Daniel S. Irwin

Last Night
by Daniel S. Irwin

Last night,
I wrote the greatest
Poem ever written.
Last night,
I suddenly woke with it
Clear in my head.
Last night,
I was inspired
By this voluptuous Venus
In my bed.
This morning,
Venus seems more
A homely beast.
This morning,
My poem reads
Like crap.
By noon,
It’s deleted
And Venus is gone.
Like a fool,
I’ll probably
Do it all again.

Heaven on Earth
by Daniel S. Irwin

I was a nineteen year old
With 200 bucks in my pocket
And a dick so hard
The Viagra people would love
To use it in a misleading advertisement.
And there in Amsterdam,
Heaven on Earth.
The windows along the canals
Were filled with luscious women
In greater variety than
Forrest’s mama’s box of chocolates.
Up all night, the sampling
Was exquisitely extensive.
A lot of guys brag that they’ve
Never ‘paid for it’ in their life.
That’s fine, but as it saw it,
I wasn’t paying for pussy,
I was hiring a professional.

Giovanni Mangiante


the sun branches out

its rays of light towards your throat

to burn away the traces of hope

left in you,

and the weeping moon

watches as you plunge the knife

into your chest

while the sun, still there,

watches over her back

to make sure she knows

who is the one

in charge.

John Zedolik

Community Convalescence

Those abrasions on her cheeks

were said to be the result of being

fucked from behind and rammed

into the rough shag fibers en vogue

in 1978 by her father’s friends

in her own home on a school-year

weekend so full but empty

with the mother gone

through the decade’s attachment to divorce

and no mention of the mustachioed

father—looking like the era’s TV cops—

but Facebook heals all wounds

even to the face, all the way to the depths,

so she smiles with a daughter

as a “friend suggestion”

among the hundred possible pix

and opportunities to post

every mild success and hope for a toast

by the virtual audience

for whom deep-napped carpets

and their burns have cooled to ice

with a chuckle at a style so passé.

Ian Copestick

I’m Lucky, I Guess

I sometimes feel like a misanthrope
and the world seems an unbearable horror.
I’m glad I’ve never been able to purchase
a gun, or I doubt I’d still be here now.
At times like this, life seems at best pointless,
at worst it feels like a cruel form of torture.
As soon as I wake, the self loathing
and humiliation come in wave after wave
of sickness. Intoxicants are my only
hope, and oblivion is all that I desire.
I’m lucky, I guess because every time
it’s happened so far, something has
woken me up and dispersed the black clouds.
Shooed away that fucking black dog.
I’m lucky, I guess. What else can I say ?

Ashley Fernandes


I hear crickets chirping in my bones,

Cicadas humming in my brain.

Roots grow through my skin,

Weaving in and out like a tapestry.

There are dandelions on my tongue;

They taste like the sun in my teeth.

You may say I’ve gone mad,

Gone with the fishes and the birds,

But I have lived with my head in the clouds,

Since I heard the call of nature –

Of peace, of solace, of tranquility –

Of madness and solitude,

But awakening still.

And so I’d rather be mad than asleep.

Alex Salinas

Woman disguise


When the sky is gray, Parisian,  

Sip coffee and zip it, 

Your iris speaks to the tune of

Coltrane, Yo-Yo Ma,

The space between my breath— 

If meaning lies there, 

Let philosophers argue,

Your lap is better 

For my paws to mine

The wolf inside you

Caged, wrapped in an ugly red

Beautiful bow. 

Theresa C. Gaynord


Fresh ruffles
of surf, rising, pattering against beams of steel

the sky with treble interjections; convulsive gyrations

of effortless
rage, lightnings on waves, cold and bare, gather

under a spring moon.

He wanted
to tell her between the stretches of electricity that

made the
tulips bleed with poignant scent, filling the air with

the thought of it a simple thing, the solid paces of

God’s own calmness.

What kind
of witness would she be? The rain whispers, intimidates

the dying
to lie down with the dead, disappearing into vapors,

and sealing down edges of brick and mortar, desperately

to become eroded.

She stops,
spreads her arms apart, his heroic figure of comfortable

catches her breath between the metaphors of sunlight,

his words,
swirling wants against frozen lips; she knows. Loneliness

her soul as she looks down suffering vertigo.

Donna Dallas

Wretch’s prayer for Every Dismal Day

If I get through this one day
that spills into
the void
where I am continually lost
always left
for dead
if I get through this
pattern of screw-ups
this one last bitch smack up
if I get through this blowtorch high
cradling that needle
like Mother Mary cradled baby Jesus
if I get through this Chinese water torture
on my veins
if I live amongst people who
shoot up
people who fuck up
but don’t hit it
if I promise I will let every
oozing sore dry up – I don’t want that infection
within me any longer
if I kiss this needle tip
the end
and wake up tomorrow
with just my Newport’s
will you float me a few more good years?

Anthony Dirk Ray


this coronavirus called COVID-19

hasn’t been good for my creativity as of late

my hats off to all still pushing words

I am deemed having an ‘essential’ job

so I have to leave the house daily

and enter into a real life zombie land

while my stepson and wife remain at home

that in itself is enough to drive me mad

that I could bring some bullshit back home to them

with my wife having pre-existing conditions

and a weakened immune system

I feel like a diseased carrier

every time I break the plane of the door

this shit is making everyone OCD

people with it before must now feel a sense of justification

I am sanitizing my hands, keys, phone

wallet, debit card, door knobs

hell, I’m even sanitizing my hand sanitizer bottle

when all of this started there was a run on toilet paper

you couldn’t find it anywhere

my local government closed all ‘non essential’ businesses

including numerous liquor stores

and rumor had it that more would be shut down

now I’m all for limiting the spread of the disease

but I have to take a stand at some point

I can wash my ass off with water in the backyard

but I cannot distill my own whiskey

J.T. Whitehead

A Baker God?

– After reading Giambattista Vico.


Christ had twelve.
Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Thomas, Matthew, James, Thaddeus,
. . . &, of course, Judas.


Arthur had twelve.
Galahad, Colgrevance, Perceval, Bohort, Gawain, Galegantin, Kay, Moraunt, Tristram,
Palamedes, Breuse
. . . &, of course, Launcelot.


Even Lenin had twelve.
Bukharin, Trotsky, Kamenev, Volodarsky, Rykov, Zinoviev, Blyukher, Shaumyan,
Sverdlov, Tukhachevsky, Molotov
. . . &, of course, Stalin.


Dear God, let us find, already among us,
to save us from those who have screwed us,
yet another one, plus twelve.


Dear God, on Second Thought . . .
Perhaps this time, make it eleven . . .
as opposed to your most generous twelve . . .