December in the Year of the Plague by Steve Klepetar

Today we bury the bodies.
Each one gets a little trough of earth.
Though narrow, it’s enough and will suffice.

We say what we say over graves:
useless words than rise from our mouths,
mere chimney smoke. Then we drive away,

glad we’re the ones to be alive.
We’ll go home and maybe post on Facebook,
maybe join a march. Someone must have written

a song like in the ‘60’s? We can sing it to the wind.
In the morning we wake and make coffee,
trudge back into the cold arms of an ordinary day.

Gutter Mystery by JD DeHart

(c) Kevin Dooley

The absence of image

from one panel to the next

leaves it to me to fill

the void – a second, a moment,

an eternity? Realizing the gap

between image and image,

I fill in the details on my own,

reminding myself of the features

not completely filled in.

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  He has recently been nominated for Best of the Net and his chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Amazon.

Hostel by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

BaseCamp Tanzania

One of his kids is in Africa
He wanted to work for a nonprofit
but the nonprofits won’t hire him
because he doesn’t have a college degree
even though he knows a lot more than any
college graduate

He grew up unschooled
meaning he could learn what he wanted
or nothing at all

After seventeen years of that
he went to college
He had prepared himself well
but his judgment was faulty
like that of so many seventeen-year-olds

He went out behind his dorm
with one of his friends
and set a pile of his socks on fire
He didn’t consider it a symbolic act
No one really knows
what he considered it

He got suspended for a term
After the term was over
he decided not to go back
Maybe that was the symbolism of the act
He decided to go to Tanzania instead

He couldn’t get a job in a nonprofit
so he decided to start a youth hostel
He rented a huge house and began renting out rooms
some by the night
some by the week
some by the month

There was so much going on in that house
no one could keep track of it
even if they’d wanted to


Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over nine hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including BEAKFUL. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and The Best of the Net for work published in 2012, 2013, and 2014. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver. 

An Evening in the Country by JD DeHart

Whining music like a warbling
voice comes streaming up from
the hollow.

We are gathered around
a pan, shelling beans, listening
to the metallic ping of sound.

A tree stands above us, the one
the white cat ran up to escape
the pack of dogs that raved through.

One day the tree will fall, but not
today, not even this decade.

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  He has recently been nominated for Best of the Net and his chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Amazon.

Door by Neil Ellman

Door by Philip Guston © The Estate of Philip Guston

Through one side
a space without an end
through the other
an endless space
exit or entrance
here there the same
as it ever was
a door is little more
than a passageway
between the opposites
of oneself the universe
at odds
although identical
going nowhere
and everywhere
with the swing
of a rusty gate.

Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published close to 1,200 poems in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.  He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.

Men at Watering by Tom Sheehan

Men at watering divine
the pulse in it, douse petals
much as root work, believe
them cleaner, deserving.

In hill shanks, between
other’s houses, as August
suns filter down, these men
let go, how thick hawsers

unwind in naval dusk.
Often they train harshly
on leaf, stubborn blade,
and lose the water’s act.

They stare at that fighting
back. When twilit cars
pass in salute, slowed by
evening’s deed, watering

men fix where water empties
itself, at earth-damp,
at the heeded and awful
promise of return.

4KG by Texas Fontanella

From Philip K Dick's Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said

Texas Fontanella is from the western suburbs of Sydney, Australia.

Sunny Side Down by AJ Huffman

My mind takes orders like a truck stop waitress
at 2 a.m.  The commands congeal, drip,
saturate
 themselves beyond recognition.
They cower in corners screaming obscenities
in a not-quite-foreign-enough
tongue.  Tantrums
of frustration desire exhaustion drowning
in the same bowl.  Colored bullshit
labels trying to lipstick animals that will bite
even under dawn’s de-fanging glare.

