I hope you get to where you’re going and be happy when you do.

Jack Kerouac

••• The Mad Gallery •••

“which you will you be?” by Madelyn Olson

To see more of Madelyn’s colorfully disturbing quixotic subjects, as well as our other resident artists, visit our Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

These 7 days on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum, we took some time to see what comes from Auld Lang Syne… we sistered the screams from our backyard dreams; we switched sensibilities, unbridled possibilities; we wished to be from source to sea; we disco’d fear for a sweeter year; we eulogized with whiskey breath, hoped to die soon after death; we sought a New Year keeper from blurry ball drop sleeper; we, to ring the New Year in, let it start with talk of Finns. So much more talk is now to come in ’25 for everyone. ~ MH Clay

In Finland, the Finns celebrate New Year’s by good food, dancing, werewolf worship… by Ron Riekki

…and merrymaking. The Finns imagine the world as a joyous chorus,
where we raise half-filled glasses of Tom of Finland wine and

chant beautiful cheers of kuolleet nostavat kiveksensä taivaalle,
(poor translation: ‘the world is a joyous chorus of choruses’),

and we Finns do coffee-cup fortune telling, and we represent
sorrow, and we send New Year cards to friends where they’ll

open them and actual fireworks fire out, scar faces, but for fun,
and we know that Helsinki has Hell and sink in the word, this

wish that Hell would sink, even further south, drown in abysses
of other Hells, just disappear, so that all we have left are meals

and snacks, mocktails and music torture, Alma and Nightwish
and Children of Poop (the three great pop royalty) and how

do you say ‘Finnish’ in Finnish? Simple: by crying. On New
Year, we Finns love to be gorgeous in our fine linens, where

every Finn has purchased the very jeans once worn by Kurt
Cobain, and we spit in our gravy, and we raise up séanceee

(yes, that’s the correct spelling in Finn) ghosts who raise up
the werewolves of the East who are hungry for children, but

that is what New Year is about—anger and joy, defiance and
snow. And the Finnish word for snow is ilman luita tehdyt

kasvot. And there is a Finnish word for snow-puddle, which
is minä nai kerran dinosaurusta. And there is a Finnish word

for snow-that-refuses-to-melt and it is miten lasket nollaan?
And I want to have children. Will anyone out there have

a child with me? I’ve been told I have a penis that’s worth-
while. I’ve been told I look like a rock lobster (whatever

that is, but it’s worth singing about). I’ve been told that this
poem is a spell that if you read it and you are ovulating will

make you search for my social media and you will write me
and say that you understand the meaning of maailman typeryys

on kuussa, which has nothing to do with a mailman. It has every-
thing to do with love. Mad love. Mad swirling love. Our love!!!

01.01.25

editors note: Are you feeling this New Year spell? How ’bout it? Any takers? Let’s make mad swirling love! – mh clay

New Year’s Eve, 2021 by James Croal Jackson

I want to sleep through the ball drop again
because my other plans are in the avocado
pit. Hold my own hand, kiss my own face
on the world’s jumbotron. For voyeurism.

Red wine lips on white pillowcase,
thread hanging off my bed. Next year I
will scoop my meager loneliness out
from the bottomless laundry and fold

until I find my good, blue poinsettias
to wear. Maybe I will talk to someone
else’s god on the telephone, ask my mom
how she’s doing so far. Because the rain

has splattered all across the window.
The closer I get, the less I see of everything.

December 31, 2024

editors note: Maybe step back to better your view. HNY! – mh clay

Hanging On by R. Gerry Fabian

He died New Year’s Day
due to a heart muscle
that turned to fat.
He held on
for seventeen years
after his real death
which took place
on a Boeing 747
somewhere
over North Carolina.
A buxom stewardess
bent down
across from him
and he felt nothing.
Instead
he hoped the ice would last
through the remaining flight.

He died
New Year’s Day
and those
who came to his home
carried the weight
of the previous evening
like overloaded porters.
The sight of them
would have
pleasured him
to no end.

December 30, 2024

editors note: If it happens, let your hangover help someone pass over this year. – mh clay

The coming year will not fulfill by Brian Duran-Fuentes

The coming year will not fulfill
The promises he once proclaimed.
The year will check in late to work
In the punch clocks by the dumpster,
In dry crevices of squalor,
In the cold light of consciousness.
He will smile to the camera
Fidgeting with his knitted tie
And bring home the ham on a stick.
Good on him, That Handsome Devil,
Here we were sober at the rave,
Snatched away from the open mic.
We could only write this poem.
The beer is light and overpriced,
They charge a fee on your liver
For every ghost you inherit,
And they will keep the deposit
If the portraits cry at sunset.
The new year gets the accolades,
And waters down mezcal with Sprite
As it boils in the engine tanks
Of bejeweled planes crossing the skies
On a Sunday to go to brunch,
A.I. José José crooning
To Komm, süßer Tod at full blast.
We will forget all the lyrics.
We will forgive the transactions.
We will hunger at the disco
But the ketchup will be sweeter.

