add to that
roaming band of evil-doers.
And later in life, the ranks of ogres thicken…
co-workers with a sharp knife for your back,
women who cheat at every turn,
so-called friends who rob you blind.
And that’s not even taking into account
bad drivers, clumsy fork-lift operators,
hunters with lousy aim,
and politicians who would send you off to war.
It’s a dangerous world.
It’s a dangerous imagination.
I’m reading my child a story.
I’m showing him the illustrations.
He won’t sleep well.
Nor should he.

John Gray Copy
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Silkworm work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.