:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Lois Betterton
Almost Happy
You know how it is
when you try and try and try and break,
so you get back up
and try again … but nothing seems to make
a difference.
And nothing changes.
I was almost happy.
The wall never moves or falls
or surrenders to your will, never
cares about your ego or some
misguided effort to resist
change.
I was almost happy.
And then a tiny sound
like the tinkling of a bell captures
your attention, and a sliver
of light gleams from the cracks
of the broken life
you tried to fix.
I was almost happy.
Suddenly, it all becomes so easy and joyful.
Your life is a stream flowing into a brilliant, rushing river
and this river meets the sea
in a primal splash of possibility –
and the water gleams, rushing
into a tide of change and sets a course
that feels right and true.
The sea spray envelopes you
with its own current and power, and resistance
diminishes. At that moment, you know
and understand the miracle
that whispers: follow me, let me lead,
embrace your own happiness.
Lois Betterton is poet who grew up in Yonkers, New York and
has resided in Sarasota, Florida since 1998. She began writing poetry as a
young child and has embraced the written word all her life. She founded
and hosts the Tea House Poets in Sarasota with other local, free range,
organic, poets.
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| Art by Steve Guthrie |
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Tony Egler
When
the Story is New
The
story is not new, it’s been told many times. In lyrics, in songs, in plays, in
poems, in books, in movies and sometimes even on television.
As
animals we walked on four legs, low to the ground, connected to nature. The
animal heard the fruit say. “What if you reach up with those feet and pick this
apple.” It’s our imagination that allows us to reach for the knowledge of
forbidden fruit.
The
story is told again and again with many characters, many scenes, many settings,
many version, many revisions and sometimes even on television.
As
the fire burns and the smoke curls we sit entranced by the rhythm of the voice,
the melody of the tune, the turn of the phrase. “Lookin' for adventure. And
whatever comes our way…is how the story begins.” says the voice of the author.
The story has gotten small. Emotions are now emojis. In blogs,
in posts, in Tweets, on Facebook and
sometimes even on television.
As
the last battery drains the power electric from our machines, we will be reborn
as our natural selves again. We will hear the plants and the animals as if they
are our neighbors. Our being will rejoin with nature and the story will be new,
unending.
Tony Egler is an avid
Science and Science Fiction enthusiast who for many years has engaged his muse
as a spectator, but has longed to be an adept. He has practiced his craft with
the development of screen plays, manuscripts and short fiction. He lives in
Sarasota Florida with his partner and co-conspirator. His work has appeared in
AntiMatter magazine.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Allison Grayhurst
The
Singular Sky
Move, I move
but cannot function,
prey to the wrong timing
and a host of flaws I have
not been able to label.
Bend, I bend
to the open coffin.
I am the last one here
to hold my flag and not let go.
There is fog in between
the path I am to follow
and the life that I lead.
The sky is singular, but
I have too many eyes that peer
in false directions, too many gasps of sorrow
and empty sides.
I take
and twist to and fro.
Still the light eludes me
and I am left miles below
the replenishing groove.
 |
| Art by Sandra Lefever |
Letting Go
I throw up my
hands
and feel the
diving snow reaching me
from its place
beyond the sky.
I make phone
calls beside the bones
of a crumbled
friendship
and say this is
me and a good season
to open doors
beneath my scared skin.
It is time to
forgive the hardness of others
and my own
turned-up defense,
time to re-walk
the corridors and let
my
disappointments be covered
and stored.
On
The Line
The reins are dropped,
icicles shift from roof to ground
though the colour does not shift
sure as I was, it would.
The broken glass is still in my pocket,
the cramp has not left my thighs
as I push for renewal.
The light is still dull, ants raid the
kitchen and pepper spills too much into each
good meal.
I gave it all for a sense of movement, willing
to lose what I still have not lost.
My understanding is stuck.
What I believed has not come to pass.
I am wearing the same old clothes.
I am dealing with the same message.
The carpet is curled.
I have no place to go.
What I did has not helped.
Such a long-standing ache as this
must be overthrown or become part of
my means of restitution.
