- Betts, Matt – Underwater Fistfight (Raw Dog Screaming Press)
- Boston, Bruce and Manzetti, Alessandro – Sacrificial Nights (Kipple Officina Libraria)
- Collings, Michael R. – Corona Obscura: Poems Dark and Elemental (self-published)
- Cowen, David E. – The Seven Yards of Sorrow (Weasel Press)
- DiLouie, Craig and Moon, Jonathan – Children of God: Poems, Dreams, and Nightmares from the Family of God Cult (ZING Communications, Inc., Jonathan Moon.)
- Gailey, Jeannine Hall – Field Guide to the End of the World: Poems (Moon City Press)
- Lepovetsky, Lisa – Voices from Empty Rooms (Alban Lake)
- Lopez III, Aurelio Rico – Two Drinks Away from Chaos (Azoth Khem Publishing)
- Simon, Marge. – Small Spirits (Midnight Town Media)
- Wytovich, Stephanie M. – Brothel (Raw Dog Screaming Press)
Betts, Matt – Underwater Fistfight (Raw Dog Screaming Press) I Left My Heart in San Francisco. I Left Yours Somewhere in Colorado… …or was it Nevada? Hard to say. I travel a lot. And I’m forgetful. I know I left your ring finger at a rest stop outside of Dallas. But that’s only because it was on the news. Your right ear is still on the washing machine downstairs. I found it in my pants pocket just as I was throwing my jeans into the wash. That would’ve been embarrassing. All my clothes would’ve turned out all EAR-colored, right? Shoved your spleen down a sewer grate in Livonia, Michigan. Kicked your jawbone into rush-hour traffic on the Miracle Mile. Wasn’t chasing that down, let me tell you. I’m sure it was ground to powder by the time those maniac drivers were done. It wasn’t Kansas City, was it? Where I left your heart? No. I think that’s where I left those fingernail clippings. I could take notes, I guess. But really? More evidence? What was I looking for? Your heart. Right. Remind me which one is the “Show-Me-State” again?
Boston, Bruce and Manzetti, Alessandro – Sacrificial Nights (Kipple Officina Libraria) THE GREAT UNKNOWN i Night, the Great Unknown, rolled up in its own shadows, waits with open jaws for the night shift, the smell of Detective Samuel Sandoval. Night misses his old blue coat from when he walked a beat. It remembers the brass buttons and the stale crumbs of communion wafers embedded in its threads. Sandoval moves along the riverside drive followed by a skinny rat. After an ten-hour shift, he walks aimlessly in the dark morning, still high on adrenaline and nicotine and hate. He has to come down before he can return to his wife and children and suburban refuge. Sandoval hasn’t been to church for years. He no longer remembers the face of Jesus Christ. The last time he saw it, it was swinging on the silver medallion of an ethnic gang leader, crudely carved with no look of suffering anointing its features. Rather it smiled at him. And so did the gang leader. A mocking sarcastic smile that seemed to be saying, ‘Calvary, up to you now, man!’ Sandoval has been working the night shift for five years. He tries not to remember the blood-scattered lines and faults of that passage, the lives lost along the way. Night, the Great Unknown, fate in bone-cold vestments, is preparing his own demise, dramatic and startling or chill and indifferent as the stone city itself. ii Rashida is sixteen-years-old. Her boyfriend made her swallow too many jelly shots. Then he slapped her because she would not sleep with him, because she wanted to remain a virgin until she was married. For her, Sex is the great dark Unknown. She runs down the alleyway to the riverside drive, running away from her boyfriend and herself, running from a future that is rushing too fast, her teeth so very white in the intermittent lights spaced along the river. In the long patches of shadow in between, Night, the Great Unknown, claims her with its wing. iii Sandoval sees a flash to his right moving fast, far too fast, moving toward him, a shifting flash and a shadow. He imagines the blade of a knife that shines in the river lights, in the black leather of nowhere, a blade that seeks his flesh. “Not yet,” he thinks “Not yet,” while Rashida runs closer, mouth open, breathing heavily. Sandoval hears that harsh breath. Night, the Great Unknown touches the back of his coat with its unsheathed claws. “Chills. Do you feel them, man?” “Yeah!” In an extended fraction of a fractured second, Sandoval draws his revolver from its shoulder strap and shoots blindly — once! twice! — aiming at that sharply shimmering light that is nearly upon him. The shots echo off the condominiums that rise along the river. “Calvary, up to you now, man!” “‘Who’s speaking?” Sandoval asks. The only answer is the rush of the river passing. The body on the ground has stopped moving. iv. Sandoval kneels beside the body of Rashida, curled on its side, a silver lipstick tube clutched in one hand. She’s no longer masked by the wing of night. Her face has become that of a girl surprised by a sudden rainfall, by the first and last thunder of her life. “Your blood…is mine…,” Sandoval whispers to the dead girl, to the Great Unknown. He has never seen the face of an angel before. Twin windows light up in the building that rises above him, throwing his shadow on the cracked asphalt, then a third window, where the Great Unknown suddenly appears in its shadow flesh, dressed as a tall magician with a top hat on his head. A snap of the fingers lights his long cigarette. He inhales deeply as he savors the scene below as if it were a work of art. Then he exhales and blows a coat of fog across the city. Sandoval hears a siren. Someone has called in the disturbance. He knows he should run, yet he remains standing, half bent over the body. Though his face is in complete darkness, its silhouette is composed of hard angles and lines. He realizes that he won’t be going home to his family and the suburbs tonight. Instead he has been crucified on the cross of the Great Unknown. Soon his own cohorts will be coming with their flashing lights to carry him away. “Calvary, man!”
