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Howie Good

Advice for the Perplexed
Wash your sex toys (your unmotorized ones, at any rate) in the top rack of the dishwasher. Next up, put on some music. Have a trick for getting bong water out of the carpet; white wine, ironically, gets out red wine stains. But as of now there’s no proven method to erase false memories and the like. Try to avoid being carried off by a UFO when you can just walk. Make mute despair your default greeting to people you happen to pass on the stairs. And always remember, a wild bull becomes docile if tethered to a fig tree.
Howie Good is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press and Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.


Recent posts

Rob Plath

the mover

i dreamt my mother was helping me carry her own coffin
to the cemetery

strangely, she was both inside & outside of the box

she was so calm
for a while i doubted she knew who we were planting in the ground

but after a considerable amount of steps i was certain she recognized her own weight

yet it was as if she was the mover of a piece of furniture & not her own pallbearer

peaceful as if she were merely rearranging a space— perhaps moving a large cedar chest
for fresh linens
from one room to the next
Rob Plath is a writer from New York. He is most known for his monster collection  A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY (epic rites press 2009). His newest collection is MY SOUL IS A BROKEN DOWN VALISE (epic rites press 2019). You can see more of his work at robplath.com

Gary Powell

Corporate Warriors
We are profiles in likeness in our gray business attire, splash of color in our ties, cell phone whining in our ears.
We have important places to be as we careen through streets and airports, teleconference with peers, interface and meet.
We do it for our families, our companies and our teams, for the false sense of security that allows us to sleep through the night. For the sweet suck of the deal.
We queue up at our cubicles, genuflect and cross ourselves before the throne of the corporate prophet, awaiting the news: merger, acquisition, or divestiture.
And in the CEO’s name we pray:
This stock option is my body Think of me when you eat. This red ink is my blood Think of me when you drink.
We are the gray men, the hollow men, living in a dead land, a land stuffed with IOUs and motherfucking lawyers.
We are the in-between, the rut and rub on the road from desire to spasm. We are the gut wrench of the downward trending Dow.
So:
Give us this day our daily bread, man, and forgive us our debts, althou…

Brian Rihlmann

Prayer
if there’s a god I have only one request  and that is— grant me eyes to see in them what I see in a old farm truck rusting in a field
how prisms  shine through  shattered glass
how wildflowers sprout through holes in the floorboards 
Brian Rihlmann was born in New Jersey and currently resides in Reno, Nevada.  He writes free verse poetry, much of it on the confessional side.  He has been published in Blognostics, Yellow Mama, Raven Cage Zine, Synchronized Chaos, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, and others.

Survival Tips for the Pending Apocalypse by Shawn Pavey, reviewed by Rusty Barnes

Survival Tips for the Pending Apocalypse
Shawn Pavey
154 pages
Spartan Press
May 30 2019
ISBN-10:1950380343
ISBN-13:978-1950380343
$15
reviewed by Rusty Barnes

Shawn Pavey's book Survival Tips for the Pending Apocalypse has been on my radar for some time. I travel in or closely observe the outskirts of a lot of different poetry scenes, and one of them is the midwestern ethos of Spartan Press and Stubborn Mule, among some others I am unfamiliar with yet. The poets strike me, in general. as fellow-travelers in the best sense of the word, with varied points of view united under an umbrella of beat poet, confessional poet, Tom Waits or Bukowski-oriented. Some of that can go a long way, if you know what I mean. I am pleased to report that among those fellow-travelers Shawn Pavey is someone well worth paying more attention to.

In his introduction, Mike James rightly--after reading it , how could you not?-- mentions the first quietly strong poem of this long but never meandering coll…

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Two Bottle Caps and a Gas Station Receipt
I reach down into my pocket thinking twisted blow up dolls back into balloon animals. Feeling around for my wallet that is a no show. Just two bottle caps and a gas station receipt. I toss the receipt and finger around the bottle caps like those Chinese stress balls that professional assholes swear by. The heavy melanoma sun over my face. A rock in my shoe that makes me walk with a limp I don’t have.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Rusty Truck, Live Nude Poems, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Doug Holder

We Hold Hands

At dusk we hold hands. We hold hands, withfading tarnished rings.
As if some unexpected storm could suddenly separate us forever.
We listen to the muted horn the hint of some heroin-tainted voice we clink our cocktails the house cat another appendage between us.
And the light grows dimmer as it always does.
Doug Holder is the founder of the Ibbetson Street Press of Somerville, MA. He has recently collaborated with playwright Lawrence Kessenich on a new play based on a short story he wrote "The Patient." It is going to be published by the Presa Press, and  has had a staged reading at the Playwright's Platform in the Boston area. Holder's poem " Oh Don't She Said, It's Cold" adapted into a song by singer/songwriter Jennifer Matthews, will be preformed by the dance company "text moves" in the fall at various venues in the area. Holder is the arts editor of The Somerville Times, and teaches writing at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston, an…