Allison
Grayhurst
is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Four times nominated for “Best of
the Net”, 2015/2017, she has over 1125 poems published in over 450
international journals and anthologies. She has 21 published books of poetry,
six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is
a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
 |
| Art by Sandra Lefever |
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Ryan Quinn Flanagan
I have watched too many
people die
in the most horrible of ways
to ever feel good about life.
The ones you are close to are the worst.
It jades you.
Standing over them with your uselessness.
Everyone crowded around and looking down on them
like the space perverts of alien abduction.
Hardly reassuring for the dying or the living.
The morphine drip eyes rolling back in the head.
No more there then sunbathers in the snowy arctic.
And it is then that I notice the wallpaper
or water damage on the ceiling.
It is always something stupid like that, when you
should be doing something else.
And when the thing is finally done, everyone goes
their separate ways until the next time.
If I have the stomach for this,
I have not found it yet.
More of me is being taken
all the time.
:::::::::::::
Zeitgeist and Mrs. Avery
pinch me –
this can’t be real,
oh but it is Mrs. Avery
the earthworms have wriggled up
out of the dank dark earth
to testify
no one will touch your makeup, I promise
your face looks like a trash compactor
with lips
don’t cry ma’ dear
your mascara will run
and you don’t want that
think of your makeup
and all that work you
put in
that a girl,
push ghost children on
lonely swing sets
what’s a Guggenheim grant, you ask?
that’s what people who say nothing
receive for their contribution
to nothing
yes, it is most confusing I agree,
acrobats with sandpaper palms
jerking off the zeitgeist
I love what you’ve done with the place,
doesn’t look like Chernobyl
at all
do you still want me to pinch you?
it could
hurt.
*********
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot
Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his
garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places
as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Octopus Review, In Between
Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
 |
| Art by Peter Landau |
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Tim Anderson
Now you see it. Now you don't.
I was running,
running in circles.
Running hard,
running from myself.
I'm still not sure
if the underbelly found me
or I found it.
Spinning rides.
Stuffed prizes.
Three tosses for a dollar.
Surreal flittering firefly
effects
of crack pipes being lit
in the darkness.
Pitch til you win.
The ever appearing
disappearing
Carnival and sideshow.
Haven for the socially
retarded
and men with stories best
left untold.
Dictators for owners,
who would have your hand
broken
for the nickel underneath.
Every carnival has them,
the enforcers
The "Goon Squad."
Ponderously large men.
Men with a clarity of
purpose,
inflicting pain.
Demons.
Perched on their Tilt a
Whirls
ever eager
to lend misery a helping
hand.
Splat
Wet boards on moist meat.
My R.V. exploded.
It woke me.
Misery's helping hands
had just slammed
three hundred pounds
of overworking mouth
against my home.
I stepped outside
in my boxers.
My stomach dropped.
I yelled
over and over
"stop! you’re killing
him."
Moon looked up and said
"Delta, back out, this
ain't about you"
I yelled again.
Two of the four turned on me
"I guess we'll just have
to whip your ass then."
Never one to run from a fight
I turned
and very briskly
walked away.
Unfolding like frozen meat
thawing
the fat
I should have kept my mouth
shut
Italian
wormed his way under the
bunkhouse,
Escaping a week’s worth of
morphine drip.
 |
| Art by Peter Landau |
Morning came,
smells of coffee and
fresh piss
greeted my nose
as I drifted thru the mobile bunkhouses
to wake my crew.
There sat the barrel chested
face battered
overweight Italian
spilling off the sides of his stool,
struggling to put footware
over his hooves.
" Man" I said.
"You should know better
than to smart off to those guys.
If I hadn't stepped out
they would have killed you."
He looked up from
lacing his boots.
I got a clear view
thru his empty eyes.
Beelzebub's beavers had been busy
gnawing away at his skull.
He replied " Fuck you."
He paused for another breath
and said "I didn't ask for your help.
It's a free country and I can say whatever the
fuck I want.
Fuck them."
I tried to smile.
"So does this mean
you’re not buying me a
beer?"
