Featured Poems

On Becoming a Specter

by on May 25, 2019 :: 0 comments

A plain’s homestead, Depression’s own
splintery gray like driftwood
washed up on this prairie of tall grass,
corn yellow and wind dented.

This house husk of whistling slats
and many wrenchings molders
a baby’s bed and a browning
stove of metastasizing rust
and a flour sack curtain blanched
thin and cloud-white from
an overmuscled sun.

A scarecrow’s bones have I
throwing a stick silhouette against
this shambled phantasm as we two
melt into smudgy clots
of the darkening night.

editors note:

In the ghost of place, we are the haunting. – mh clay

1000 Ghosts

by on May 24, 2019 :: 0 comments

1000 ghosts haunting
every corner
every gas station

1000 ghosts behind
every locked door

each one of them is me
I know
but it’s nice to be reminded
for distraction’s sake

past lives
walk the streets
with their hands
buried deep
in the pockets of puffy jackets

my eyes wander

my eyes don’t water
they have been wide for days
fearful of the instant
lost to a blink

and the present
from which there is no harbor
found me
past the pharmacy
where Dani works
where I pretended
to buy rigs
for someone else
like I needed
to read from my phone
instead of reciting from memory

29 gauge
half inch
one CC

six months
if the scars will fade
if the ghosts
will ever live again

– Luke Kuzmish

editors note:

A little distance ‘tween you and the thing; in time those ghosts will fade. – mh clay

Sick Eyes

by on May 23, 2019 :: 0 comments

Between those thick obscure skies in city outskirts you explore a dog-eared dilemma; right with the advent of a medieval winter two smacked feelings chirp in your sub-consciousness. The cherries of Ephesus clandestinely look aromatic and godly to hug the early spring. The Himalayas become a very old metaphor that traveled sleeveless dabbing a lot of cosmetics with diamond and sapphire. What was the necessity to chide the chilled window panes and the bare cuss words? I smoothly suck your presence with precision in slicking winter rain with humming whisper; swaggering subtlety and stupefied tickling. The messages in the envelope of a diamond smile hitting the secret wound of a part of the sky. Beside and above your fragile amnesia that’s meager and ruthlessness writes a mail. A whopping warm whirlpool dances around flooding nude kisses from the core to besiege my wildness. There’s an intermittent honeyed-upsurge glued to pain, panacea and those entire sweet dichotomies. I hear the twang and grab the touches and the continental polyphony of your sick eyes.

– Pitambar Naik

editors note:

Look at me when I’m talking to you… Don’t look at me like that! – mh clay

The Age of Thunder Lizards

by on May 22, 2019 :: 0 comments

The age of thunder lizards is over
Let songbirds take the air
Liars in Chief don’t apologize on the border
To soldiers banking on his yields

Let the frontier guards build their walls
Let the poets tear them down
Let the blood moon rise
and eclipse itself
With a twangy, country, sound

I’m alright; like the rest of us
Just a little stoned
And I’m okay on the right side
On the outside
Left behind
And, you’re okay
You’ve never believed

If time won’t tell, the weather will
Whether this lust will last
However this bust is cast

Would you rather be colonized or conquered
Absorbed or assimilated
Watered down or drowned
Served as soup or over rice?

The highway exits roll back upon themselves
Like the House of Eternal Return tends to do
Turning lanes and toll booths
Can go fuck the Catechism
As early morning greyness ensues

Liars in Chief cannot last forever
Reptile kinky sex can show us something deeper
And coffee waits in heaven on the dash

editors note:

It’s a flash or a fart; depends how you scale it. – mh clay

Down Under

by on May 21, 2019 :: 0 comments

After plunging into the cold, cold sea
From his merciful mission across the sky,
The man called the Sun all tired and worn,
Laboring with each mile upon his journey,
Setting his sights upon the angry waters,
Smiling but not smiling down to the depths,
Down into the mystery of the deep,
The hell or heaven that lives down under,
The brotherhood of the Macabre
Or the fellowship of the Saints,
Each one awake when all else are asleep,
Each one with arms outstretched,
One with plastic tears and
The other with loving eyes,
Each one with a baptismal font on hand,
Standing proud at the altar,
Baptizing him with holy or unholy waters,
Anointing him with scented oils,
Sending him upon his journey back home
To ascend to the surface just like yesterday,
To become a morning like it was before,
To peek through the veil of darkness,
To shed a light upon the mysterious night,
To reveal its deep dark secrets,
To unite the morn with the day,
To show his love or anger at the earth,
To lie still or become restless,
To summon the lofted currents
To reach out and grab the clouds,
To congregate them into a body,
To kiss them or rile them up,
To blend them into a witch’s brew
And wreak havoc upon the quiet earth,
Or to smile down at the sleeping meadows
And lift up the flowers with loving hands,
To become an angel or a beast,
To rule the skies with his scepter,
‘Tis the mission of the sun in transit.

editors note:

A dark wonder; what Sun does with the night off. – mh clay

that old sad faceless

by on May 20, 2019 :: 1 comment

slim & glim
it glubbed right cool

the thin thune drop
roll down earth the copyway

chalk calendar on the wall
this is the now of the loud bell

– J.D. Nelson

editors note:

Right raised to ear, wail of the bell; money come. Better now than later… – mh clay


by on May 19, 2019 :: 0 comments

I have drowned in
your presence,
sunk way below
where you can
see me,
flares and the
choirs of ghosts
wrap around me
like newspaper
headlines of
but I know I’ll
surface in your
eyes when they
leak tears and
the sun gives up
for the moon.

editors note:

Cry makes clean. Bask and breathe. – mh clay