There’s so much
going on here
it’s always worth
getting out of the car,
and if you listen
really quietly,
you can hear
the stream flowing
and these people
who survived
by eating weeds
and even talk
proudly about it.
Howie Good is on the pavement, thinking about the government.
It’s heartbreaking
and difficult
to hear about,
but beached whales
attract sharks,
and that’s when
she called the cops,
the three worst things
you can do.
Howie Good is still on the pavement, still thinking about the government.
There are many places
where a person can get lost
and not even realize it
until they are lost for good,
but maybe you did find
hints along the way,
seeing things that weren’t there,
the occasional escalator
going up into a vagina,
and if so, it would have been
like a Persian astronomer
from the 13th century
came to you in your sleep
and showed you the blue-
black smoke of stars,
and then, except for his dead voice,
everything would have burned
ten thousand times darker.
Howie Good is on the pavement, thinking about the government.
Little, very little,
almost nothing in fact,
just the blind howls
of a barren woman
giving birth to something
unexplainable
in a dark corner
of the attic.
One of Howie Good‘s latest books is Hitchhiking Through the Apocalypse (Grey Book Press).
If the alpaca could fist-bump, it would.
Megan Bushey grew up in Vermont but is currently living in Pittsburgh, PA working as an editor for the After Happy Hour Review.
One cannot use
a pen and a pistol
at the same time,
and that is all
I have to say on
the subject of
poetry as therapy.
J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early ’70s and is author of six collections of poetry.
Candle
flame flickers
and quickly you
turn from flesh to
silhouette and weave
through the curtains then
exit the open window and float
above the storm-swept garden where
the frogs that survived the devastation insist
to stay and croak aloud undying love to one another.
Karlo Sevilla writes from Quezon City, Philippines, and suffers from a lagging inertia of consciousness.
I carry my burdens,
sing my songs,
hold goodness within,
not much different, it seems,
than a common wooden chair,
the bells of a working clock,
an ordinary vessel of clay.
Larry Schug says, “I could be considered old, though I am terminally immature.”