Beyond bombs
ears tune out nightly news—
Tune into fists-pounded walls
shrieks out the mouth
seeping through from flat 22.
Between blowouts
chaos is a distant backdrop—
Shifting eyes, twitching energy
paint home city sidewalks
into lands of wandering lost.
Above smoke plumes
Heaven’s in sight—
floating sweatshop in the sky
tasking a million battered infant angels
to knit a turtleneck too tight—
And our world chokes in it.
--
Born and raised in Los Angeles, Michael Roque discovered his love for poetry and prose amid friends on the bleachers of Pasadena City College. Now he currently lives in the Middle East and is being inspired by the world around him. His poems have been published by literary magazines like Cholla Needles, The New Yorker, The Literary Hatchet and others. https://www.instagram.com/roquewrites2009/
Friday, January 3, 2025
Tuesday, December 31, 2024
Land of Opportunity by Nate Mancuso
The sickly sweet stench of menthol cigarette smoke hits me as soon as I walk into the dimly-lit casino. This smell, combined with the bass-thumping house music and flashing lights and bells of the video gambling machines, leaves me lightheaded and nauseous.
I walk past the people planted in cushioned stools facing the slot machines, hypnotized by the symbols spinning behind the screens in front of them.
A waitress approaches me with a tray of dirty cocktail glasses lined with melting mini ice cubes and lipstick-smeared cigarette butts. She wears a short tight black miniskirt that looks saran-wrapped around her rear with a sparkling gold halter top girdle laced tightly around her midriff to push up her breasts and spill her cleavage out over the top. Her face is lined and dried out, barely concealed by a thick layer of cheap makeup.
“Drink?” she asks while glancing over at a slot player feeding another $20 bill into his hungry machine.
“Alcohol this early?” I ask.
She smirks, revealing yellow teeth behind bright red glossed lips. “Of course. All day, every day – beer, wine and liquor.”
I look at my watch. It’s 8:17 a.m. On a Tuesday. A sharp pang of depression strikes me like an uppercut.
I politely decline the drink then continue my sojourn deeper into the abyss of the casino floor, walking past a line of denizens waiting desperately to use the ATM.
The back wall is lined with a dozen sports-betting kiosks that allow wagers on every type of sporting event imaginable – from NFL football to Arctic badminton.
I take the only unoccupied kiosk.
An intense guy wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and backwards visor cap stands next to me swearing at a live baseball game that plays out on his kiosk screen. “Fucking Yankees can’t hit for shit today! Torres you suck!”
I wonder why he’s watching the game on a small kiosk screen rather than one of the big screen TVs perched over the blackjack tables just 20 feet away. I can’t help but ask him.
The guy replies without shifting his laser-focused gaze from his kiosk screen. “I’m in-game prop betting each inning’s run total so I have to stay here for the whole game.”
“Oh cool,” I reply, and wish him good luck.
I don’t think he hears me while his attention remains fixed on the kiosk screen. “C’mon Judge, hit one out and make me some scratch, baby!”
Not seeing any sporting events I care to risk a wager on, I turn and stroll over to the double rows of blackjack tables, with solid dark brown wood frames and green felt-covered tabletops. Players sit in chairs around each table facing a dealer who stands before them like a demagogue in the enclave of the semi-circle shaped table. No one smiles, even after winning a hand. All eyes are glued to the table, expressionless but anxious at the same time.
I stand about five feet away from a blackjack table, watching the same routine repeat itself over and over again with the speed and efficiency of a factory assembly line; cards shuffled, bets placed, cards dealt, wins and losses tallied, chips given or taken away, table cleared, rinse and repeat.
A morbidly obese woman slowly stands up from her seat, with the help of her cane, at a neighboring blackjack table. She shakes her head and mutters something inaudible to herself while she places her player’s card into her purse. After a short rest to catch her breath, she hobbles toward the ATM line which appears to have doubled in length. I hurry over to take the woman’s seat before another bystander can beat me to it.
The dealer – a middle-aged Asian woman with hooded eyes and a blank face so devoid of emotion it looks carved from stone – stares at me expectantly after I sit down. None of the four other players sitting at the table acknowledge me. I reach into my wallet and remove a folded $100 bill, then place it onto the table in front of me.
The dealer nods at me then quickly takes my bill while replacing it with two even piles of five-dollar betting chips in what seems like a single motion she’s obviously practiced thousands of times. She blurts something unintelligible to the pit boss standing behind her while she slides my bill into a slit on the table.
