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Showing posts from 2018


Hi all. As you can tell, things have been quiet around here in the last six months. Heather and I have had the most exciting of lives--he said sarcastically--which has  hindered progress, let's say. We haven't gotten many submissions either, as I think poets assumed the market died. Nope. Still alive, just coming out of a lull. Look for more frequent updates going forward, as we expand back into poetry news and links from around the web as well as original poems from the small cadre of writers who follow us. Priority list for LNP: outreach (finding new poets for us to publish) interviews with small press poets and editors curating poetry news (send your news to our email or PM us on social media) updating the Paul Blackburn page. You can follow my Black Mountain Poets obsession as I read my way through Blackburn's letters to Julio Cortazar, published last year by Lost & Found : The CUNY's Poetics Document Initiative.  writing on Joel Oppenheimer, Black Mo

John, by Matthew Borczon

John had been a fireman less than a year when he got a call a small boy fell into the deep end of frontier creek John said they were on scene in less than 10 minutes but it was too late he dove under the water until he found the body and did CPR for 20 minutes in the ambulance until a doctor took over but the boy died less than an hour later and now John can't swim at the beach or in a pool or even take a bath without searching under the water for tiny hands. Matthew Borczon is a poet from Erie, PA. He has been a nurse in a combat hospital as well as a county prison. He is currently taking care of adults with developmental disabilities. He has published eight book of poetry, the most recent is My Reality through Alien Buddha press. He publishes widely in the small press and when he is not working he is raising 4 kids with his wife of 22 years.

A Haunting Gaze, by J.J. Campbell

there's a darkness in your eyes a haunting gaze that sucks me in and convinces me i never want to leave i understand it's not exactly love but we're not exactly the kind of humans that need such shit holding hands on the eve of the apocalypse is thrilling enough J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Mad Swirl, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rusty Truck and In Between Hangovers. You can find him most days bitching about something at his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. ( http://evildelights.blogspot. com )

Choosing a version, by Rob Plath

you dream yr mother’s alive again & yr both discussing her death.  in the dream, the dead version’s in the cemetery like in real life & the alive version sits at the kitchen table w/you. the alive version is trying to ease yr grief. she keeps telling you not to dwell on the dead version. it’s strange tho b/c the alive version isn’t bothered at all by the dead version.  the alive version only thinks of you.  you both continue into the wee hours of the night.  when you awake in the morning, the mid-September light is shining.  you jump up & make green tea & open the kitchen window.  the breeze presses thru the mesh, generously filling the little room. Rob Plath is a 47-year-old poet from New York. He has over a dozen books out. He is most known for his collection A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY (epic rites press). He lives alone with his cat and stays out of trouble. See more of his work at

Oblivious, by Misty Skaggs

Oblivious If you try and convince me you can’t smell the rain coming, I’m liable to conclude you’re full of shit. Or else I’d shake my head and bless your heart. It’s hard to imagine existing with your nose stuck in the air and not a clue what the wind is trying to tell you. Listen. The rain crows are cooing soft warnings as they pick through the grass waiting for the worms to wake up. Look. Every little leaf turns its pale belly skyward. There’s a storm coming and they’re ready to drink it all in.  Misty Skaggs is an author, artist and activist hunkered down at the end of a gravel road in East Kentucky. Read more of her poems and see pictures of her favorite tree on Instagram @mistymarierae.

Hunger by John Grochalski

hunger he’s eating something italian out of a styrofoam container over a blue garbage can that matches his coat occasionally he lifts up a plastic jug to his mouth and takes a big drink of something cloudy that has noodles in it he’s a discerning and somewhat picky eater picking things out of the can and discarding them at will he likes the half-eaten bacon roll but isn’t much for the unwrapped snickers a few blocks ago i had a hunger that i couldn’t stand and had to stop and split a butter bagel with my wife after all, it had been ten hours since my last meal and i wasn’t sure if i could hold out for lunch he goes back to the italian food which might be beef or chicken or, god forbid, veal there’s not even an italian joint around this block so someone had to go far to toss this out but it’s his good luck that it was sitting there on top of the half-drunk tub of coffee and the barely touched pork fried rice he has a beard like santa claus that is wet from the cloudy noodle concoction j