July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
luck
young dog
standing in the blocks
four blue bills working
in against a cigar smoke call
once more around
try to take them
tree high shots
tipped one and feathers
out of another
but the steel shot
fails me
they are gone
like mad buddists
westing to the timber
only the grey spent husks
to show for
normal heart
day has a playlist
heartfelt grooves
breaks creative logjams
emphasizes flaws
errors honored
as hidden intentions
sing into the sadness
canons for life
makes a tasty soul
write a catchy tune
about a nerve induced asthma attack
don’t miss a beat
wage a heavy peace as
going around corners is scary
see it with new eyes
get into woodworking
follow hockey in church basements
crush the capsule
life is a godzilla disaster movie
success beat you down
tough to imagine
ever being young
an original american horror story
billionaires in birkenstocks
johnny cash not being played
on country radio
teenage jesus jerks in cowboy hats
creative people don’t always turn out
to be interesting
like chance meetings in london tube
someone called amy
conversation like watching sausage
and politics being made
world just gets tinier
it used to be a stage
a private confessional
by Dan Jacoby
Dan Jacoby is a graduate of St. Louis University. He has published poetry in Belle Rev Review, Black Heart Press, Canary, Chicago Literati, Clockwise Cat, Indiana Voice Journal, Haunted Waters Press, Deep South Magazine, Lines and Stars, Red Booth Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Steel Toe Review, Red Fez and the Vehicle. He has work soon to be published in Bombay Gin, Dead Flowers, Floyd County Moonshine, Maudlin House, R.KV.R.Y., and theTishman Review.. He is a member of the American Academy of Poets.
July 2015 | back-issues, fiction
She scribbles a few letters on the back of her card and hands it to him. She smiles and says something cheerful. The words don’t matter. As he takes the card, he answers in kind, if only to keep his tenuous grasp on the vision of civility he’s retreated into. He does not think of all the countless things he would like to say, because he does not want to risk their appearance, even in his eyes. But she is not as perceptive as he fears. She has another appointment waiting, and he is not the face she puts on a world’s betrayal; he just isn’t that important to her.
In the elevator on the way back down, he presses himself into the corner though no one else is riding; it’s the only way he can keep from pacing. He walks past the metal detectors, where a man is shaking his head as he struggles to undo his belt; false suspicion has shamed this nameless man into stripping away another layer of his pride, if only to prove his innocence. The security guard that mans the machine doesn’t notice this inner struggle the man is having, but only does his job instead. But our man notices, just before he hits the door and once more takes a breath of the good air under an open sky. He wishes he could remember what it was like to take that for granted.
by D.F. Paul
D.F. Paul lives in the Midwestern United States. He’s been writing since he was a child, when he uncovered a beat to hell typewriter cleaning out the garage. Many years and a lot of wasted paper later, he still doesn’t understand the process any better. A list of his published work can be seen at: dfpaul.wordpress.com
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
You’re on the other
side
being abstract, acting
distant,
I have a stack of
thoughts in front of me,
unfinished; have poems to
write, poems I
should be writing; instead
I’m writing this; an
alarm goes off, it’s mine
Saturday morning, you’re
laying around somewhere,
Cootie Williams is blowing
Gator Tail; I shut the blinds
and the world outside
goes on and on and about
and out without me,
this poem is running, jazz is
dead, so are all those jazz
men playing, dead, but time doesn’t
make sense anyway; it’s
just going in circles, stealing
what it can,
which is everything,
we aren’t friends; I can’t see the
trees,
I’m hiding from the sun.
by Thomas Pescatore
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
The time until you die
grips the top of my hand
grates my fingers against
puckered metal
collects skin and bone
shavings
into a soft pile
on the good China.
by Jane Juran
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Like lace
Itsuki always dances behind cob webs
There, he can manifest several shapes
and pick which one he likes
Sometimes I help him move,
for he has no control over his particles
He is like lace,
weightless and transparent
Sometimes I worry I will injure him
if I want to kiss his cheek bone
or cradle his hands
If he would beg for my love,
I might be happy
If he would look at me and blush,
I might feel gorgeous
Today when he performs,
I tilt against the fireplace mantel,
hands gripping my elbows,
eyes exhausted with longing
I wish I could be a ghost
and be afraid of myself
for a good reason
Mournful moments
I imagined myself dancing,
arms out to cuddle lonely spirits,
eyes closed to feel powerless
I imagined someone told me I was handsome
and didn’t need to smile
I imagined I was in Japan,
the place my embryo developed
I imagined there was romance to my suffering
and that the pulse in my chest was a hand begging for me
I imagined the lights were off
and that my shadow was someone I liked
I imagined the room was full of demonic voices
and that I was not afraid of anything
I imagined I was dying and that my funeral
would be beneath the ocean
I imagined I was titling into glass
and cracking my bones
I opened my eyes and saw a skinny silhouette standing
ahead of me, arms tied behind the back
I made not a sound as the figure came forward
and kissed my throat
“Stop picturing mournful moments.” a feminine voice hissed
“It is shattering my organs to see you so sad.”
I remember hearing myself laugh
Then I was unconscious, floating through lavender mist
and tiny insects
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She is also a photographer. Her work has appeared in Literally Stories, The Gloom Cupboard, The Birds We Piled Loosely and others. She wants to visit Japan one day.
