Sometimes I sits and thinks. Other times I sits and drinks, but mostly I just sits.

Neal Cassady

••• The Mad Gallery •••

“Fanfare for Weightlessness” by Featured Artist Bill Wolak

A new batch from the talented Bill Wolak has landed in the Mad Gallery, and we’re glad as ever to have it! Wolak’s work consistently moves between kinky photography and symmetrical collages, nature and flesh echoing across styles – bodies, plants, and patterns feel arranged by an unseen logic, familiar but slightly surreal. In Bill’s latest collection, the result is hypnotic as ever — like stepping into a lucid dream that knows more about your desires than you do. ~ Madelyn Olson

To experience Bill’s lucidly surrealistic works, as well as our other past featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we lived bereft, as leavers left; we saw circle of trees where a house used to be; we held to spin in a searching wind; we hazards noted, on a river floated; we lauded with glee a madhouse by the sea; we weaved in the walk of mimosa talk; we had street meets, made vice nice; we snuggled deep into wrinkled sleep. In our case, snoozin’ ain’t losin’! ~ MH Clay

Wrinkled sleep by Timothy Pilgrim

I fade more mid-sentence now
slow-stop, fall out
of musing, cease soliloquyed talk.
Wine takes over, brings on
the old, drifting off. Wing chair
no longer in fashion, the two flaps
keep me paddocked in.
Mid-smile, my face lists
head droops, tilts, nose plows deep
into impromptu night, furrows
the paisley pinion. An image
not easily let go, me, upright,
wrinkled sleep taking flight.

February 7, 2026

editors note: Wresting rest when best unplanned. – mh clay

3 Scenes: On and Off the Street by Jonathan Hayes

she saw the lion king in full costume standing
by the orpheum’s stage door on market street

– smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk

two sad junkies nod onto the sales floor
at trader joe’s, then smile walking out

– eating soft and juicy dried mango

ringing up the old man’s bottle
of two-buck chuck at trader joe’s

– “when the rain comes today i can sit back and drink”

February 6, 2026

editors note: How vice makes nice. (We welcome Jonathan to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

The mimosa by Patrick Sweeney

the mimosa is only telling you
what you want to hear

February 5, 2026

editors note: A little liquid-lubed listening. – mh clay

THE DREAMING SPIRES & THE ROCK’N’ROLL by Bradford Middleton

The dreaming spires of the old town dominate
Our skyline as much as the tourists could ever wish
Clicking and flashing their wide-angle lens or
Smart-phone app as if that is all there is here in
This god-damn madhouse by the sea.

Round these ways there is a dealer on every
Street and in every pub; to put it bluntly, no pun
Intended, it’s a waster’s paradise and I got to
Say sometimes I bloody love it but sometimes
It just keeps me locked up in here.

I’ll be blasting Fun House by the Stooges or some
Other demented primal rock’n’roll and smoking
The ubiquitous as the folk-loving, ukulele-wielding
Horrors of the local music college lay siege to these
Streets when I ain’t down there.

Drinking with the mad ones is what draws me out,
Out into these streets for another blast of the glorious
Beautiful insanity that this town, when it’s in the mood,
Can deliver at almost anytime and that can be 1:30
On a Tuesday morning or 3pm on a Thursday afternoon.

February 4, 2026

editors note: Printed on a brochure by the tourism commission of Beautiful Brighton by the Sea. – mh clay

I like to inner tube at night down this river near my home by Ron Riekki

because it’s free. And because it’s beautiful.
And because my body can lie there, floating,
the water cold and no one brave enough, or,

maybe dumb enough to do this at night, but
I found this is when the animals come out,
when it’s safe from humans, and it’s geese

and squirrels and cranes and raccoons and
the shore is loaded with eyes, tiny, glowing,
magic, reflecting, and I float, no need for

paddling, just letting the river take me, so
much moon that I don’t even know what to
do with it.
– – – I work with refugees who’ve

told me of battling fast-moving rivers that
took people, took food, took an hour for
them to cross, trying, and quitting, giving

up, going back, and then realizing they had
to cross it, had to pray to God to keep them
safe and the river would take them, break

ankles, rocks cutting flesh, and they’d get
to the other side, but in fragments, canteen
indented, soul soaked, and a thousand miles

to go.
– – – Here I am, floating, alone, the sun
asleep, house windows on shore darkened,
trying to forget, trying to relax, a fog coming,

rain, how I don’t care, how I let it come,
how I have no choice, how it falls so hard
so soon that it blinds me, so I close my eyes.

February 3, 2026

editors note: Counting the hazards in going with the flow. – mh clay

Some Winds Are an Easy Breeze by Dale Cottingham

deftly examining each blade,
what has a lit and dark side,
as if in contemplation.
Other winds gust
ripping at leaves, stems,
testing them, revealing limits,
breaking them,
carrying them to a new place
never to return.

February 3, 2026

editors note: We hold as we must in a breeze or a gust. – mh clay

GONE by Ray Greenblatt

The wood-framed house with its
buckled roof
slatternly siding
smashed-glass windows
front door wedged open
– in a forever welcome
stately in a moribund way;

they hauled it away
in a weekend.

With no foundation
no pipes
nor ancient beams
perhaps a hand-blown bottle
brass button from
– the Revolution
no history;

just a circular grove of
trees to remember.