*****

A.J. Huffman has published eleven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her new poetry collections, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing) are now available from their respective publishers. She has two additional poetry collections forthcoming: Degeneration from Pink Girl Ink, and A Bizarre Burning of Bees from Transcendent Zero Press.  She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and has published over 2200 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com 

My Own Private Phone Booth by CL Bledsoe and Michael Gushue

My other cape is at the cleaners, so all I have
is my dashing good looks to demonstrate
my superiority. My Ex-Boyfriend vision bores
into you, my staple-thin mustache guesses
your weight. And these teeth? They cost somebody
a fortune. I'm a labradoodle slab
with the ability to bend, fold, and mutilate steel
rebar into a double heart pierced by a MasterCard.
I'm able to run faster than a High speed internet
connection blond joke. See this watch? The President
of the World Bank gave it to me because I opened
a savings account. Everyone wants to sleep with me,
and I’m going bald from washing my hair.
This fur collar is made of genuine collar,
so rare only the dead suspect it exists.
You know what my secret identity is?
It's someone who doesn't know you or the hill
of beans your problems will always be.

*****

CL Bledsoe is the author of a dozen books, most recently the poetry collection Riceland and the novel Man of Clay. 

Michael Gushue runs the nano-press Beothuk Books and is co-founder of Poetry Mutual/Vrzhu Press. His work appears online and in print, most recently in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, the Michigan Quarterly, and Gargoyle. His chapbooks are Gathering Down Women, Conrad, and Pachinko Mouth (from Plan B Press). 

A Boris Johnson compendium by Mark Young

Boris Johnson was a poor student who is now regarded as one of the greatest inventors in history.

Boris Johnson came to fame as a child star on the Disney Channel's Hannah Montana.

Boris Johnson spent twenty years in South Africa working to fight discrimination, then returned to challenge the philosophy of nonviolence & interracial alliances.

A drumming Argentine woman wearing a Boris Johnson t-shirt says: "We've considered Boris a fifth band member for a long time now."

Boris Johnson is a dramatic mix of circus arts & street entertainment.

Boris Johnson is noted for his long-running role as Homer Simpson on the animated television series The Simpsons.

Fresh from his success at the Oscars, Boris Johnson has agreed to make legendary director Martin Scorsese's dreams of having the 3rd best band on Weller Street come true.

Given all his other achievements, it's easy to overlook the times Boris Johnson was the number one side in world rugby.

Boris Johnson believes that all human behavior is motivated by unconscious forces.

Boris Johnson does not believe in global warming; considers, rather, that the earth may be heading for a "mini Ice Age." Polar bears do not know whether to laugh or cry.

*****

Mark Young is the editor of Otoliths, lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry for more than fifty-five years. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. He is the author of over twenty-five books, primarily poetry but also including speculative fiction & art history. A new collection of poems, Bandicoot habitat, is due out from gradient books of Finland later this year.

A Language of Broken Teeth by Steve Klepetar

They agree to speak in a language of broken
teeth. He hands her a plate made of gold,
she buttons her blouse. Two minutes later
she walks by juggling three fist-size colored
balls, red, yellow, green. She lets them drop
and bounce, widens her jaw and swallows
each as it arcs back to her mouth. Palms up,
she spreads her hands. Ta –da! His pants

are unzipped as he paints a fresco on the side
of a tumbledown barn, horses in a pasture
made of cloud. They are white and black
and brown, fat contented beasts unconcerned
with flowers or feathers or fish which form
a wildly glowing arc above their quiet heads.

Sommets de CeeJay

Avec la volonté de me maîtriser.

L’âme dans des gants de chamois.

Dans l’anfractuosité du roc je me love, je me délove.

Par moments là-bas sur la crête,

Alors que je deviens très calme et silencieux,

Je peux entendre le craquement de la pierre.

Temps qui n’a ni commencement ni fin.

Présent parallèle qui emplit les espaces vides.

Les dimensions fluctuant imperceptiblement.

Pétrifié mon corps cesse d’exister.

Au creux profond du cervelet

Seule la commande d’immobilité persiste.

Mon cerveau, chaudron où bouillonne le trouble

Jette l’anathème du bruit nu pour l’œil et l’âme.

La tempête s’approche à toute vitesse, il n’y a pas d’abris.

L’aigle passe et repasse à la recherche d’une proie.

*****

Summits

After Cee Jay

transversion by Peter O'Neill

A soul in kid gloves,

With the will to control myself,

In the crevice of the rock I fall in and out of love.

At times down on the ridge,

When I become calm and silent,

I can hear the gentle pulverisation of stone.

Here, time has no beginning nor end.

The present parallel fills the empty spaces

Whose dimensions fluctuate almost imperceptibly.

Petrified, my body ceases to exist.

Only in the most profound hollow of the cerbullum

The sole command of immobility persists.

My brain, that cauldron where all trouble boils,

Spurts anathema of raw sound for the soul’s eye.

The tempest approaches rapidly, there is no refuge.

Time ticks away in search of prey.

from mgv2_81 | transverser issue | 07_15

Odd Ode to M. (II) by Volodymyr Bilyk

Note from the author: tribute\parody in a manner of David Burlyuk replying to FT Marinettis Paroles in Liberta.

sgeozl zozoeseo zoeaeg zoeaebz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo Вae De Dzoz Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo
steazl zozoeseo zoeseo zoesezz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo Azoz Ez Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzo
sbeazl zozoeseo zoesel zoesezz Czozoala Ba Cazzozozo A Вe De Dzoz Dz Ez Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo
stegzl zozoeseo zoeseo zoesetz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo Е Е Еzoz Ez Fz Fz Fz Fzozo

aEzE zozoeaeg zoeselz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo
aBzE zozoeaeg zoeaebz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo

sgezzl zozoeseo zoesez zoeseoz Czozoala Ba Cazzozozo Dae De Dzoz Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo
steazl zozoeseo zoeseo zoesezz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo Azoz Ez Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo

aEzE zozoeaeg zoeselz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo
aBzE zozoeaeg zoeaebz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo

sgeozl zozoeseo zoeaeg zoeaebz Czozoala Ba Cazzozozo Вae De Dzoz Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo
steazl zozoeseo zoeseo zoesezz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo Azoz Ez Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo
sbeazl zozoeseo zoesel zoesezz Czozoala Ba Cazzozozo A Вe De Dzoz Dz Ez Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo
stegzl zozoeseo zoeseo zoesetz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo Е Е Еzoz Ez Fz Fz Fz Fzozo

eaegeA zozoesez zoeseaz Czozoala Ba Cazzozoz Ezozo
aEzE zozoeaeg zoeselz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo
aBzE zozoeaeg zoeaebz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo

sgeozl zozoeseo zoeaeg zoeaebz Czozoala Ba Cazzozozo Тae De Dzoz Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo
steazl zozoeseo zoeseo zoesezz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo Azoz Ez Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo
sbeazl zozoeseo zoesel zoesezz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo Dzo Az Daz Cz Da Вe De Dzoz Dz Ez Dz Fz Fz Fz Fzozo

eaege Azozoesez zoeseaz Czozoala Ba Cazzozoz Ezozo
aEzE zozoeaeg zoeselz Czozoala Ba Cazzozo
aBzE zozoeaeg zoeaebz Czozoala Ba Caz

zAzAzA

***

Volodymyr Bilyk is a writer, translator.
His book of visual poems was recently published in the series This is Visual Poetry (thisisvisualpoetry.com/?p=1151) and another book of asemic short stories CIMESA whiteskybooks.blogspot.com/2013/07/volodymyr-bilyk-cimesa.html was published in White Sky Books, book of poetry Casio's Pay-Off Peyote published by Red Ceilings Press http://redceilings.blogspot.com/2013/11/casios-pay-off-peyote-volodymyr-bilyk.html , visual poetry collection SCOBES published by No Press http://derekbeaulieu.wordpress.com/2013/10/27/new-from-no-press-two-fom-ukraine/, visual poetry collection THINGS published by Unconventional Press issuu.com/unconventionalpress/docs/volodymyr_bilyk_-_things and Laugh Poems (undergroundbooks.storenvy.com/products/8859579-1-ub-book) (Underground books) and Vispo Ay Ai Ay (allofmypantsareblack.files.wordpress.com/2014/09/volodymyr.pdf) published by Blank Space Press.

