Getting Published by Anggo Genorga

is the least
of your worries ;

this is the road less travelled,


may your desperation
bring forth poems

and the eureka act
of discovery
hear the musings
between your
fingers — crossed
and sweating;

may it never
shake the shit off
the zen
of the poet
living inside

and leave
your ass
in the air
with a
of your

I was born and raised in the Philippines and currently lives in Dubai moonlighting as a manager of a band called Wonder Woman’s Electric Bra. My recent writings can be found in Napalm And Novocain, Dead Snakes, Paper And Ink Zine, The Odd Magazine, Midnight Lane Boutique and Guide To Kulchur. Also in Boston Poetry Magazine, Empty Mirror, Mad Swirl and Silver Birch Press’ Bukowski : An Anthology of Poetry & Prose about Charles Bukowski and the book for benefit Verses Typhoon Yolanda : A Storm Of Filipino Poets by Meritage Press. You can read more at deviationcummeditation.word

Nothing Happens Unless First a Dream by Scott Silsbe

for Stefanie & Meghan

It’s the end of the meal and I really need to get going.
A summer storm’s brewing, and I need to drive home
to get ready for company. I’m lingering though, not
wanting to leave, not ready to say goodbye to friends.

Stefanie says she’s spending the summer in Michigan
and asks me if I’m going to be up there anytime soon.
Meghan’s just come back from a conference and she
tells me about the weird workshop experience she had.
I’m sitting next to a rambunctious toddler who keeps
poking me with his chopsticks and gets a little scared
when I jokingly tell him in a monster voice to quit it.
You can see it in his eyes—that monster is frightening.

Isn’t it odd, and kind of crazy, but wonderful though
that we all ended up here, in this same room together?
Maybe that’s a trite observation. I can’t help but feel
it though. The world spins and scatters us in Detroit,
Pittsburgh, Kalamazoo, Greensburg, Black Mountain.
We walk past each other as strangers dozens of times.
But when we look back on that, it feels like a dream.

Before I leave the restaurant, we break open cookies.
Meghan tells us about her collection of paper fortunes,
how she keeps them all stashed away in a box. When I
show her what mine says, she goes, “That’s the best.”

Scott Silsbe was born in Detroit. He now lives in Pittsburgh, where he writes, makes music, and works as a bookseller. His poems have appeared in numerous periodicals including Lilliput Review, Nerve Cowboy, and Chiron Review. He is the author of Unattended Fire (Six Gallery Press, 2012), The River Underneath the City (Low Ghost Press, 2013), and the forthcoming collection Muskrat Friday Dinner (White Gorilla Press, 2017).

Internet Outrage! by Melanie Browne

The Chihuahua & the monkey
are fighting on a video
uploaded to the Facebook
The monkey is playing with
the Chihuahua’s whiskers
and the Chihuahua has
had enough
and bites at the monkey and
the monkey jumps away and slaps
at the Chihuahua like a cat.
People are offended.
Jeanne says
“this is not a bit funny,”
Linda says
“This is disgusting behavior,”
Elana says
“you are sick in the head!”
Donna says monkeys are
vicious and “might rip body
parts off at any second,”
I guess Donna has
never fought
with her husband
and Jeanne has never
screamed at her sibling
and Linda has never provoked
a co-worker
all Mother Theresa’s
feeding the homeless
dogs and never
a case of the giggles

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

Historiography of the Trimmed Grass by Ali Znaidi


an owl is lamenting the trimmed grass.

That glass in the window sill is still trembling.

History is sometimes made in an empty (trembling)

History is oftentimes made at the expense
of the trimmed grass.

Ali Znaidi Headshot
Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia. He is the author of several chapbooks, including Experimental Ruminations (Fowlpox Press, 2012), Moon’s Cloth Embroidered with Poems (Origami Poems Project, 2012), Bye, Donna Summer! (Fowlpox Press, 2014), Taste of the Edge (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2014), and Mathemaku x5 (Spacecraft Press, 2015). For more, visit


It’s A Long Way Down To The Bottom # 160 by THE PRETZELED POET Michael Joseph Patton

I’m lost in my life, can somebody help me?
My brain’s gone missing and my heart is on empty.
It’s been far too long without love in my life.
Every day another little piece of me dies.
I’ve climbed every mountain and swam all the seas.
But my ears must be deaf to love’s melodies.
The search is getting harder the older I get.
They make it look so easy on my television set.
I’ll go straight down to Hell and kiss Satan’s ass.
I’ll drink 100 shots of whiskey from an aids tainted glass.
I’ll search the whole wide world from below and above.
I’ll do anything and everything to find my true love.
I’ve talked to the wise man on top of the mountain.
It took me forever but I finally found him.
Seeking his knowledge I begged for his counsel.
I asked my question and waited for his announcement.
But all I left him was perplexed and totally confounded.
No other seekers question had ever confused him.
So I jumped off the mountain to complete the illusion.
So now I’m left with my original thought.
Who is love and who is not?
That’s a question that is impossible to answer.
You can’t water a flower that’s not in a planter.

My name is Michael Joseph Patton. I am a 55-year-old divorced father of three lovely daughters.I work as a cook and like to spend my free time writing poetry, spending time with family and friends, walking in the woods or the beach and reading other poets.I am very new to the poetry world, having only written for less than 2 years, but look forward to many years of writing left in me.

Fucking ‘Cello Music’ by Paul Tristram

“Come here… quickly… bring my phone.
Look, next door, that new guy who’s moved in,
is nuts, absolutely barking mad.
He’s sat out there in his back garden
on a stolen beer garden chair
-what? of course it’s stolen… you can just tell-
with blood all down his
‘Nobody Knows I’m A Lesbian’ t-shirt.
He’s got another black-eye
and cordless headphones on
listening to fucking ’Cello Music’
so loud that you can hear the tripe from over here.
See the way he’s smoking that cigarette…
it’s never right, is it?
I mean, it’s like his hands are dancing with ghosts.
He was out in his underwear shouting at pigeons
two mornings ago…
this is getting scary, for Christ Sake!
There’s probably a ‘Body’ in the house…
maybe lots of them?
And look how calm he is… it’s disturbing,
we should call someone about all this.
What’d ya mean, what’s he done?
Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?
Upsetting normal, decent people
with his lunatic shenanigans.
Needs locking up and putting somewhere secure,
I’ve never been so unsettled in all my born days!”

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!

A West Side Story in East Utica by Alan Catlin

The blonde at the bar eyed
new arrivals, sized them up,
chose one and sidled up close,
whispered like something out
a 60’s pop hit, “You look like
my kind of man.” Leaned forward
and gave him a kiss with a tongue
in it, ”Buy me a beer and we’ll talk.
Who knows, we might have a lot
in common. Don’t go anywhere,
I’ll be back.”

“Sure. Why not?” he thought,
“Dos cervezas, por favor.”
He said to the nearest barman,
watching her as she walked away.
“You sure that’s what you want to do?
No skin off my ass if you do but
you might want to think about it.”
“Sure, why not?”
“Maybe you were born irresistible,
I don’t know. You look kind of average
to me but I could be wrong. You might
have a hidden weapon only the ladies
know about which is neither here nor
there to me. Just wondering if you’re
used to women falling all over you like that.”
“It happens.”
“Sure it does.  Look, you notice two
guys in the parking lot going at it in
the parking lot outside?”
“I saw some kind of beef. Wasn’t none
of my business so I just moved on.”
“Well, it was your business, in a way.”
“How’s that? I don’t know those guys.”
“Hell, I doubt they know each other.
See they were having an argument over
a woman. A blonde woman. A very forward
blonde woman. A teasing bitch of a blonde.
You figure one of them is bound to turn up
in here eventually, when they’re done
making pin cushions out of each other.”
“I see. Maybe you’re right. One beer
is good. She’s not that hot anyway.

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