Trying to stand,
the overweight slicked backed
hair Bronx accent said
"Fuck You."
It didn't take long.
At most a couple of days.
Moon and the boys
were giving away
another beatdown.
Barrel chest was on the
ground
fetal postion
going limp.
I removed my crown of thorns
got my lawn chair
and a beer.
I parked my chair
in the slot
marked indifference.
I sat and opened my beer
and watched ole boy
gain his freedom.
I didn't say a word.
Tim Anderson, originally from Memphis TN spent a great deal
of his youth with his backpack on traveling the States. Having a penchant for
honky-tonks, free spirit women and roadside taverns there are many of these
States where his welcome was worn out.
 |
| Art by Peter Landau |
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Russell Jaffe
CIVIL COPING
MECHANISMS: A MAXIM
It’s
not true what they say,
You
know, about death and taxes.
There
are a lot of tax loopholes
A
few of us escape through.
Everyone
is born. And no one escapes death.
Despite
our elegies in lives, even our idols die.
That’s
why life is all we assuredly know we have.
Right
now, you are reading a book.
CIVIL COPING
MECHANISM FOR THE UNIVERSAL CAGE MATCH:
OBSERVATION VS.
ACTUALIZATION
Glass
is a very small, slow liquid
Designed
for seeing yellow by.
We’re
all equalized
In
yellow.
“O
yellow eye!
Let
me be sick with your heat!”
CIVIL COPING
MECHANISM FOR FASHION
You
should absolutely care how you look
Because
you are an art object.
You
are fucking special.
Don't
let anyone tell you you're not special.
Do
you have any idea what it took for you to be here?
CIVIL COPING
MECHANISM: A PRAYER
Divinity
Though
Russell Jaffe is the editor of TL;DR magazine (
tldrmagazine.com ), teaches at Loyola University in Chicago and Fusion Academy
in Oak Brook, and stars in literary study guides for Course Hero. He is the
author of the poetry collections This Super Doom I Aver (Poets Democracy, '12),
INTROVERT//EXTROVERT (Punk Hostage Press, '14), LA CROIX WATER (Damask, '16),
and Civil Coping Mechanisms (Civil Coping Mechanisms, '17). He wants YOU to
know that the kingdom of the dead isn't some afterlife far-off place, but a
place that rises up and around us, between the spaces and cracks like a mist,
until it overwhelms us, and then, as if suddenly, we have always been there.
 |
| Art by Sandra Lefever |
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Mike Zone
visions
and licks
higher
learning
at
the cost of dying light
a
system of point
a
point of sale system,
welcome
to the institute
the
class act follows
the
understanding of power
truth
justice benevolence- discarded
greed
discontent malicious intent
what
does it say when all we want power
but
none of it really flows?
krypton
exploded, gotham is burning -the institute rising
drones
are flying- reigning lenses broadcasting minds- thoughts- opinions
psilence,
editing
desires no one's whistlin' dixie
but high
on red alert
constant
suspicion in constant division
sky
on fire
water
into muck- learning into dissent
thinking
toward contemplation-meditation
numbers
don't lie
manipulation
of language renders them unstable
there's
upheaval in the heaven of a holocaust
at
what cost but to the dying and walking dead
the
hammer comes down
the
gods hit the road
a
bleak comedy of existence- on planet zero
when
we could pilot spaceship-eternity
but
that's okay in the indoctrination cult antics of it all
this
was bound to happen
the
ice-cream people waver distracted by 31 potentially life changing flavors
Mike Zone is the author of Fellow Passengers: Public
Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings and Better than the Movies: 4
Screenplays. His poetry and stories have been featured in: Beatnik
Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl, Rasputin Poetry,
Synchronized Chaos, Triadae Magazine and Your One Phone Call. He
scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI.
ARTISTS:
Steve Guthrie is a graduate of Ringling
School of Art & Design. Check out his band WASHBAER somewhere on the internet.
Sandra Lefever holds a Fine Art degree from Carnegie Mellon University. She was
born, currently lives, and frankly, will probably die in Sarasota,
Florida. http://sandralefever.com Instagram: mytinymoleskine
