Residual Atmosphere by Jonathan Hine

i walked past strange
shadowded yards
down city lanes
up the stairs to
obtain my hidden bag
a smoldering blaze of
orange & red spread
across the horizon
unearthly tints shone
through the window
with long purple curtains
to the side
the faint glow
illuminating & radiating from
the permutations & combinations
of variously enumerated configurations
flickered, then
slowly faded out
and there you were
orbs of mingled light climbed the wall
you smiled
a repose from varying
you were glad to see me
had missed me
now you were leaving town
you leaned in
& whispered in my ear
i think someone
set those curtains
on fire

Jonathan Hine
Having given up writing for five years, Jonathan Hine has picked up his pen again out of sheer necessity. Previous poems appeared in Underground Voices, Gutter Eloquence, Nostrovia!, and Thunderclap Magazine.

Cold Autumn Night And The Beams Are Low by BrianSGore

Cold Autumn night
The leaves have fallen
The gutters dusted with snow
Waxing moon in the dark blue,
Sea of stars washes your eyes.
Your eyelash is on my tongue.

BrianSGore is a writer of short stories, poems, and songs. He currently resides in New London, CT and has published several collections of original works including “Barstool Ballads” and “Eleven Stories For Short… Attentions” as well as a coordinating a collaborative project entitled “A Collection of Poems by Various Poets Regarding the Line ‘10,000 Miles of Farewell'”.

Bible School by Ricky Garni

I don’t think of God as a man or a woman.
Instead, God embraces the spirit of the infinite.
Therefore, God is a Slinky.

Ricky Garni 2
Ricky Garni grew up in Miami and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day and writes music by night. In 2001, his poetry was subpoenaed in court, in order to assert that his testimony was not valid as he was “clearly not of sound mind.” He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize on seven occasions.

“color ads with pictures of genuine shamans wearing cool hats” (Mark Sargent) by Dan Raphael

Catalogue, dating site, mug shots
every channel i turn to is a face, some in such extreme focus
i think i’m viewing a desert, a mud flat, a long untended parking lot

Occasional flashes of seeing the world in black and white
as if a short in my picture tube, a retsina-soaked retina;
while i’d hoped for a flamboyant, hybrid iris
i got the native iris foetida, aroma bigger than its flowers,
bright orange seeds barely a compensation & more of a threat

Coz i know no matter how often and vigorously i sneeze
a fraction of the cause—things my body either doesn’t know how
or doesnt want to dance with—gets through, usually
without a map or much company:  all these one way doors,
these sluices defying gravity, the constant echoes of that 4-valve piston
mighty in the drum of my rib cage

Whether what we call visions are revisions, disillusions, spontaneous surrealism
i’m never safe from the concrete edge, the invisible glass of beer,
the extra step the staircase added this morning.

When i realize everyone else in the block long store disapproves of me,
when the cars 5 lanes wide  move syrup slow and through each other,
like ourobouros spirochetes. when i need to let something unnamed
but pressurized out of my body and i don’t know what door its closest to
or how many obstacles between me and an outdoors i don’t have to clean later

Where my clothes will dissolve and i’ll be cured like a ham,
obscured by the clouds released when my body turns inside out
clouds that draw the rain, leaves & dust up to them in moiré-patterned stripes
making the horizon a pixelated lego mandala modeling a future space colony
with constantly intersecting, writhing, skin-shedding, micro-express
tube tracks (god forbid the star-hamsters would ever invade) shimmering
like an all-terrain medusa helmet with multi-channel eyes that can makewho sees them
                                                    stoned, edible. compliant, insatiable, repulsed

You not only have to pay to play you have to pay to work, stay hydrated
                                                    and arrive with most of what you left home with.
i fly to the place of organic, pre-lingual magic and sip my bowl of shaman ramen
til the truth comes by with an offer i can barely afford

For a couple decades I’ve been active in the Northwest as poet, performer, editor and reading host. Everyone in This Movie Gets Paid, my most recent book, came out June 1st from Last Word Press. Current poems appear in Otoliths, Rasputin, Mad Swirl, Oddball & Unlikely Stories.

Reverse Evolution by G. Louis Heath

Beware the big dogs in your neighborhood.
Treasure the huge shagbark hickory in your

Backyard. Practice climbing it, sit on a limb
That dares bear your corpulence. Swing from

Branch to branch. Give the foliage a brisk
Flossing. You need to leave your bipedal past

In the leaves. The dread return to the trees is here.
Animal Control just lost funding at a city council

Meeting where dog owners brought their dogs.
They strained on their leashes and growled a lot.

G. Louis Heath
G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University. Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He often hikes along the Mississippi River, stopping to work on a poem he pulls from his back pocket, weather permitting. His books include Leaves Of Maple, Long Dark River Casino, and Redbird Prof: Poems Of A Normal U, 1969-1981. He has published poems in a wide array of journals, including Eunoia, Episteme, Black Poppy Review, Lunaris Review, Indiana Voice Review, Whispers, Dead Snakes, Raw Dog Press, Weird Reader, Literary Yard, and Houseboat Literary Magazine.

The Dark Side Holds No Fiction by Paul Tristram

It has a stark, brutal Reality all of its own.
Beggars, Pocket-Thieves & Tuppenny Uprights
are much more than squalid, scenic decoration.
Violence, close-at-hand, but, not felt by impact,
ricochets in sounds…
Razors, a screeching whistle,
Kickings, bass drum beats,
& Strangulation, sounds just like a broken sewer pipe
a-hissing & a-gurgling.
Each Corner, inhabited by Foot Soldiers…
learn to read Gang Graffiti
or pay the way of the snare.
The Muggers refer to themselves
as Moonlight Tax Collectors.
Shoe-Shines are Lanterns (Lookouts)
& Errand Boys
are simply the best dwelling Scopers in Town.
The Abortion Clinic, at the back of the Abattoir,
pulses like a heartbeat
& smells of almonds & marzipan
as you saunter on past.
This is not the way of the tourist,
nor lightweight weekend-warrior.
There is nothing romantic about VD,
broken ribs whilst itinerant,
the DTs in a police cell after bleeding…
or bedding down where the stray dogs don’t even piss,
in the Winter rain, with busted mind & shipwrecked soul.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!

Flashback by Alan Catlin

“I beat the bottle but
I can’t beat the war”
after an acrylic on canvas
by Ron Mann

30 years after
the fact a lawnmower
two yards over
backfires and just
like that I’m back
in-country sucking
in lawn chemicals
instead of air,
all that fertilizer
for a mind on a
perpetual edge
recalling an agent
oranged dawn that
colors all the jungle
a dark unnatural
light like the hand
of death pressing down
the sharp, bladed
grass next to a
recently roto-tilled
garden plot, that
graveyard for lost
crops, plowed under
plants, dead soldiers
composted a dark,
rich loam thick with
earth worms fattened on
the rotting skins
of the dead

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