Early Morning E.R. Visit by Eric Chiles

A pain like the ripping
of a balloon's overstretched
sheath beneath my sternum
pressures me out of sleep.

Am I about to die? Is this how
it all ends at 2 a.m. when
the house is silent and there's
no traffic in the street?

In the bathroom still half
a sleep - half alive - I find
a full-strength aspirin
and flush it down wondering
if it's just indigestion,

tormented by the stereotype
of manly men toughing
out pain. There's no bulge
of bile, no burp of gas, but
worry says this is it!

So I grab my pants and keys
and drive to the hospital
stopping for lights rushing
less than my heart fearing
a lurch toward a telephone pole.

Wheelchair at the door
hospital gown cold antiseptic air
leads taped to my chest
blood pressure cuff beep beep
of heart monitor stick of IV,

all of which oddly calms
me with a reassurance
of accepting what I don't know,
trusting those who do, shedding
pride for vulnerability

as the sun rises like a bubble
from the darkness.

--

Eric Chiles is author of "What Was and Will Be" forthcoming from Resource Publications and soon 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.

Fire and Icicle by Heath Brougher

A toxicity touched a burningfinger—
a burndown—a curdleforth
and foamup of fervent froth—
we each taste a shot of it.

The taste of curdleburn.
We'll waste it all
at the end, as per usual.

We'll waste it all on singed skin
and flaming brains.

--

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.

hunger-kind by Casey Renee Kiser

spiteful hearts get safety-pinned
together
until the lessons are truly
recovered
and we choke on our words,
devouring
our mirrored hearts and unravel;
discovering
our true paths to walk in wisdom,
blessing
the one we once cursed to hell
morphing
into the healthiest hunger-kind

--

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.

Beyond All the Noise by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

My whole life,
my whole being,
will collapse,
until my agony
is buried along
with my body.
I am weary
waiting on death
which does not
come soon enough.
This is my moment.
I expect it will
come to take me
where silence
reigns, beyond
all the noise.
In the distant
past, any evidence
of my existence
will be shrouded
in amnesia.

--

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.

Something To Do by David Sydney

Otto sat in front of his flatscreen, watching an advertisement for hair growth, well, until Frank called.

"What are you doing?"

Otto was honest. He mentioned hair growth.

"I tried that stuff. It doesn't work." Frank was bald. "I've even tried it on the dog.”

Frank's Basset hound, Moses, did have a number of bare, pink spots, alternating with white-and-tan hair.

"Are you doing anything?" It was another Saturday morning and another of Frank's Saturday calls.

"I'm watching something about bladder leaks." One advertisement followed another.

"No, Otto. I mean, do you want to go out?"

Otto thought of his front door, the sidewalk, and the street beyond. And of walking with Frank and Moses.

"I might go down to RICO'S," said Frank.

That would be something to do.

RICO'S BARBER SHOP was a no-nonsense place, a one man operation. To stand in front, watching the thin barber cut hair, was pleasant, at least to an observer.

"I think he took off this weekend, Frank."

He was right. It was the one weekend a year Rico went to a barber convention.

"We could go to RALPH'S." Frank was full of Saturday ideas.

Otto fantasized the three of them walking to RALPH'S COIN-OPERATED LAUNDROMAT. Although Ralph hadn't cleaned the front plate-glass window, an outside observer could get a decent look inside.

Half an hour later, they were in front of RALPH'S. Otto recalled Moses seeming less pink the last time he'd seen him.

"He's been scratching a lot."

As though on his owner's cue, Moses began going after himself with his right rear leg.

"Look, there's Gwen." Frank pointed.

She and Otto had once gone out. Gwen bent into a dryer, removing several pink sheets. Then, pink towels.

And there was Old Man Cromwell, who Frank disliked. Cornelius Cromwell had tried to throw turpentine over Moses once. So what if the dog had peed over Cromwell's forsythia when it was in bloom? Basset hounds aren't great urinators anyway.

"Look at his underwear."

Otto didn't particularly want to. On his flatscreen, he could have seen far better and more attractive underwear at that exact moment. Next week, he might watch Rico chop someone down to size. Now, he was forced to choose between a Bassett hound drawing blood, Old Man Cromwell's torn undershirts, or Gwen pounding on a change machine that swallowed whatever she put into it.

--

David Sydney is a physician. He has had pieces in Little Old Lady Comedy, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50 Give or Take, Friday Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, R U Joking, Entropy Squared, and Rue Scribe.

Lizard & Cat by Wayne F. Burke

A cat chased a lizard
who ran--
looking like a stick with wings--
and the cat
gave up, and
the lizard, looking back
said
"you can't get me cat," and
the cat
who was built like a fullback
said "I will get you later lizard," and
then a turkey buzzard flew down
and the lizard
climbed onto the buzzard's back
and the buzzard took the lizard
to a jazz joint downtown
called the "5-Spot"
where all the cats hung out.

--

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print. He is author of 8 published full-length poetry collections and one book of short stories. He lives in Vermont (USA).

Beautiful 'No' by SOUM

There is beauty to be found in the ‘no’
Initial impact makes it hard to see
but wait, for the anger and bitter tears to fade
Wait, for the affirmations you’ll never receive to leave
then look again at that sneaky single syllable
Flip it around and now it’s all ON

See the shackled spine straighten
See the disappointed eyes now glow with resolve
Feel the will mentally taut and tense
absorb the pain of a tower crumbling
forming the runway to jumpstart your dreams

Convert all the ‘no's’ you’ve ever been thrown
Into a beautiful bird of the sky
and fly
to the land of
‘yes’

--

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

at the kukai by Jerome Berglund

knight, king of cups...

cards are mostly from same suit

at the kukai

--

Jerome Berglund has published many haiku, haiga and haibun, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Presence. His collections Bathtub Poems, Funny Pages and Eleusinian Solutions were released by Setu, Meat For Tea and Mōtus Audāx Press. A mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.
 

Man of a Thousand Faces by Oliver Kleyer

He probably walks past you
at least once a day, without
being recognized.

Maybe he’s the janitor,
checking on the latest graffiti,
or the gardner pretending
to water the flowers.

The old man on the bench
throwing at the birds,
it could be him.

On another day, it
might be the waitress,
flirting with a customer
or even the little boy,
scurrying home from school.

Just what his mission is:
Nobody's sure about,
Not even himself.

--

Oliver Kleyer is a teacher and poet from Northern Germany. He teaches German as a Second Language in a refugee camp. He writes in Geman and English. His works have appeared in 101 Words, The Creative Zine and Bubble as well as in anthologies like FromOneLine to another or Dadakuku 1.

From a Dream by Howie Good

The birds in the treetops are muttering ugly imprecations. I’m eight or nine again, sitting on a kitchen chair in the yard while my grandfather cuts my hair with a pair of junk drawer scissors. Stacks of bodies keep arriving from the front by truck. At one point my grandfather steps back to assess his work. With a half-shriek, half-sob, he buries his face in his hands. Even a kid like me, who ordinarily displays the complacency of a frozen embryo, has to wonder what a life is for. I see a small black spider scurrying toward the safety of the dark and let it.

--

Howie Good's latest book is Frowny Face, a mix of his prose poems and handmade collages from Redhawk Publications. He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

La Vie Est Belle by Kelly Moyer

The leaves are turning
into fast fashion,
sacrificing timelessness
for the down and dirty
of existential angst.
Can nothing be gleaned
from the chic ways
of French women,
lithe in spite of their
butter and heavy cream?
Recall, My Mighty Oak,
you are only the quality
of your closet, now lying
in tatters at the dark
outgrowth of your roots.

--

Kelly Moyer is an award-winning poet and fiber artist, who pursues her muse through the cobbled streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter. When not writing or weaving, she is likely to be found wandering the mountains of North Carolina, where she resides with her partner and two philosopher kittens, Simone and Jean-Paul. Hushpuppy, her collection of short-form poetry, was recently released by Nun Prophet Press.

The Ex-Wife’s Lament by Cat Dixon

                “Ain’t no angel gonna greet me.
                It’s just you and I, my friend.”
                         -   Bruce Springsteen




Four years have passed since you died,
and I would be lying if I said I don’t
look for you in the corner of the room,
but the house is always empty. I listen
to I’m on Fire and Secret Garden
and I smell your aftershave and feel
your cheek against mine. I’d be
lying if I said I didn’t replay your
voicemails daily. Your voice claims
you’ll see me later, and I choose
to believe that you will. When I die,
I know you’ll be there. Perhaps
disguised as Peter, you’ll lead me
to a gate, and just as in life, you’ll
deceive me, and as I am now,
I’ll be ruined for eternity.

--

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.

Surrender by Michael Dwayne Smith

A photograph of when he was selling the house— his wife’s
ghost comes with, fully made-up: lipstick, eyeliner, costume jewels.

Neighbors have moved, unrecognizable feral children stealing
his mail. The microwave’s low growl every few hours. Its

startling chimes. Cold instant coffee in unwashed cups, parked in
every room. Late night television snores, another glimpse of her

shadow, & a blurry National Geographic image: lamed wildebeest
left behind by a herd awaits the lion, as his half-sleep bleeds on.

Unleashed dogs will circle his early morning hours, cars sneering
from the street, & in that photograph, her fuzzy yellow slippers—

waiting outside the smudged sliding-glass door, like goslings.

--

Michael Dwayne Smith haunts many literary houses, including Gargoyle, Third Wednesday, The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Chiron Review, Monkeybicycle, and Heavy Feather Review. Author of four books, recipient of the Hinderaker Prize for poetry, the Polonsky Prize for fiction, and a multiple-time Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominee, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses.