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Showing posts from January, 2022

William R. Soldan

That Night I Left Work with a Pocketful of Cash on Fire and you went and fucked it up by taking a bullet through your hand. You never watched After School Specials, so never learned not to do stupid shit. None of us did. He’s in the ER, Juanita said, her voice so flat and put-out, as if describing how the dog had just pissed all over the rug again. You’d been playing around with it, .25 with the pearl grip and nickel finish, lifted by some kid from the projects from his grandma’s top drawer, the way we did, passing it back and forth in the lot by the tracks, killing time between fathers and griefs. You could still roll a damn fine joint with your good hand bandaged, its fingernails caked with dirt, the raw and ragged hole, the rotten smell of it like a body bloating in the sun, and after, with the bones of your metacarpus tenting upward, a miniature volcano pressing against the puckered flesh. It would never heal right, no feeling but the dulling of dead

Chris Bodor

File Cabinet Full of Sins At the Good Friday service members of the parish wrote their sins on paper and one after another they nailed their confessions to the wooden cross set up near the altar. After the mass before I cleaned the carpet and swept out the chapel I removed each piece of paper from the cross and placed them in a small plastic bag. The anonymous sins of the congregation are locked in my second-floor office in a file cabinet near the paint cans next to the dust mop and the broken vacuum cleaner. Chris Bodor is a US poet, who was born in 1967 in Connecticut to an English mother and a Hungarian father. After working for ten years in New York City, he moved to Florida in 2003. In August of 2009, Chris started hosting monthly poetry readings on the last Sunday of every month in St. Augustine, Florida. During the past 25 years, his poems have appeared in many independent, small, and micro-press publications, such as the Lummox Journal, FM Quarterly, and O

Maureen O'Leary

Grief (for J’uan) Maybe we turn into clouds of reefer Particulates coating the lungs of the people thinking about us First and secondhand smoke Clinging to the frizzing gray locs of the women mourning us Or maybe we are in the splashes of Hennessey Swirling in the bottoms of Styrofoam cups A bad burn in the throats of our brothers Something to remember us by On the way back up. Maybe we are still here. In the way the candles keep going out In the way they call out to God. If they only looked up they could see our eyes Shining through the branches and glittering through the haze Below the stars. Maureen O'Leary lives in Sacramento, California. Her work appears in Coffin Bell Journal, Bandit Fiction, The Horror Zine, Ariadne Magazine, and Sycamore Review. She is a graduate of Ashland MFA.

John Dorsey

1995 wolfgang & i burn a joint in the woods behind his grandfather’s house like stoned vampires who haven’t slept in ages we laugh as his girlfriend falls into a dry creek bed while attempting to walk across a log in jelly shoes. Poem for Ida in 1986 gyrating shuttles like dandelions their screams blowing away in the wind mashed potatoes from an ice cream scoop ice cream from an ice cream scoop sweaty hands no metal detectors no bomb threats the captain of the football team stayed in the closet & died inside everyone was lonely the occasional fist fight solved everything & nothing that went unsaid. John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw's Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015