Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Heavy Rotation

I see this fat kid get on the Tilt-a-Whirl

at the county fair

in a spinning tea cup

all by himself

and the weight of him sitting down

bounces his cup noticeably

so that the kids in the other cups

all snicker and point.

                                 

Even the ride operator laughs.

I feel bad for the kid.

As the ride starts up, the gears grind

and everyone looks accusingly

at the fat kid.

And soon they are spinning

and screaming with arms in the air.

I watch the fat kid go around

a few times.

Blank-faced as though he doesn’t

know he is there.

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, Red Fez, Live Nude Poems, and The Oklahoma Review.

Yuan Changming

Snowlining  

At the same height of

            Every rocky mountain

       Above all seasonal change

You are widely cut open

As if to bite a whole patch of

      Sky from heaven

With rows of rows of

Whale-like teeth

Yuan Changming, nine-time Pushcart and one-time Best of Net nominee, published monographs on translation before moving out of China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver; credits include Best of Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1319 others.  

Glen Armstrong

The Bedside Book of Cryptids

  

I was rehearsing what I would say.

            I had lined up some cocktail toothpicks.

It was one of those days that makes us

            believe in Bigfoot,

            the sky more shadow

            than a maker of shadows.

We all need a little downtime.

            To be that which we’ve marked

            our trails by.

            To speak like a Viking.

            To smolder.

Most smoke and all spoken word

            is imaginary, anyhow.

All but a few scraps of Viking bone

            are likewise, imagined.

The more I invented what to say,

            the darker the sky grew.

            The fewer my options.

The landscape and my desk and the best loved

            stories of lovers everywhere

            were laid out before me.

            The sharpened sticks love smuggles

            across the border all seemed
            highly unlikely.

Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) 

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Factory Stacks

driving into Sudbury

from the West

the scars of man spill over

a billowing drug buy

sky

rock that has been there

for tens of thousands of years

blown away in an instant

for a new double lane

highway

and they bury the slag

so you never see it,

the grass an unnatural green

after a couple of years

so there are jobs

and quotas

and things can go on

like before

the hitchhiker along the side

of the road

thumbing his way to house parties

where things

go

missing.

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, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Mark Borczon

Hunting Dinosaurs With A Needle In My Arm

I smoke roses to get high

And I get drunk on sun tea in the morning

I fix my arm tattoos with sharpie markers

And I collect artwork depicting bull fights

My joints ache as a side effect from

Medication for hypertension

My muscles ache as a side effect from

Back breaking, physical toil

I am fifty one years old

And I make twenty seven thousand

Dollars a year

I don’t believe in heaven

I do believe in vodka

I did quite well in college

But I struggle in life

I never, ever confuse

One with the other

I know that youth is privileged

And forgiving

I know that middle age

Is not

I no longer sleep on my mother’s couch

If you do I kindly invite you

To go fuck yourself

Time and endurance earn the right

To judge and so

I judge

If life is pass/ fail

Then everything leans on

Who reads the work

The bankers and the preachers

Grade the test

One way

The poets and the dreamers

Grade the test

Another way

I hunt dinosaurs with a needle

In my arm

And I sit with holocaust survivors

On the city bus

I drink rain water from a wooden

Barrel that held the body

Of a four year old girl

Killed by the Klan

Someday I’m gonna burn my work boots

Mark S. Borczon is a poet and caregiver from Erie, Pa. He will publish his first book of poetry in over twenty years through Nixes Mate press later this year or early next. He is the father of three awesome daughters who teach him love on a daily basis. In his free time he is a talented banjo player and a guitar player who knows how to find all the notes. He is terrified of the internet so this biography is written by his identical twin who loves him and admires his work as only a brother can.

J.J. Campbell

admire those long legs 

whispers

in the haze

 

not all these

places give a

shit about a

smoking ban

 

another round

of something

evil for the

classy lady

effectively

using her

cleavage to

her advantage

 

grab a chair

and admire

those long

legs

 

and come to

terms with that

bulge between

her legs in the

morning

 

there's no time

for questions

of morality

when the liquor

tastes this good

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is currently trapped in suburbia. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at In Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl, Chiron Review, Synchronized Chaos and Winedrunk Sidewalk. You can find J.J. most days bitching about something on his highly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Matthew Borczon

a boy

just broke

my 18

yr old

daughters

heart for

the first

time

she says

she’s afraid

she will

never sleep

again and

I hear

her cry

in the

next room

until sleep

finally comes

in the

end it’s

me who

is up

all night

thinking

about all

the plastic

horses and

Barbie dolls

I fixed

over the

years all

the jewelry

I untangled

back when

you believed

my love

and patience

and glue

could fix

everything.

(For Hannah)

Matthew Borczon is a poet and navy sailor from Erie, pa. He has published four books of poetry; A Clock of Human Bones through Yellow Chair Review Press, Battle lines through Epic Rights, Ghost Train through Weasel Press and, new this month, Sleepless nights and Ghost soldiers through Grey Boarders press. He publishes widely in the small press. When he is not writing, he's raising four children with his wife of 20 years.