“Good luck,” she says to me in a flat robotic voice.
The dealer repeats her routine over several rounds with a speed and dexterity that mesmerizes the entire table. She’s flawless, a perfectly calibrated cash-sucking machine. She reminds me of The Terminator – sizing up mortals in her path with deadly precision then striking before they even know what hit them. A professional killer, a stone-cold assassin.
I feel hollowed out by this place, unable to even harvest let alone process any cognizable emotion. I’m not happy, not sad, not nervous, not anxious, not frightened. Just empty.
I scoop up the three five-dollar chips that remain from the twenty that I began with about seven minutes ago and stand up to leave the table. No other player notices while all eyes remain fixated on the cards being dealt. The dealer continues her routine without pause or hesitation – not even a quick nod or glance at me. Like I was never even there.
I want to leave but I’m disoriented from the dizzying sounds and dazzling lights that surround and engulf me. I look around but I can’t see the doors where I’d walked in from the parking lot.
I find a security guard standing sentry in front of a baccarat table and ask him where I can find the exit.
“It’s tough to explain but walk that way and you’ll find it eventually,” he replies, pointing toward an endless labyrinth of gaming tables and slot machines spread across the casino floor.
I thank him.
“Good luck, bro.” He smiles at me.
About an hour later in my car, I receive a cell phone call from my business partner.
“You go this morning?” he asks.
“Yep,” I reply.
“So how was it?” he asks.
“The most depressing fucking place I've ever been to, like a halfway house to the suicide ward,” I tell him candidly.
“Doesn't sound too good,” he replies after a brief pause.
“Actually it's perfect. Let's make an offer today.”
I walk past the people planted in cushioned stools facing the slot machines, hypnotized by the symbols spinning behind the screens in front of them.
A waitress approaches me with a tray of dirty cocktail glasses lined with melting mini ice cubes and lipstick-smeared cigarette butts. She wears a short tight black miniskirt that looks saran-wrapped around her rear with a sparkling gold halter top girdle laced tightly around her midriff to push up her breasts and spill her cleavage out over the top. Her face is lined and dried out, barely concealed by a thick layer of cheap makeup.
“Drink?” she asks while glancing over at a slot player feeding another $20 bill into his hungry machine.
“Alcohol this early?” I ask.
She smirks, revealing yellow teeth behind bright red glossed lips. “Of course. All day, every day – beer, wine and liquor.”
I look at my watch. It’s 8:17 a.m. On a Tuesday. A sharp pang of depression strikes me like an uppercut.
I politely decline the drink then continue my sojourn deeper into the abyss of the casino floor, walking past a line of denizens waiting desperately to use the ATM.
The back wall is lined with a dozen sports-betting kiosks that allow wagers on every type of sporting event imaginable – from NFL football to Arctic badminton.
I take the only unoccupied kiosk.
An intense guy wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and backwards visor cap stands next to me swearing at a live baseball game that plays out on his kiosk screen. “Fucking Yankees can’t hit for shit today! Torres you suck!”
I wonder why he’s watching the game on a small kiosk screen rather than one of the big screen TVs perched over the blackjack tables just 20 feet away. I can’t help but ask him.
The guy replies without shifting his laser-focused gaze from his kiosk screen. “I’m in-game prop betting each inning’s run total so I have to stay here for the whole game.”
“Oh cool,” I reply, and wish him good luck.
I don’t think he hears me while his attention remains fixed on the kiosk screen. “C’mon Judge, hit one out and make me some scratch, baby!”
Not seeing any sporting events I care to risk a wager on, I turn and stroll over to the double rows of blackjack tables, with solid dark brown wood frames and green felt-covered tabletops. Players sit in chairs around each table facing a dealer who stands before them like a demagogue in the enclave of the semi-circle shaped table. No one smiles, even after winning a hand. All eyes are glued to the table, expressionless but anxious at the same time.
I stand about five feet away from a blackjack table, watching the same routine repeat itself over and over again with the speed and efficiency of a factory assembly line; cards shuffled, bets placed, cards dealt, wins and losses tallied, chips given or taken away, table cleared, rinse and repeat.
A morbidly obese woman slowly stands up from her seat, with the help of her cane, at a neighboring blackjack table. She shakes her head and mutters something inaudible to herself while she places her player’s card into her purse. After a short rest to catch her breath, she hobbles toward the ATM line which appears to have doubled in length. I hurry over to take the woman’s seat before another bystander can beat me to it.
