Matt Borczon

I read


that Audi Murphy
gave all
his medals
from the
war to
kids in
his neighborhood

I understand
but having
kids of
my own
I will
leave mine
to them

as payment
for the
year they
lived without
me while
I was
in Afghanistan

and for
all the
years they
have lived
without me
since I
came home.


Mike Zone

Sketches, panels and planets

new gods and forever people

oh, where have the humans landed

in a tidal wave of inhumanity

screaming “cosmic retribution!”, frogs from the sky

lightening zapped by hovering squids from another planet,

each being a universe in the pocket careening into a nihilistic void

bursting into new directions in the quasars of minds yet to be born,

the infinite crisis of anti-life equation is not not learning- we don’t know how to live

but how we are not allowed to live, rebels of delusion,

mirroring counter-revolutionary tactics,

the constellations come together,

Orion with his belt makes a club of mars,

Jupiter splits apart, innards of creme corn

and interstellar strippers made of jello and (here all thought it was gas)

existence, exit stance,

another wave of reality

forget the fourth and fifth worlds,

demand to break the wall

between self and source, they say mathematics is the language,

words are treason, but the mystery is breathing,

the philosophy is marvel in the elseworlds of confinement,

the miracle to concede defeat in the land of unliving

an embracement of tomorrow’s glory

when moment is what you are without meaning,

true being, serenity of the soul, there’s your earthen saga

and heroic myth of the ages recycling into another dawn tinged transmigration

of starved stardust exploding angels and the nine fingers of nirvana,

but what about the thumb?

up my dead wandering desolate ass, wrestling a stranger in town – the valley of bones

where giant men in unstable molecular suits are testament highways

warnings to lovers of all ages

gracing the wild and crazy eternity.


Anne Fall

A Wardrobe Malfunction

Anne Fall


Generally false,

I find your societal distinctions

reek of sentiment and disbelief

in the worth of the rest of humanity.

Despite that, I like listening to you talk

about this and that.

Almost like, you know where it’s all at.


Then, you show through

like a little slip of a nip in the embarrassing dress

of a woman whose breasts

have seen better men than the applications

she’s currently taking.


Drink this, and you’ll feel better, I tell you,

and you do.

Oh, you do.


Paul Brookes

Our Sex Is Our


death. Important decision

for my wife and I.


We live with the urge to do it.

Day in day out.


Thirty five years married.

It has to be mutual.


First time sex is last time alive.

We must decide before


We are too weak

and other devices needed.


Sex is euthanasia, you see.

We agree when enough is enough.


I was born from my dead mam.

So, hopefully my wife will become


pregnant after we die.


Michael Lee Johnson

Children in the Sky (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson


There is a full moon,

distant in this sky tonight,


Gray planets planted

on an aging white, face.


Children, living and dead,

love the moon with small hearts.


Those in heaven already take gold thread,

drop the moon down for us all to see.


Those alive with us, look out their

bedroom windows tonight,

we smile, then prayers, then sleep.


Dan Flore

The birds in the tree

they laid in the park like a sneak preview of being resurrected from their caskets but I didn’t want to tell them that the sun looked too old on their heads. I would’ve walked up to every father and said  I didn’t sleep with your daughter. Even if it was a lie. I just wanted to say how are you, thank you for keeping my childhood on your spice rack. I’m sorry I don’t want to leave but all we ever wanted from the beginning was to kiss goodbye. I’m sorry I’m already gone. Did the mortician do your lipstick? I’m glad you’re at peace with how you’re dead. R.I.P.

and I spent the night on the other side of your roads
when the deer were dying and dark
I wanted you to come out from your statue houses in khaki shorts
to let me into your imaginary guest rooms
but you were in the dust of your welcome mats
and I couldn’t get past your smiles
I wanted to die by the stones in the mulch of your gardens
and on your daughter’s dining carts in their television worlds