Reptile by Bruce Morton

Why do I like the sun so?
I don’t really know.
I do not worship it.
There is no Ra or rah-rah
In its rays. I do not raise
Nor bow my head, yet
Will shield my eyes, so
As not to be blinded
By its intensity, energy so
Well-travelled, so fast
That it has seen darkness
Disappear. There are days
It seems like it could be
God’s spotlight, but
Then it creates shadow,
Where I also find comfort.
Perhaps a function of the id,
Some reptilian impulse
To want to lie, if truth be told,
On a warm rock, to absorb
The heat, to melt the ache.

--

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.

Pushcart Nominations

Disturb The Universe Magazine is proud to announce our nominees for The Pushcart Prize!

Gabriel Bates - Know Your Enemy
Jerome Berglund - Clovers
John Winfield Hoppin - Hot Day

Daniel Guido - You Knew You'd Come to This
Bruce Morton - The Morality and Economics of Sex
John Grey - Tattoos

Congratulations to each of these fantastic writers!

Carousel Girls by Kelly Moyer

Somewhere out there
is a galaxy
filled with gas lamps,
beating hearts
and freshly-plucked
pomegranates,
forever on the cusp
of releasing
the syrup
within their seeds.

In the night,
one might score
the ripest
like a poem
into quarters,
if only to luxuriate
in the rip of its pith
or, say, pierce
its potential
with the incisors,
ground down
from years of gnashing,
so as to allow the jaw
to provide the force.

Were morning to come,
the cobbles
would remain stained
with the intensity
of our aspirations,
yours and mine,
and we couldn’t help
but to beg the Buddha
to spin the wheel
one more time, like
the carousel girls
who have more
tickets than pockets
and live, in spite
of punishment,
to simply enjoy
the thrill of the ride.

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.

An Encapsulated Life by Michael Anthony Ingram

In the timeline of existence,
I stand as a man,
seasoned and proud,
possessing strength akin to Hercules.
Yet within, I harbor the essence of a child,
inexperienced and feeble,
endowed with the plaything called life.
A divine bestowal, if you may.
Yet, adulthood unveils life's gravity,
no mere amusement but a solemn venture.
At times, I ponder relinquishing my toy,
too massive, unwieldy, fragile,
anxiety-ridden, bashful,
a challenge to manage,
with intricate parts awaiting swift assembly.
Yet, if returned to God,
would a simpler, better-suited replacement emerge?
Until that choice materializes,
I'll cling to the bestowed gift,
for, in the end,
it remains a cherished offering.

--

Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram, host and producer of the globally acclaimed poetry podcast Quintessential Poetry: Online Radio, YouTube, and Zoom. He is a retired university professor who champions the arts, especially poetry, to highlight issues at the intersection of power, privilege, and oppression. A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, he is also celebrated internationally as a spoken word artist. His eagerly anticipated second book of poetry, Metaphorically Screaming, will soon be released. For further details about the podcast, please visit www.qporytz.com.

Friendly Ghost by Brandon Shane

I imagine sometime after my burial
they'll stir stew and toss in an extra clove
of garlic to honor my memory,
look at the night stars like brown butter,
see the sky as milk and thyme,
pigeons will be salt, auburn leaves
just a pinch of cinnamon and nutmeg,
our sun a great dandelion
that cannot be pulled.

They'll light an unscented candle
before a late dinner
and cradle lanterns wherever they go
like squirrels with hazelnuts stuffed
into their cheeks, and gray afternoon rain
will no longer ruin their day,
but inspire an idea.

I'll return in brief moments
as they go on chilly walks, trails
dimming with evening light,
somewhere in the rings of a sycamore tree,
somewhere in the sweet citrus of an orange,
woodland songs piercing nervous silence.

On the wings of a blue jay
covered in seeds
that will drift along a hill,
and months later,
there will be a gust, thunder,
something green sprouting
along the mud.

--

Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka Japan. You can see his work in the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Heimat Review, York Literary Review, Mersey Review, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English. Find him on Twitter @Ruishanewrites

Facedown on First Street by Daniel Guido

See a man in his thirties
Thoughts overwhelming
Who leaps from a building
To elope with the floor

His arms are flailing
And as he’s descending
He sees a pale face
From a dark corridor

Her eyes start wilting
His legs keep tilting
And he laughs at the moment
He’s halfway down

It was love at first sight
Yet a little too late
She spread out her thin arms
His tie flowed like a gown

Did she think she could catch him?
And did his laugh echo?
Moments before his face
Painted the ground?

With a hand to her lips
She walked away slowly
And discarded the sight
Without making a sound

Perhaps it didn’t matter,
As they came to chatter
About the man who laid flatly
In a pool of his love

And she’ll wonder, probably,
If terminal velocity
Might’ve felt a little like
A flight among doves

--

An aspiring author, Daniel thrives on crafting dark and intricate stories. His enthusiasm for reading, writing, occasional procrastination, and blasting music pour fuel on his creative pursuits.

One Irreversible Step for Mankind by Dan Raphael

1)

want to step outside but can’t get that far without circling
as people do when lost, in a much varied old growth forest
or in acres of hazelnuts planted symmetrically
like the holes in Chinese checkers

as office towers can only be the same if built simultaneously
as pyramids are always disguising something—refuse heaps, libraries,
evidence of civilizations no one knew about to forget, like parts of the earth
that heal too quickly to scar, a day the holes in the clouds had right angles
and there must have been at least 4 suns for it to move that quickly


2)

my neck is stiff from so much looking up, the sidewalk is sloppier than the street,
no craftsmanship, little attention to what’s thrown where, houses at different levels
to avoid sight lines, people paid to stroll and analyze windows—
what kind of treatments, how many cats, can I see all the way through
flag lots, easements, naming rights sold for street names but
who wants to live on starbucks street or target boulevard

with houses corralled closer together, addresses with decimal points
fences replaced with laser beams carrying and creating data, subtly culling
the herds of squirrels and rats--security genetics, a legally mandated end
of petlessness, new vaccine for isolation, an addiction to prescriptions


3)

when I stir
as if I had slept
all windows and doors removed
all art and documents unframed and unhung
no brand names or ingredients
a sink with four unlabeled faucets
a toilet not made for people
vertical and horizontal renegotiated

decide quickly. others are coming

--

Dan Raphael’s last two books are In the Wordshed (Last Word Press, ’22) and Moving with Every (Flowstone Press, ’20.) More recent poems appear in Umbrella Factory, Concision, Brief Wilderness, Packingtown and Unlikely Stories. Most Wednesdays Dan writes and records a current events poem for The KBOO Evening News.