December 29, 2024

editors note: Does the New Year seem sour? Add a little sugar and dance. – mh clay

NEW YEARS ON A BRIDGE by Ray Greenblatt

we wanted to be together
—–hovering in space
away from the real for awhile
here between compromises
we could test the ideal
—–firmness of the clouds
watch not just their textures,
but color change
telling us rain
—–sunset
—–season
high enough to judge winds
rather than be dictated,
—–—–wondering
is it better downstream
where it turns to salt
—–—–or upstream
where mountains manufacture it all

December 28, 2024

editors note: Which way will the New Year take you; to the source or the salt? – mh clay

Believer by Andrea Damic

I grew up with religion
the Holy Trinity
endless Sundays spent in church
the monotonous voices of priests
echoing in my head —
on marriage, they knew nothing about
on parenting and raising children, even less
(sometimes on the politics…)
the irony wasn’t lost on me
even at an early age, yet
I carried this ceaseless guilt
for years on end,
Non-Believer was the name
I couldn’t allow myself to utter
afraid of heaven come crashing down,
consumed at times my thoughts
escaped the dreary pressure,
living a life of their own, as
they revelled in Dreamland
of make-belief adventures
all while hiding in plain sight
underneath the Holy Marys and
the Holy Ghosts;
acceptance was the hardest — that
I didn’t need religious faith
to believe in myself
to distinguish the good and the bad
and the guilt was blown away, like
the seeds with downy tufts
of dandelion flowers, and
my mind opened up to new chapters,
every New Year — a promise of
unbridled possibilities
on my doorstep

December 27, 2024

editors note: All other faiths are false without this one. – mh clay

Not in My Backyard by Lorri Ventura

The woven chaise lounge creaks its protest
As I shift my weight
While turning the page of the book I’m reading

The backyard offers a symphony
A Carolina wren serenades from its perch on a nearby deck rail
Chickadees excitedly announce their discovery of a full bird feeder
And mourning doves coo a conversation

Overhead, the sky is a graph of condensation trails
Transforming me into a vertex
For jets flying to and from
Boston and Providence

As I gaze up at the cerulean sky
Its puffy clouds part
And spotlight my sister in a migrant camp
Two days without food or water
Blistered lips and feet
Desiccating in scorching sun
Waiting, waiting, waiting
For a court date to hear her asylum petition

Peering past the dust at our nation’s border
I see a barefoot sister in Gaza
Stumbling through bombed-out ruins
Of the hospital where she delivered her firstborn
Just seven days earlier.
She cannot find her baby.

Further ahead the clouds reveal
A sister in Ukraine
Formerly a school teacher
She now works 14-hour days
As a boiler operator
Dreaming of the day
When her school is rebuilt and reopened
And her husband is home from war.

From the comfort of my solitary paradise
Tears stagger down my cheeks
As I squint up at my sisters
I pray that the peace that caresses me in my backyard
Can somehow touch them.

December 26, 2024

editors note: For once, may the New Year mark a new beginning for these sisters and all. – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

Each year we awake on New Year’s Day ready to renew old promises all over again. Our featured holiday short, “Coming Down” by Gianni Sacco is a snapshot of some left-over hungover resolutions.

Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this auld tale:

Awake to renew old promises all over again… or be new in these new moments. Be built to new moments. New moments to be new. Be new.

Here’s how this New Year’s new day begins:

“New New Year” by Tyler Malone

He woke up way too early, head still heavy with last night’s abundant spirits and herbs. Snippets of conversations echoing in his aching head. Replaying the scenes leading up to the ringing of the New Year, there might be some explaining to do, he thinks. But first, a double dose of extra strength Tylenol, chugged down with a half-gallon of water followed by a slice of white bread, strong black coffee, topped off with a smoke and a toke. This hang-over remedy works, or at the very least, it hasn’t failed him yet.

He grabs the crumpled pack, relieved to find that his drunken and stoned self, hooked up with the sober and hurting self, leaving a solitary smoke, completing the hang-over cure ingredients. He does a mental check before he heads to his stoop to greet this New Year’s Day. Single smoke. Check. A half a joint (also left from last night’s fucked up self). Check. Coffee, black. Check. As soon as the door opens and bright sunlight spills in he adds sunglasses to his list. Check.

He wipes dew from his favorite stool that sits in the corner of his urban stoop and cops a squat. He can feel his heart beating in his temples. Here’s hoping the pain relievers relieve him soon. These days he’s finding that he can’t hang like he used to when he was a much younger man. The years have taken their toll. He’s been ringing in the New Year for over a half century. He’s getting to that age where each New Year just might be his last one…

Resolve to get the rest of this resolutionary scene right here.