Sunday, March 31, 2019

Imagine The Stars by Norman J. Olson

imagine that the stars
are cars
driving on a freeway in Wisconsin
while square fields fly
away
in shades of green and gray

on either side
the sickle moon is hanging sickly above the black
and ragged horizon


deep wells of space and
time are sucking
stars into
an imaginary vortex, or maybe it is real.
who cares?  we have television
and fantasies that pass for
religion.  if stars were
cows, I suppose that the
milk would be
thin and sweet
like starlight






Born in 1948, Norman J. Olson is a small press poet and artist from Maplewood, Minnesota.  He has published hundreds of poems and artworks in 15 countries and all over the USA.  His web site is:


The World of Norman J. Olson – Drawings and Paintings
Norman J. Olson is a small press poet and artist who lives in Maplewood, Minnesota

Saturday, March 30, 2019

Unhealthy Debate by Ivan Jenson

When I slurp
from your cold
cognitive perspective
I get brain freeze
and suffer pain
much greater than a papercut
and when you speak
directly from your ego
you give me
an emotional stubbed toe
so please stop
spewing non-sequitur vitriol
that your closed mind
makes up
because it gives me
transcendental hiccups
and I am sick of
your pseudo judo
intellectual sass
and have had enough
of your outdated data
because it all has
the very wrong odor
of righteous gas
so get out of here
before I hypothetically
kick your cerebral ass





Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and contemporary poet. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled Absolut Jenson for the brand’s national ad campaign. His Absolut paintings are in the collection of the Spiritmusuem, the museum of spirits in Stockholm, Sweden.  
Jenson's painting of the “Marlboro Man” was collected by the Philip Morris corporation. Ivan was commissioned to paint the final portrait of the late Malcolm Forbes.  Ivan has written two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists. Jenson's poetry is widely published (with over 600 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. A book of Ivan Jenson's poetry was recently published by Hen House Press titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon. Two novels by Ivan Jenson entitled, Marketing Mia and Erotic Rights have been published hardcover. Ivan Jenson’s new novel, Gypsies of New Rochelle has been released by Michelkin Publishing. Ivan Jenson's website is: www.IvanJenson.com

Friday, March 29, 2019

Smile for the Camera. by Heidi Blakeslee



the books
on this madness
were tossed out a few decades ago (1984 & the lot)

no science fiction could account
for the people fighting back
passively
by having more cameras
than the government

the official
surveillance state largely ignored
by the people

the revolution will be filmed
by fifteen year olds
and posted to youtube within
the hour

we’re just waiting for the phones
to
charge




Heidi Blakeslee writes from Ambridge, Pa.  She lives with James and her seven cats.  She has been featured on "Winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com," "Nixes Mate Review," and "Live Nude Poems."  Her most recent novel, "The House" was published through Alien Buddha.

Thursday, March 28, 2019

On the Event of My Death. by George Douglas Anderson



I’m compiling a list
of important things
for my wife
to do
should I die
suddenly-

where to find
my will

what funeral company
to text

which beach to scatter
my ashes

how to operate
the DVD player

when to cap
the home brew.






George Douglas Anderson grew up in Montreal and migrated to Australia in his early 20s. He is long-term blogger at BOLD MONKEY. Recent or forthcoming chapbooks include Teaching My Computer Irony (Punk Chapbook Series Epic Rites Press), Shark in the Shallows (Analogue Submission Press) and Fuckwits & Angels (Holy & Intoxicated Publications).

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

TENTATIVE PLATFORM FOR THE PRESIDENCY OF KEITH RICHARDS by Daniel W. Wright

1 - The official slogan for my campaign shall be "I’ve Upped My Standards. Now, Up Yours".

2 - Re-instating the right to smoke in bars any time the weather is below 45 degrees.

3 - A Beatle must be left open to the same level of legal and judicial scrutiny as a Rolling Stone.

4 - Moving Black History Month to a month with at least 30 days and some decent weather.

4A - Instituting a Woman’s History Month, also in a month with at least thirty days and some decent weather.

5 - Free health care for all, no strings attached. For every month this is not instituted during my presidency, a cut in the defense budget shall be made.