February 2, 2026

editors note: How to leave a lasting impression. – mh clay

Ephemeral by Guest Poet Valy Steverlynck

Like a mouse my daughter burrows. “Here”
pats her bed “come read with me.” A satin
sausage crowns her head. “Heatless curlers”

she explains. All day she’s been longing to try
her new lip gloss, all day I’ve been longing for
a quiet space. Book open to Haas I silently sigh,
squeeze her hand, curl next to her.

The answer was
The sound of water, what
What…

“Could you pass the orange balm?” squirts a
rivule, spreads a gloss layer, “here, try some.”

…What, what, the sprinkler
said, the question…

“Let’s try cherry, sweet, red top. Hand it
please? Here, smack now. That looks
nice.” Holds my chin up

…said the question
Of resilvering the mirror
Or smashing it…”

Smashing it…or resilvering it…
what…? the question of…the answer
was…? Is. The answer
is “you, too, will leave”
my mother said when I was ten.

February 1, 2026

editors note: We all start as leavers until we are left. – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

If you need a read with a dystopian lean, “Artificially Intelligent Wolves“ by Contributing Writer & Poet Chuck Taylor is the read you seek!

Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about our featured weekend read:

Have you tried unplugging the router and plugging it back in?

Here’s how this glimpse into the future looks like:

Coming for the water in your bones by Tyler Malone

We all live together now. My two sons and my daughter, my grandchildren, and my great grandchildren, plus my present wife and my two former wives. Yes, we live together in this suburban house outside Austin, Texas.

The living room has become a sleeping area with rubber mats on the floor. My wife and I sleep in one bedroom, the former wives share one bedroom, and our last bedroom is where we store our weapons and ammunition.

We are a modern clan and we are never lonely, but we have forgotten solitude. Our house is surrounded by a seven-foot chain link fence. Sandbags are piled high along the fence on the inside.

We call our house “the fort” sometimes and the “castle” sometimes. We think of ourselves as settlers defending our land.

The elders, me and my wife and the two formers, are in charge of this show and there are few arguments. We are the ones who get money from our retirement plans. The rest are dependent on us. We do have a garden the wife women and great grandchildren maintain, but we still must get much of our food delivered in war wagons from the big HEB supermarket…

(A)I spy with your lil eye the rest of this read right here!

•••

If you need a read with some sound advice, “Why Friends, Fans, and Artists Must Not Meet, 1992“ by Contributing Writer & Poet Marianne Szlyk just might be it!

Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about our featured weekday read:

In standing up for yourself, feel free to use the bones of abusers to steady yourself as they crumble to dust in your palms.

Here’s how Marianne’s flashback tale begins:

Upon Reflection by Tyler Malone

Mary is furious with Jacob’s friend, that truly famous man past fifty with the glasses and stubble. He has just been mocking Jacob for chasing her, a young girl—or did he actually say a young bird as if they were back in Swinging London years before she was born? For inviting Jacob and Katy, not her, to his new house on City Island, even though Jacob had said that she, Mary, was a sweet girl, a good helper, a good pair of hands. So she pours the men their bitter tea and brings them seedy slices of lemon. Then, as she irons Jacob’s shirts, the friend goes on about the late artist Basquiat and asks after Jacob’s girlfriend Katy, a woman in her forties, a real woman like his wife who has recently turned sixty. He acknowledges Mary only to ask Jacob if she could come home with him and iron his shirts. Mary turns him down, telling him “I only iron the shirts of men I love. And I don’t love you.”

Inwardly, she laughs once Jacob’s friend stubs out his cigarette, makes his excuses, and leaves the brownstone. All he knows of her is that she is a young girl with hoop earrings, a black bustier, and black balloon pants. That she is ironing and clearing the table and doing the dishes to the rackety blues that old men like, not the hip hop she’d rather listen to. He doesn’t know that she studies art history at Columbia and that she used to play guitar in the subway.

“You little idiot, how could you make a fool out of me in front of me fookin’ friend?”…

Get the whole scene right here!

••• Open Mic •••

This past 1st Wednesday of February (aka 02.04.26) Mad Swirl Open Mic was found whirling up the Swirl at Barbara’s Pavillion, getting the Mad mic opened for ALL you Mad ones out there!

This month we featured poet & musician Chloe Curiel! Chloe was joined by Bob Cummins Jr on keys and papa bear Chris Curiel on trumpet as she performed her original compositions. Three words: What. A. Show!

Grats to ALL the participators & swirlabrators who supported our feature performer & swirled up some mic madness with us:

Hosts:
Johnny O
Desmene Statum

Musical Overture:
Swirve (Tamitha & Chris Curiel, Gerard Bendiks)

Open Mic:
Johnny O
Desmene Statum
Tim Cloward
Opalina Salas
Alan Gann
Suza Kanon
David Shannon
Bob Cummins Jr
CJ Critt
Tony Robinson
Aaron Woods
Kevin Lee Hitchings
Jason
Chaz King
Cara

We know you have a choices of what to do with your Wednesday night & we’re thrilled you picked lil ol’ us to hang out with!

Stay tuned ’til next 1st Wednesday (aka 03.04.26) when we will be live launching our anthology, “The Best of Mad Swirl : v2025” with performances from some of our Contributing Poets, Writers and Mad Staffers!

Peace,

Johnny O

P.S. Here’s the LIVE feed from this past mic madness:

P.P.S. Here’s some snapshots as seen by photog Cheyenne Gallion:

•••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin’ on… NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in our Mad Swirl world? Then come by whenever the mood strikes! We’ll be here…

Sits’n & Thinks’n,

Johnny O
Chief Editor

MH Clay
Poetry Editor

Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor

Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor