Disorder by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I see the blue sea
in the tears from your

eyes. In disorder,
a miracle is
in order. Arrows
from white clouds had hit

their mark, eyesight marred,
a broken mirror,
with light extinguished.

The blue sea is in
need of calm. So much
suspense, what will
bring the light back, there
is too much foam, in an
instant your blue eyes
overflowed, a flood…

--

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Crossroads, Fearless, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories.

Looking For You Know Who by J.J. Campbell

i watched an octopus walk down
the street smoking a cigarette

lost souls never batted an eye

the beeping of a stolen car

the rhythms of a city being
torn apart

two packs of marlboro lights

some shitty bar, tucked away
down an alley and a few stairs

need the password to get in
or some cash

two white russians and a
glass of sparkling water

the bartender raises his third eye
and notices a fool a mile away

the octopus walks in the bar
with a gun

looking for you know who

i sat down and started to drink

it was like a scene out of star
wars though i doubt anyone
here remembers

--

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, Mad Swirl, The Beatnik Cowboy and The Rye Whiskey Review. His most recent chapbook, with Casey Renee Kiser, Altered States of The Unflinching Souls, is now out in the world. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Mammon by Jerome Berglund

A frustrating necessity, through the pursuit of which 99% of us are obliged to spend an unfortunate amount of our lives dedicated, and essentially waste and fritter half or more of waking hours in the best good years away towards should we care to entertain notions of having our own place or starting a family, possibilities which even through diligent effort might be thwarted by circumstance and ill fortune. All to benefit a tiny portion of the population who through no effort or deserving of their own were born into possession of copious quantities of it, and use like a bayonet to force the rest of us to march to the beat of their drums, prostrate ourselves and wait hand and foot upon them for vast majority of our primes, to make them more which we are entitled to no share of their profits resulting from, but rather are broken off tiniest crumbs they are legally and demandedly able to. The root of all treachery, dark god to which bloated rapacious industrialist and devilish tycoon dedicate every conscious moment hour and care, at the altar of which untold quantities of blood has been and continues to be spilt throughout the ages, at the heart of why every war has been waged, each genocide rationalized. What has made prostitutes, johns, janes, pimps or madams of every man and woman since time immemorial, that horrid blasphemous abhorrent necessity on which every facet of our modern society seems to pivot. I curse it.

feet first –

takes the bourbon

straight

wolf tunnel

more shootin’

less tyin’

camellias blooming

overturned lamp is still

illuminated

gun smoke

chews

the toothpick

--

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!

The Morality and Economics of Sex by Bruce Morton

Affection or lust,
We call it love and
Guard against infection.
We concede attraction
But In contradiction

We espouse capitalism,
Play for seduction,
Embrace free love
However, make illegal
Fee love.

So the moral is
That it is okay
To get some action
So long as it is
Not a transaction.

--

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

The Western Sun by Kelly Moyer

The number eight is
a pair of farm-fresh eggs,
prepared on the griddle,
over-easy,
whereas I exist
in two paltry dimensions,
rendered effortlessly
on the page,
though not within space.
No doubt, there is a flaw
in my construction,
akin to your perception
of consciousness,
tethered, as they say,
to the manicured
hands of time.

--

Kelly Moyer is an accomplished poet, photographer and fiber artist, who pursues her muse through the cobbled streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter as well as the mountains of North Carolina. Hushpuppy, her collection of short-form poetry, was released last year by Nun Prophet Press. Notecards containing a few of her most popular images are available at www.etsy.com/shop/theunfazedmoon.

Negative Exposure by SOUM

Don't be so happy that the sun has come
out, showering all with its light and warmth
You still have darkness swirling around you
Beware, it will cost you a life of love

Too long hidden in the murk and the dim
Those bright beams invade every unlit nook
Now in your face the obvious unveiled

No-where to hide such stark clarity of
this shit-mess you’re bringing into your life

--

SOUM (Screams of Unfettered Minds) is a newly-formed female trio whose poems explore the darker aspects of life championing awareness for mental health and social issues. These private Kiwis consider their style to be raw, unapologetic, unfiltered, cheeky, but always heartfelt, using their poems as their mouthpiece. Twitter/X: @SOUMpoets

The Night After Christmas by Cat Dixon

After the soiree ends and the mess
is picked up, after the forgotten
friends forgive the faux pas
of lost invitations, after the babies
have screamed all evening, and exhausted,
they sleep in their beds, I still believe
that people are good, and fire is bad.
I retrieve and count the needles left
from the shedding evergreen,
and carefully pack away the shiny
baubles. After the candles
are extinguished without incident,
I drown them in the full bathtub,
and fill up a large garbage bag
with their waxy gray bodies.
Perhaps this is wasteful,
but the clock’s ticking,
the phone’s ringing, the alarm’s
screaming, and the dreams
of children are close to their end.

--

Cat Dixon is the author of What Happens in Nebraska (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2022) along with six other poetry chapbooks and collections. She is a poetry editor with The Good Life Review. Recent poems published in Thimble Lit Mag, Poor Ezra’s Almanac, and Moon City Review.