All posts by Dale Wisely

Devon Balwit

In Memoriam

in me also, bright sulfur,
the flare of a dying empire,
the insistence that you notice
even as I am going down
in each upturned face
a wince, a thrill
at the blast not quite
close enough to feel

Devon Balwit: “But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— [I give] a lovely light!”


Chris Callard

Cheer Up, Pal 

When nights are lonesome and days feel phony,
think of the poor old abalone.

Chris Callard lives in Lakewood, CA, adjacent to the literary and sports center of Long Beach.

Scott Hughes


You died two years ago,
but since you don’t
have a gravesite, I find
myself still leaving you
messages on social media,
digital prayers that I hope
reach you through the code
of zeroes and ones.

Scott Hughes wants you to read some of his other writing at

Steve Klepetar

Looking Down

When night blazes,
when our eyes turn
to lanterns,
when we climb away
from heat, looking down,

when we watch
our houses burn
and everything turn to ash,

we come to know
how quickly
fire swallows towns,

how all around
the hills
and under earth
rivers boil toward the sea.

Steve Klepetar wishes he could burn with a hard, gem-like flame.

Howie Good

Woken by Worry

There’s just enough light
bleeding in through the window
for me to see what isn’t there,

a man in plastic sunglasses
opening a black umbrella
like some kind of signal
for the dark to start shrieking.

Howie Good is on the pavement, thinking about the government.