As Full Dark Falls by AJ Huffman

Champagne, like death in my head, explodes,
flowing over edges that are used
to emptiness.  I use my eyes to see the same
as I try to focus, catch
the bubbles.  Their breath echoes possible
escape.  In the end,
I am all that is left,
sticky, cracked, and barely visible
in any light that counts.

from A Few Bullets Short of Home, mgv2>publishing, June 2015

Des baleines de métal échoué de Patrice Maltaverne

En ce parking de luxe consommé
Du dehors
Il n’est pas possible
De prendre une photo sensible
De ces visages d’enfants brouillés par la pluie
S’ils conservent du bonheur
Le sans famille n’est plus
Qu’une larme à écraser au fond d’un cendrier
Un poteau en ciment à contourner
Un regard d’abruti à suspendre
Dans la solitude
Entre les deux
L’amour passe comme une flèche
Peu aiguisée
Qui ponce les baguettes des autos
Pour s’user dans des bouchons
D’autoroute

extrait de Patrice Maltaverne & compagnie, juin 2015 mgv2>publishing

Trying to Remember by Steve Klepetar

I am trying to remember your eyes
but they are shut, their dark gleam
pulsing behind boards.

I am trying to remember your voice.
“Don’t tell us about rain
in the trees,” it said, so I kept

silent even in the cold as green
buds popped from dark branches.
So many faces to lose, spilling

from a broken bag, so many climbers
stuck on ledges, slippery and thin,
with fingers dug  into rock, so many

eyes rolling on the wooden floor.
“Look past the light,” they said, but
I started to fade.  “Tell us about sunset,”

but all I could see was a golden band.
When the music stopped, I found the only
chair, but when I hurled myself down

in its spiny embrace, the legs gave way.
I tumbled hard, found myself surrounded
by splinters and shards in the stage lights’ glare.

Willow Won’t You Weep by Howie Good

In a place like this, somewhere between a ’80s video game and the future, I might have easily become the sort of person who wears sunglasses when there’s no sun out. A massive room was building itself brick by brick around you. As soon as I entered, crowds began creeping in at the corners. I kept asking if it were true that the Nazis had had a secret project to build shelters for top leaders in the event of defeat – inaccessible sites in the middle of deserts or on a cliff. No one bothered to answer. Instead, faces wobbled in and out of focus. And that wasn’t even the worst part. A willow that vandals had stripped the bark off was still dying.

Howie Good's latest poetry collections include Fugitive Pieces from Right Hand Pointing Press and The Cruel Radiance of What Is from Another New Calligraphy.

The Narrow Path by Rachel Bownik

Rachel Bownik is an aspiring writer and filmmaker from Minnesota, USA.

What the Bullets Sang by Steve Klepetar

In memory of the Charlie Hebdo murders, 1/7/15

Today bullets sing the praises of flesh.
How soft it feels, how fragile the bones

beneath, how red and copious the blood.
Someone barks at the sky, and the moon

appears, swathed in an ocean of clouds.
Offended, he fires off a thousand rounds

and the moon bleeds and disappears.
All night, pens draw their own form of

blood. In the morning it is calm and silent
and cold. Later, snow begins to fall and bare

oaks scratch quietly at the gray-white sky.
Somewhere the rage grows again, heated

ball pulsing at its swelling core. Someone
nails the only face of god to a dying tree

face without mercy, a human face frozen
in adamantine certainty. A crow screeches

and the echo bounces back across the snow,
falling to earth among trees and fields and tears.

Tastes almost like love by Nalini Priyadarshni

A jigger of whisky and a jigger of vodka

Together in mango juice

Taste horrible

Not recommended at all – 

You say and we laugh

– neither is whisky in cocoa.

We both agree

Nothing beats golden lager on a hot day

Or any day, for that matter.

I like the taste of it on my lips

Almost as much 

As taste of you.

Nalini Priyadarshni lives in Punjab, India. Her poetry has appeared at Mad Swirl, Undertow Tanka, The Riveter Review, Writes & Lovers Café, The Gambler, Camel Saloon, besides numerous international anthologies.