The dealer – a middle-aged Asian woman with hooded eyes and a blank face so devoid of emotion it looks carved from stone – stares at me expectantly after I sit down. None of the four other players sitting at the table acknowledge me. I reach into my wallet and remove a folded $100 bill, then place it onto the table in front of me.
The dealer nods at me then quickly takes my bill while replacing it with two even piles of five-dollar betting chips in what seems like a single motion she’s obviously practiced thousands of times. She blurts something unintelligible to the pit boss standing behind her while she slides my bill into a slit on the table.
“Good luck,” she says to me in a flat robotic voice.
The dealer repeats her routine over several rounds with a speed and dexterity that mesmerizes the entire table. She’s flawless, a perfectly calibrated cash-sucking machine. She reminds me of The Terminator – sizing up mortals in her path with deadly precision then striking before they even know what hit them. A professional killer, a stone-cold assassin.
I feel hollowed out by this place, unable to even harvest let alone process any cognizable emotion. I’m not happy, not sad, not nervous, not anxious, not frightened. Just empty.
I scoop up the three five-dollar chips that remain from the twenty that I began with about seven minutes ago and stand up to leave the table. No other player notices while all eyes remain fixated on the cards being dealt. The dealer continues her routine without pause or hesitation – not even a quick nod or glance at me. Like I was never even there.
I want to leave but I’m disoriented from the dizzying sounds and dazzling lights that surround and engulf me. I look around but I can’t see the doors where I’d walked in from the parking lot.
I find a security guard standing sentry in front of a baccarat table and ask him where I can find the exit.
“It’s tough to explain but walk that way and you’ll find it eventually,” he replies, pointing toward an endless labyrinth of gaming tables and slot machines spread across the casino floor.
I thank him.
“Good luck, bro.” He smiles at me.
About an hour later in my car, I receive a cell phone call from my business partner.
“You go this morning?” he asks.
“Yep,” I reply.
“So how was it?” he asks.
“The most depressing fucking place I've ever been to, like a halfway house to the suicide ward,” I tell him candidly.
“Doesn't sound too good,” he replies after a brief pause.
“Actually it's perfect. Let's make an offer today.”
--
Nate Mancuso is a practicing attorney, history buff and fiction lover who lives in South Florida with his wife and cat (and daughter when home from college). Nate holds a B.A. from Fordham University and a J.D. from St. John’s University School of Law. Nate is currently working on his first collection of short stories, two historical fiction projects and other works in progress.
Nate Mancuso is a practicing attorney, history buff and fiction lover who lives in South Florida with his wife and cat (and daughter when home from college). Nate holds a B.A. from Fordham University and a J.D. from St. John’s University School of Law. Nate is currently working on his first collection of short stories, two historical fiction projects and other works in progress.
Friday, December 27, 2024
New Underneath By Eric Chiles
My parents grew up
in The Depression,
so I learned frugality
as a prime value.
Clothing handed down.
Leftovers eaten.
Nothing thrown away.
Jeans patched, socks darned,
rips and tears mended.
Home remedies healed cuts,
scratches, and colds.
So, I've always worn
yellowed T-shirts with torn
underarms and toe holes
in my socks seen only
when changing at the Y.
in The Depression,
so I learned frugality
as a prime value.
Clothing handed down.
Leftovers eaten.
Nothing thrown away.
Jeans patched, socks darned,
rips and tears mended.
Home remedies healed cuts,
scratches, and colds.
So, I've always worn
yellowed T-shirts with torn
underarms and toe holes
in my socks seen only
when changing at the Y.
A gift card from another
stepchild of need
changed all that,
and today I'm smiling like
a gleaming white, pre-shrunk
T-shirt right out of the pack,
new socks with toes and heels,
feeling baptized,
redeemed from that
threadbare past.
--
Eric Chiles is author of "What Was and Will Be" (Resource Publications, 2024, and available on Amazon) and the chapbook "Caught in Between" (Desert Willow Press, 2019). Besides Disturb the Universe, his poetry has appeared in Allegro, Big Windows Review, Canary, Rattle, San Pedro River Review, and elsewhere. Grandfather to a dozen grandsons, he wishes he had a granddaughter.
stepchild of need
changed all that,
and today I'm smiling like
a gleaming white, pre-shrunk
T-shirt right out of the pack,
new socks with toes and heels,
feeling baptized,
redeemed from that
threadbare past.
--
Eric Chiles is author of "What Was and Will Be" (Resource Publications, 2024, and available on Amazon) and the chapbook "Caught in Between" (Desert Willow Press, 2019). Besides Disturb the Universe, his poetry has appeared in Allegro, Big Windows Review, Canary, Rattle, San Pedro River Review, and elsewhere. Grandfather to a dozen grandsons, he wishes he had a granddaughter.
Tuesday, December 24, 2024
That's Not Eggnog By JPR
Jack seldom went home, and anyone with half a brain cell, after taking one look at his family, could easily understand why, from his extremely strange little brother, Lester, to the walking liquor store of the famous Frank Murphy.
If you hadn't heard of him, he would undoubtedly be glad to tell you of his greatness or at least hit on anything in the room wearing a skirt.
Jack was the only normal one in the bunch.
And, of course, there was their Mother. She was the only reason Jack was even here.
Nothing beats mom's home cooking, and with a staple of any Rollins family, get together the fully stocked bar in the corner.
You had any family get-together in a nutshell.
Uncle Robert and Frank were already well into the drinks.
Lester just lurked in the background, as creepy as ever.
Folks I never recall would drop by, mainly because Frank was here.
All three Rollins boys were bachelors, and that was about as much as they had in common.
“Jackie, damn good to see you, kid. Hey, you still dressing like a member of the village people for work?"
Frank always considered himself a comedian before his stupid luck kicked in, and the novel took off.
"Frank, how are you? And yes, I'm still building houses and busting my ass."
"Well, I'm glad you took your passion for beating off and turned it into a career. Damn good to see you, kid.”
Frank hugged him; he smelled like a damn fifth of bourbon and cheap cologne.
"Hey, kid, mix a drink. Hell, I will mix it for you; what are you having, kid? I brought a case of the good stuff. Have a drink on me.”
Jack knew arguing with his big brother was pointless, for he was a pushy bastard. And the minute he didn't get his way, he would annoy the living shit out of you until finally you caved.
"Where the hell's Lester at?"
"Probably in his room jerking off; I gave him some mags I picked up at a gas station on the way here.”
"Classy purchase. I hate to see what you got me. I'm guessing a pine tree deodorizer.” Frank busted up laughing.
"No, giving that to Mom, but I did write down this lovely woman's number off the bathroom wall. It seems like a real charmer.”
"Hell, I'm trying to remember the woman's name. What was your ex-wife's name again?"
"Whore." Jack replied.
"Nope, that's not her, although I dated someone with that very same name." Frank was on a roll, and Jack was already looking to plan an escape.
Luckily, Frank turned his attention to Uncle Robert, who was sitting down in his favorite chair in the corner. He would probably remain there until the following day due to his passion for hitting the bottle as soon as the sun rose.
The evening moved fast, and there were no casualties from dinner. Frank kept everyone well entertained, at least, so he thought.
Jack just kept mixing the drinks, and Lester remained the oddball troll we grew to know and avoid at all costs.
Frank rambled on about the people he met, the places he saw, and, of course, the women he slept with.
"Frankie, you need to stop bragging, nobody wants to hear that shit!" Mom finally piped in.
As the evening rolled on, Frank decided to hand out cards loaded with cash to everyone. And it seemed a fitting reward for having to tolerate his big brother's shit. He also, of course, handed us all the first editions of his new book.
Well, at least if he ran out of toilet paper, he would have something to wipe his ass with, Jack thought to himself.
Frank got louder the drunker he became. Folks swung by, and Jack found himself shooting the shit with his freak brother, Lester.
"Damn, if he doesn't talk up a storm loud, mouth, son of a bitch,” Lester said.
"Yeah, unfortunately, I would say fame has changed him, but he was always pretty much an egomaniac prick most of his life.”
"You ever read his stories?" Lester asked.
"Yeah, he has talent, but I think it's mainly because every other good writer is dead these days, so once again, his dumb luck wins.”
Frank had the crowd laughing as he picked up the huge punch bowl full of eggnog. "To my brothers and those two jealous pricks in the corner, cheers.” He tilted it back, spilling a good amount down the front of his shirt.
Jack looked at his little brother.
"So Les, you jizz in the punch bowl like last year?" Jack asked without batting an eye.
"Damn straight, bro."
They clinked glasses without even looking at one another.
"You're a good man, little brother."
Jack's mom looked back at them. Jack just smiled as Les nodded to his Mother.
She looked at them strangely, for she knew that anytime her boys were quiet, they were up to something.
Happy Holidays, and whatever you do, don't drink the eggnog.
He was an American poet and short story writer.
His books include Are We Dead Yet, Midnight Masochism, Wuthering Heights, How Stella Got Her Groove Back, and the beloved Last House On The Left children's animated series.
He hosted the famed open mic series for deaf people.
He was a television producer for the acclaimed BBC America series that no one ever watched - because it was on BBC America - called Watching Paint Dry and Other Literary Shit.
He wasted most of his life feeding spoiled egos until he went batshit insane.
He died tragically playing electric guitar in the shower in an attempt to open a portal to hell, not realizing he was already there.
His friends will remember him. Okay, he will be referred to for a day in Facebook posts as That Prick Who Published Your Poem.
His museum is a shed behind a Dollar General, which people commonly refer to as a dumpster.
He leaves behind a houseplant who will miss him greatly.
And since he is dead, he is no longer accepting submissions and does not want to consider your poetry manuscript dedicated to your house cat.
He liked turtles.
If you hadn't heard of him, he would undoubtedly be glad to tell you of his greatness or at least hit on anything in the room wearing a skirt.
Jack was the only normal one in the bunch.
And, of course, there was their Mother. She was the only reason Jack was even here.
Nothing beats mom's home cooking, and with a staple of any Rollins family, get together the fully stocked bar in the corner.
You had any family get-together in a nutshell.
Uncle Robert and Frank were already well into the drinks.
Lester just lurked in the background, as creepy as ever.
Folks I never recall would drop by, mainly because Frank was here.
All three Rollins boys were bachelors, and that was about as much as they had in common.
“Jackie, damn good to see you, kid. Hey, you still dressing like a member of the village people for work?"
Frank always considered himself a comedian before his stupid luck kicked in, and the novel took off.
"Frank, how are you? And yes, I'm still building houses and busting my ass."
"Well, I'm glad you took your passion for beating off and turned it into a career. Damn good to see you, kid.”
Frank hugged him; he smelled like a damn fifth of bourbon and cheap cologne.
"Hey, kid, mix a drink. Hell, I will mix it for you; what are you having, kid? I brought a case of the good stuff. Have a drink on me.”
Jack knew arguing with his big brother was pointless, for he was a pushy bastard. And the minute he didn't get his way, he would annoy the living shit out of you until finally you caved.
"Where the hell's Lester at?"
"Probably in his room jerking off; I gave him some mags I picked up at a gas station on the way here.”
"Classy purchase. I hate to see what you got me. I'm guessing a pine tree deodorizer.” Frank busted up laughing.
"No, giving that to Mom, but I did write down this lovely woman's number off the bathroom wall. It seems like a real charmer.”
"Hell, I'm trying to remember the woman's name. What was your ex-wife's name again?"
"Whore." Jack replied.
"Nope, that's not her, although I dated someone with that very same name." Frank was on a roll, and Jack was already looking to plan an escape.
Luckily, Frank turned his attention to Uncle Robert, who was sitting down in his favorite chair in the corner. He would probably remain there until the following day due to his passion for hitting the bottle as soon as the sun rose.
The evening moved fast, and there were no casualties from dinner. Frank kept everyone well entertained, at least, so he thought.
Jack just kept mixing the drinks, and Lester remained the oddball troll we grew to know and avoid at all costs.
Frank rambled on about the people he met, the places he saw, and, of course, the women he slept with.
"Frankie, you need to stop bragging, nobody wants to hear that shit!" Mom finally piped in.
As the evening rolled on, Frank decided to hand out cards loaded with cash to everyone. And it seemed a fitting reward for having to tolerate his big brother's shit. He also, of course, handed us all the first editions of his new book.
Well, at least if he ran out of toilet paper, he would have something to wipe his ass with, Jack thought to himself.
Frank got louder the drunker he became. Folks swung by, and Jack found himself shooting the shit with his freak brother, Lester.
"Damn, if he doesn't talk up a storm loud, mouth, son of a bitch,” Lester said.
"Yeah, unfortunately, I would say fame has changed him, but he was always pretty much an egomaniac prick most of his life.”
"You ever read his stories?" Lester asked.
"Yeah, he has talent, but I think it's mainly because every other good writer is dead these days, so once again, his dumb luck wins.”
Frank had the crowd laughing as he picked up the huge punch bowl full of eggnog. "To my brothers and those two jealous pricks in the corner, cheers.” He tilted it back, spilling a good amount down the front of his shirt.
Jack looked at his little brother.
"So Les, you jizz in the punch bowl like last year?" Jack asked without batting an eye.
"Damn straight, bro."
They clinked glasses without even looking at one another.
"You're a good man, little brother."
Jack's mom looked back at them. Jack just smiled as Les nodded to his Mother.
She looked at them strangely, for she knew that anytime her boys were quiet, they were up to something.
Happy Holidays, and whatever you do, don't drink the eggnog.
John Patrick Robbins, 1977-2024.
He was an American poet and short story writer.
His books include Are We Dead Yet, Midnight Masochism, Wuthering Heights, How Stella Got Her Groove Back, and the beloved Last House On The Left children's animated series.
He hosted the famed open mic series for deaf people.
He was a television producer for the acclaimed BBC America series that no one ever watched - because it was on BBC America - called Watching Paint Dry and Other Literary Shit.
He wasted most of his life feeding spoiled egos until he went batshit insane.
He died tragically playing electric guitar in the shower in an attempt to open a portal to hell, not realizing he was already there.
His friends will remember him. Okay, he will be referred to for a day in Facebook posts as That Prick Who Published Your Poem.
His museum is a shed behind a Dollar General, which people commonly refer to as a dumpster.
He leaves behind a houseplant who will miss him greatly.
And since he is dead, he is no longer accepting submissions and does not want to consider your poetry manuscript dedicated to your house cat.
He liked turtles.
Sunday, December 22, 2024
Nope by Heath Brougher
I am no 'Ism-er.'
I do not stand on
the Styrofoam shoulders
of society's tainted ideologies.
I cannot suffocate within the crowd.
I light out for the elsewheres—
leaving behind a world
dizzy from the dark drivel abound
and scared of its own shadow—
just as it should be.
--
Heath Brougher is the editor-in-chief of Concrete Mist Press and former poetry editor for Into the Void Magazine, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee, he was awarded the 2018 Poet of the Year Award from Taj Mahal Review. He is the author of 12 books and has a new book forthcoming titled "Beware the Bourgeois Doomsday Fantasy." He has spent the last few years editing the work of others but is officially ready to get back into the creative driver seat.
I do not stand on
the Styrofoam shoulders
of society's tainted ideologies.
I cannot suffocate within the crowd.
I light out for the elsewheres—
leaving behind a world
dizzy from the dark drivel abound
and scared of its own shadow—
just as it should be.
--
Heath Brougher is the editor-in-chief of Concrete Mist Press and former poetry editor for Into the Void Magazine, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee, he was awarded the 2018 Poet of the Year Award from Taj Mahal Review. He is the author of 12 books and has a new book forthcoming titled "Beware the Bourgeois Doomsday Fantasy." He has spent the last few years editing the work of others but is officially ready to get back into the creative driver seat.
Friday, December 20, 2024
Collect Them All by Casey Renee Kiser
Twirling the breeze like it’s cotton candy,
I’m not the one they marry-
Every thirsty Thursday and drowned Sunday,
I collect them all and carry
The gypsy heart is too romanticized;
Whispers that scream down your spine
Never the hellfire pain that’s advertised,
only dancing with the wine
A heart; just another collectible
Sun surrenders to the Moon
Sad songs sync heavy stones into our blood,
and Mr. Midnight to noon
--
Casey Renee Kiser is a punk poet with a horror-quirk-twist. Her new release Altered States of The Unflinching Souls with fellow indie poet, J. J. Campbell is due out late Summer 2024, and Confessions of A D3AD Petal early Spring 2025. She runs a small independent press in Kentucky.
I’m not the one they marry-
Every thirsty Thursday and drowned Sunday,
I collect them all and carry
The gypsy heart is too romanticized;
Whispers that scream down your spine
Never the hellfire pain that’s advertised,
only dancing with the wine
A heart; just another collectible
Sun surrenders to the Moon
Sad songs sync heavy stones into our blood,
and Mr. Midnight to noon
--
Casey Renee Kiser is a punk poet with a horror-quirk-twist. Her new release Altered States of The Unflinching Souls with fellow indie poet, J. J. Campbell is due out late Summer 2024, and Confessions of A D3AD Petal early Spring 2025. She runs a small independent press in Kentucky.
Tuesday, December 17, 2024
In the Water by Jerome Berglund
crisis actors bull mastiff
ill fated skunk white lines
new all-time high fentanyl
going through motions the heavens
--
Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His most recent collection of poetry "Eleusinian Solutions" was just released by Mōtus Audāx press!
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