Wednesday, 21 October 2020



The blog and the press will go on hiatus for some time. Do not send work to neither of them, it wouldn't be considered but put to the trash directly.

Previously sent work can be submitted to another venue, I won't consider it for now.

Check later for a possible awakening. 

Thank you.

Tuesday, 25 August 2020

1074 Errements en terre d’ombre II par CeeJay

La rue par Jean-François sur Flickr

Vaincu par mes chagrins je me pose
en cet antre sombre où le jour ne peut atteindre
et me prends ce repos qui éloigne la folie.
Une brise ravive par ses caresses les roseurs de la peau
il fait un froid sépulcral qui laisse réfléchir
et calme les ardeurs des foudres du destin.
Enclin à baisser les paupières, se clore et ainsi ouvrir
les portes à Morphée
et à ses vaisseaux de rêves qui insufflent les pensées du lendemain.
Ici, protégé des humains, je goûte un répit calme
loin de leurs guerres, meurtres et tromperies
certain d’avoir pour un temps échappé
à leur traque éternelle de cannibales.
Recueilli je me confie à la nuit
mon corps plus grand que l’humanité entière
repose comme Atlas jusqu’aux bords de la Terre
En songe mes ailes touchent les étoiles
je frôle l’astre de feu au retour
vêtu  de la cape faite de voiles lactés.
Le sceptre de foudre brandit dans mon poing
doté d’une force nouvelle digne des olympiens
je repars sur les voies de mes injustes royaumes.

Sunday, 23 August 2020

I Am, So What Am I to Think by John Grey


Juan Valverde de Amusco's Historia de la composicion del cuerpo humano (Rome, 1560).


the meaning of within
is mostly belching & gurgling
& that relentless heartbeat
that keeps sending blood to my brain –

thought’s about as real
as it is ephemeral –

& dreams
are all regret,
no prophecy -

tendon & muscle
are merely there
to be stilled eventually

meanwhile, the certainty of the end
can flex itself in the mirror –

I’m still impressed
with how the bones are put together,
organs stuffed where they make the most sense,
flesh packing them in,
skin stretched tight to hold it all together -

but I understand
nothing by it –

all I know is that
I occupy this space
and no one else does –

I’m a law of physics –

the kind
not even the worst of us
ever get to break - 


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

Friday, 21 August 2020

Hummingbird Heart by Paul Ilechko


Scoundrel dog smiles heart like a hummingbird
there is a weight to his affection that overwhelms

we walk miles to end up in the same place
that we started the only response is joy

we walk across a desert we walk through a forest
we memorize the paths that take us and the paths that don’t

hearts wrap around each other like a strangling vine
we are mostly muscle and ligament

feeling the sorrow of ancestry deep within our bones

we pass the fire we breath in the smoke
our bodies churning in constant motion

we pass the place where the road collapsed
we pass the place where the bridge collapsed
the world standing ready on the edge of collapse
the world is whose world the place is no place
where the fire once burned

there used to be a bus that came this way
there used to be cars and lights and the sounds of music
escaping from inside their metal shells

now there is only silence and walking and the plumes
of smoke and walking and the dog still filled with belief
in the restless seething of his hummingbird heart.



Paul Ilechko is the author of the chapbooks “Bartok in Winter” (Flutter Press) and “Graph of Life” (Finishing Line Press). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including Juxtaprose, As It Ought To Be, Cathexis Northwest Press, Inklette and Pithead Chapel. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.

Tuesday, 18 August 2020

Theater of Reality and War Baby by Howie Good


Theater audience wearing 3-d glasses
Burns Library, Boston College

Theater of Reality

Many in the audience shift uneasily in their seats as the sole surviving member of the crew describes in hyper realistic detail the dropping of the A-bomb. “Spare us your life philosophy!” a voice finally yells at the stage. German oompah-pah music starts up somewhere near me. The floor, I now notice, is littered with discarded face masks. This might not be hell, but it definitely isn’t heaven. I smile at my own wry humor. And though the smoke chokes us, and the heat of the fire scorches our eyeballs, we stay to watch victims of police brutality in their last moments.


War Baby

A war ends. But what changes? The magician, after all, doesn’t actually make the card disappear. On the birthing table, the ghastly queen, legs spread apart, mind full of pus, pushes and pants and pushes again. I’m not marching, but I can hear the chants of protesters. When I go out into the street, the sky that burns at dawn bleeds at dusk. I try to seem like just a regular guy. I call it box, snatch, snapper, muff, beaver, pussy, honey pot, cooch, slit, hoo-haw, and never what it is, the rushing buzzing of everything.


Howie Good is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Friday, 14 August 2020

Road Trip by Vince Barry

Photograph by Dr K.


 “‘A road trip?’” the father asked, and the daughter said, “Yes. Let’s take a road trip.”

“Hmm,” mulled the father, “a road trip,” and the father thought, “‘The road is a word . . . made of concrete and thrust among us.’”

But the father didn’t share this with the daughter. Instead, the father said, murmured really, of On the Road, “‘The air you can kiss.’”

Of course, K.— ’s what the father always called Kerouac, K.—was talking about warm and palmy California air. But since they lived in California, the father figured the daughter had something farther in mind. . . .

So the father said to the daughter, “You know, K. said ‘the road is life’?”


“So where—?”

The daughter handed the father an itinerary— from Valley of Fire on Day l to Zion and Bryce on Day 2 to Kodachrome on Day 3 to Arches on Day 4  and so on, to home on Day 10.

“Why—,”  the father observed to himself, “Arches National Park?” And, as if reading the father’s mind, the daughter said, “Why—?” and the father said, “Bold, I mean,” then, “look— you put it in bold.”

With Emerson’s passion of youth that “makes all things alive and significant,” the daughter blew right past the father’s inquiry and said instead, “Awakening in a strange town. . . rocking out, . . .   not knowing what lies ahead . . . starting, breathing  . . . I mean, Dad! To get away and chase!”

“Like,” the father said simply, “wake up and live,” and the daughter said to the father with inexpressible delight, “Exactly!”

And the father thought, reflexively, “‘Dying is a wild night and a new road,’” of
of the picture the daughter said she wanted to get with her new Canon Camera with Zoom Lens at Arches’ first trembling light.

Over the years the father often hurled into the darkness the daughter’s words: “‘I just wanted to get a good picture,’” and touched the back pocket wallet that held the crisp and yellow Moab Times news clipping he never removed, but knew by heart:

“Authorities responded to the bowl area under the popular Delicate Arch around 7:30 a.m. When they arrived on the scene, they discoverd a 21-year-old woman dead from her injuries.”

“‘And the concrete word thrust among us?’” the father asked park officials, and from them, not a bit nonplussed, as if congregants well-versed with K., in a low key, “‘I just wanted to get a good picture in day’s first trembling light.’”

And with that the father appended, as if it were some totem that invoked enough, sincerely enough, heartbreakingly heartfelt enough, would bring her back, “with her new Canon Zoom Lens.”

And he still does, for that matter, of the good picture in day’s first trembling light that the daughter wanted to get with her new Canon Zoom Lens—the father does, pleads as he bleeds, so to say.

“My daughter,” goes his supplication to one deaf to the laughter of the gods, “always put clicking a shutter above clicking with people, you see. Which is to say,” he goes on, his entreaty retreating further into the cave of delusion and imagery, “she cultivated the state of being alone— she had in her imagination what she wanted to shoot, then found it. She instinctively knew, you see, the picture was not the subject, but her. In brief, a true artist, my daughter.”

Then, for his close, the prophet’s simple exhortation: “Misericordiam et judicium”
for one who lost her breath to capture a fleeting reality.


After retiring from a career teaching philosophy, Vincent Barry returned to his first love, fiction. His stories have appeared in numerous publications in the U.S. and abroad, including: The Saint Ann’s Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Broken City, Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Kairos, Terror House, Caveat Lector, The Fem, BlogNostics, The Writing Disorder, whimperbang, The Disappointed Housewife, The Collidescope, and Anti-Heroin Chic. Barry lives in Santa Barbara, California.

Thursday, 13 August 2020

1073 Errements en terre d’ombre I par CeeJay


Rainbow by Wing-Chi Poon
Alberta, Canada


Je m’allonge vers les cieux
me courbe en arc immense
je suis ce cristal qui diffracte la lumière
et de couleur, je repeins l’horizon.
En mai, j’enjambe les forêts
fais signe à Vénus accrochée à la lune
qui nous regarde tous, prostrés
dans une lente immobilité.
Aucun ne se souvient de la grandeur du monde
de la force d’Éole
et de la puissance sans borne de Râ.
Tous ont oublié le chant de l’eau
le fracas des cataractes
la sagesse qu’ont les montagnes
pour se mouvoir en millénaires
avec la lenteur des astres.
Tous ne pensent qu’à avoir et empiler
ce qu’ils ont sorti de la terre
ne sachant rien de la véritable richesse.
Sur le gazon que je foule
couvert d’ambroisie déposée par les dieux
mes pas laissent des empreintes sombres et lourdes
Je me prépare aux visites de Morphée
sur cette couche céleste
harassé par mes errements en terre d’ombre
dans les sables lourds.
Il sera toujours temps ce demain pour exhaler ma fureur.