Collings, Michael R. – Corona Obscura: Poems Dark and Elemental (self-published) XXII. Tombs Where dead-man’s fingers press through damp-mold soil, Their almost-sentient, ever-questing tendrils Feeding on decaying flesh…the spoils Of death…the murk and slime and stink of entrails: Where bone-white worms consume their way through bone- Rich earth, blindly probe vast labyrinths Of roots until they break through ceiling-stone And fall and crawl along forgotten plinths: There gather ghouls in crude-rude shrouds, gaunt faces Glistening with putrefying gore; Grave-wax candles wane in skulls slick-smoothed, Illuming naked souls—corruptive place, Beyond redemption’s hope to life condemned…for In nakedness nests biting, flyting truth.
Cowen, David E. – The Seven Yards of Sorrow (Weasel Press) (the convert of the Presbyterian Yard) two bushels for the Virgin redfish, yellowfin, tuna, flounder season by season I would bring them to the rectory the Father would look them over smell them and smile taking them to the ladies in the kitchen season by season giving to make up for not sitting on the oak pews watching the golden angels and glowing glass windows because of the shame of my smell but on the eve of Advent the waves coarse and cold my boat late to the docks I brought my payment through the unlocked doors the half lit forms of him and a boy with dark bare skin sweating the face of fear pleading waved away with a smile Father took the bushels and went back inside engaged the locks the lights gone black as I left in the spring indignant Father came to my boat asking for his bushels withheld for a season we shall go together I said to turn the one basket to feed a thousand he joined me thirty six miles into the swelling anger of a flash storm we inhaled salt foam steering the little vessel steady till the winds died and the sea fell flat blue sky and blue water melding into an eternal hue the man of calm hysterical I could have been swept away you idiot it was an epiphany to give my offering to the sharp teethed worshippers of the great cathedral of brine his chorus fading like the last movement of a declining hymn the humming of my motor anxious for port striking up another tune some part of me satisfied that I had moved on from sacrifice to find respite in what I once thought heresy when my feet touched the shore I was a Presbyterian
DiLouie, Craig and Moon, Jonathan – Children of God: Poems, Dreams, and Nightmares from the Family of God Cult (ZING Communications, Inc., Jonathan Moon.) “Come, Lord Jesus” We didn’t fly up to the sky, Our great mission horribly failed. But I am glad we made the try, And everything that it entailed. The hunger, torture, and final death, I face my past without regret. I’ll love the Family to my last breath, And drown despair in Percocet. Sometimes, I lay in bed at night, And I will dream a bright blue day. The sinners raise hands to the light, While smiling, I my organ play. The Family lived and died in strife, Truly, the best time of my life.
Gailey, Jeannine Hall – Field Guide to the End of the World: Poems (Moon City Press) But It Was an Accident Yes, I was the one who left out the open petri dishes of polio and plague next to the plate of pasta. I leaked the nuclear codes, the ones on giant floppy disks from 1982. I fell asleep at the button. I ordered tacos and turned out the lights. How was I to know that someone was waiting for the right time? I thought the radio was saying “Alien attack” and headed for the fallout shelter, failing to feed the dogs. I followed evacuation plans. I just followed orders. I was the pilot of the bomber, I was the submarine captain, I steered into the iceberg. I held the scalpel but I was shaking. I was the one in charge. I was on the red phone saying “Do it” decisively. I always imagined writing propaganda; how could I possibly see what was coming when they dropped the fliers, when the angry mobs began choking people in the street? I was always good at creating a panic. I never saw the Ferris wheel start its fatal roll. I looked away just as the plane plummeted, as the building burned. I shook my head at disaster, afraid to meet. It was just an accident. It was fate. It was never my hand on the wheel. When you point fingers, point them towards the empty sky.
Lepovetsky, Lisa – Voices from Empty Rooms (Alban Lake) SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION I When fire that sears your soul comes from within white-gold and hotter than the hottest coals than the center of the sun than the tongue of God don’t be afraid but welcome it with your life and the icy heart of you. II It starts as a pinpoint a wink of light you might miss if you’re not looking then spreads a bit until it’s the size of a dime, then a penny a nickel a quarter an eye burning with too much knowledge a hot mouth praying, a world of light. Maybe on your thigh you’ll feel it first: a tingle, an itch a hot pulse. Or maybe it starts just below your left nipple or in the palms of your hands, fiery stigmata scalding your bones clean boiling the blood in your veins until you cry out for redemption until your voice burns in your breast and your tongue chars. III As wisdom and wonder brand your brain with the symbols of gods, the trident and the crown of thorns, you flicker in the streets dancing the tarantella waving your arms like burning branches blistering your blackened footprints into the concrete. Silk flames flow behind you around you building inside you and fingers of flame caress your body with their hot whorls spiraling out of your pores and into your pores as you scream in ecstasy your prayers, your prayers. IV Be a beacon to others in your last fevered moments silhouetted against the dark walls of their caves show them the light rising from your life as you swallow your blackened tongue and breathe the steam that tastes like God deep into your ragged lungs before you try to rise again from your own ashes.
Lopez III, Aurelio Rico – Two Drinks Away from Chaos (Azoth Khem Publishing) INK It was late one Saturday evening When Donnie decided to Get a tattoo. He’d thought about getting one For quite some time, And the shots of tequila – Nine in all – (Or was it ten) Gave him the final push That sealed the decision. What to get, he thought As he shambled inside the shop. A skull? Cliche. A quote perhaps? Too many things that could go wrong. His name? Egocentric. The name of the girl he was dating? He was drunk, not stupid. In the end, he decided on A hand holding a revolver – A symbol of protection, Of rising up and fighting For what you believed; A symbol of… Fuck, he was drunk. As he lay back on the chair, His chest bared for the needle, Eyelids like lead, He fell asleep. When he returned to consciousness, Burning in his chest, Donnie turned, searching for the artist. He found him on the floor, Lying in a pool of blood, A hole in his head, Scent of copper hanging in the air. He shot out of the chair, Almost slipping on the wet floor. Alert. Heart thumping, Skin burning, Tequila wearing off, Donnie found himself Alone in a shop With a dead tattoo artist, Hardly noticing The fresh tattoo – A hand holding a revolver, Barrel still smoking.
Simon, Marge. – Small Spirits (Midnight Town Media) The Hurricane My parents left me a perfect house with many strong latched windows to keep at bay the winter winds. I filled their cases with my books, my art on walls and table tops, displayed my pagan dolls on beds, one for each passage of my life. From the coast came refugees, their faces drawn and haggard, some worried, others angry, fleeing a paradise gone wild. I saw the pick-ups pass by, station wagons with supplies, laden with what they could save. The wind stopped playing gentle games, the chimes I hung have left their hooks. I saw the trees bend down and break, heard the restive voices of the damned, the cacophony of elements, a horrendous symphony of souls, beyond the shuttered glass. I gathered up my many dolls, clutched their little bodies close while spirits screamed for hours in languages I didn’t understand, as a careless fury made its way through a house of shattered windows, they were with me through the storm.
Wytovich, Stephanie M. – Brothel (Raw Dog Screaming Press) Vicious Girls Creatures, creatures are what they are— violent Eves, rotten apples, victimized damsels, Salem witches; they bit the snake that fed them drank his poison, pulled out his fangs and now they bleed, they bleed once a month for his death, the death of the devil who cursed their wombs for they are vicious, they are venomous they are women, and they will wait, patient and persistent, ever-enduring and damned and they will sing, sing in covens, sing in brothels, sing for men, sing for whores and their words will kill they will damn they will puncture for they sing with lips, lips not of mouth but of sex sex that weakens, that confuses, that traps and once they have you have you between their legs, they will kill you, they will eat you, and they will love you the only way that they know how