“Freakbeat #1” by Kyle Hemmings

May 21, 2014 § Leave a comment

Freakbeat #1

You have to escape through a snare-hollow of night. The daylight ruins all sense of fuzz on happiness. After our spouses have died from thump-heavy sex, or rolled over like forgetful children, we tap a Morse Code against the walls of our apartments, your bedroom against my thin ear. We flee to The Mercy Club where The Oblong Cyrcles are playing “Isn’t It a Blammy- Shame?” We dance until our heads fall off, until the dense human vapor rolls off the skin, until we admit our love-hate for kitchen sink and empty rooms. At last call, an angry compressed vocal through the speakers, we feel the grass grow beneath our wounds. But we are only wobbly guests and sheep-in-love are destined to be shorn. Dawn is a music sheet of bleeding pink. Back home, our spouses beat us up, until we are as broken as our secret stash of scratched LPs. Steadfast in corners, we remain deeply grooved.

Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Elimae, Smokelong Quarterly, This Zine Will Change Your Life, Matchbook, and elsewhere. He loves cats, dogs, and garage bands of the 60s.


What Is Water? — Sonam Kshatriya

February 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

“What Is Water?”

Soft as lush green
Hard like the truth
Strong enough to knock down the city
Sweet enough to satisfy a desert thirst
My soul is thirsty
For living water
The current overpowers
Waves thrash upon rocks
Guide boats at sea
Sea of forgiveness
Ocean of love
River of living water
Well of peace
Streams of joy
Fill and leave my eyes
As I cry out to you
Immersed in water used to baptize
An outward sign of testimony
An inward sign of grace, from somewhere within
You are my living water
I shall never thirst again.

Sonam Kshatriya is a student of Brookhaven College who was encouraged to submit these poems by my creative writing instructor. Her only hope that this work inspires others to live their lives for God and it encourages positive change in our world. “All glory belongs to God,” Sonam says.

Housewife’s Fantasy – Valentina Cano

December 4, 2013 § Leave a comment

Housewife’s Fantasy

She dreams of drowning
and wakes with a swallowed smile.
The day will be a tangle of sheets and towels,
people and pots to stir,
but the drowning will linger.
She’ll think of the air reeled out
of her body like a fishing line,
and her vision peeled down to a seed.
She’ll feel the rhythmic coolness at her heels
and have to keep from grinning.

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, A Narrow Fellow, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Rem Magazine, Structo, The 22 Magazine, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Niteblade, Tuck Magazine, Ontologica, Congruent Spaces Magazine, Pipe Dream, Decades Review, Anatomy, Lowestof Chronicle, Muddy River Poetry Review, Lady Ink Magazine, Spark Anthology, Awaken Consciousness Magazine, Vine Leaves Literary Magazine, Avalon Literary Review, Caduceus,White Masquerade Anthology and Perhaps I’m Wrong About the World. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, will be published in 2014. You can find her here: http://carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com.

Modern Articles of Faith — George Moore

July 28, 2012 § 1 Comment

BW Building: by Chuck Taylor

Inside cragged walls, a ruined church, boys are
kicking a ball where a king once crowned his son
and told him, mercy will not save you. By our time,

only the yard around the cathedral walls is left,
and we hump history through the broken arms of doors,
to stone breastplates of sarcophagi worn nameless,

though a flyer says another king was born, died, and then
the church followed. Spaces now open to the sky.
The ball rolls to a stop before our feet and dies,

as shouts go up through the hobbled choir, half-fallen
archways once hung with heavy tapestries,
and now the sounds of boys screaming decrees.

With evening, the ghosts arrive. The son beheaded
by his father, the king, when there was talk
of treason. I snap a shot of the ruptured cupola

as night creeps in. It’s too cool for this season,
but the grass has come to life, the ramparts fall to darkness,
as the boys pick up their ball and head for home.

Volume 3 Online Journal

April 9, 2012 § 1 Comment

Thanks to submissions from many authors, poets, and artists, as well as the work of our editorial advisors and layout team, Volume 3 is now online. We hope you enjoy it. You may wish to click “View this document on Scribd” under the embedded PDF, because you’ll be able to zoom in using the plus sign for easier reading.

Remember, we’ll be posting work for Volume 4 as it’s accepted, so check back here often for more art and writing.

Circe – by Nicelle Davis

June 5, 2011 § Leave a comment

One of our poets from Volume 2, Nicelle Davis, just released a short film — a beautiful blend of words, sound, and art — she collaborated on with animator/illustrator Cheryl Gross. The music is by Karl Preusser and cover art is by Alexis Vergalla. Circe is published by Lowbrow Press, and is a preview of the book, which will be available in fall 2011.

Beautiful Bliss – Michael Constantine McConnell

July 25, 2010 § Leave a comment

Yes. I still chew the echoes of each kiss

we shared, the first time our bare feet touched

or our legs nakedly braided. Sometimes,

the salt of your knuckles still splits my tongue.

I believed in seasons, never thought

we would end. Each day without you begins

sober; I no further understand nights

of dreaming your body next to me.

Sometimes, my tears leap at you; a thousand

violins erupted from my stomach

when I found you. Sleep, please, sleep like nothing

matters. Leave your mourners empty, cursing

God. Wake up each morning reflecting

children in your perfect little eyes.


Vera Barnett – Classical Plastique: Birth of Venus

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