6 - No law concerning drug enforcement shall be voted on by those who have financial interests in pharmaceutical companies.

7 - The birthdays of Ron Wood and Bobby Keys shall be considered national holidays.

8 - The Queen, as lovely as she may be, can kiss my majestic Satanic arse.

9 - Instead of being treated as criminals, heroin addicts should be treated by health care officials in an environment where they can have a real chance to get better.

10 - Cracking down on the music companies and online streaming services who keep the money for themselves and instead make sure the artists get a fair deal.

11 - At least once during the first term, Mick Jagger must publicly lick my under carriage in an act of humility.

12 - The new poet laureate of America shall be Tom Waits.

13 - For every child shot in a school shooting, a member of the legislative branch shall be shot as well. Nothing serious, but enough give them an idea to actually do something.

14 - Putting money into public education in order to create a well-informed electorate.

15 - Instituting a Green New Deal and dedicating time and money to finding alternative solutions to greener options to cutting down carbon emissions, including government paid job training for greener options for those who work in the energy industry.

16 - Finally, it will be the opinion of this administration that if you don’t know the blues, you shouldn't pick up a guitar.







A poet of the no collar work force, Daniel W. Wright is a mid-western son who loves and loathes the red brick town that surrounds him. A longtime writer of wild nights and whiskey tributes, Wright speaks for the lover in every loner. He is currently the author of five chapbooks of poetry, the most recent being The Death of the Ladies Man with Bad Jacket Press. His work has appeared in the Gasconade Review as well as underground zines Bad Jacket and Crappy Hour.


Tuesday, March 26, 2019

Song by Brian Gore

I sip a witches brew
to reach the visions she promised.
I dance.
I feed on flies that stop
in my mind’s web.
I take cheap glances at
nice backsides
and celebrate debauchery.
How could I not?
I celebrate!
I laugh in secret
when I lie and steal.
I am unable to afford
the vices that carry me through
the miry mess man creates.
He who says I ought to be ashamed
of my celebration
is naive.
No,
I do not feel morally obligated
to the morally obsolete.
Ha! Impoverished I,
heavy-eyed, calloused and limping,
to feel obliged to
the soft-handed gambling thief
who is reinforced by the
oblong rules of his appointed council?
Certainly not. Never!
I do not participate in wickedness,
for it torments those who
do not take part in its destruction.
But vice,
this is perky tits!
We are expected to raise
our country in the palm of one hand
and God in the other;
to feel obliged to the
Law of the Land and
the Law of our Fathers, yet
you will not find me with raised arms
except to wrap them around
the shoulders of my compatriots.
Will you toast with me?
For you and I,
individually,
are each greater than the State
and greater than God!
We ought to celebrate
that we know this.







BrianSGore is a writer of short stories, poems, and songs. He has published several collections of original works including Barstool Ballads, Eleven Stories for Short … Attentions, and Tangled World, as well as coordinating a collaborative project entitled A Collection of Poems by Various Poets Regarding the Line '10,000 Miles of Farewell’. His newest book, Drawn Thread, is now available, along with his new album Going, Never Stopping, at briangoing.bandcamp.com. 

Monday, March 25, 2019

New York City Style Diner, Dublin by John Doyle


1978. Tom Verlaine, red patent-paint on subway-tiles,

brisket-beef, barbecue sauce, wide-collars, ethnic boys, phallic,

gum-chewing girls bathed in sass, Some Girls; Lou Reed, Bowie's stoned : cocaine-haze;

a 66 bus slips in outside and its queue stare in at you, a shape of Autumn's

fire,

who rolls a ketchup bottle DeNiro style 1978,

with Television on the jukebox of a New York City diner,

red-patent subway tiles,

and the fires it sucks from swearing chefs, and the buses stuffed inside, sweetly.

There should be at least two Hail Marys left on my American Express card











 John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch. 

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

World of Sober Dreams by Heath Brougher


All the collective fiers burning
within the gold mist,
the greenist tendrils growing
away from folly into bliss.
All the vast cites spreading
their green upon the lhand;
nitely beauty sparkles and shines
as one walks hand in hand.
Trinkling brooks that speak
from out the nite’s canopy of black,
talking in subtle whisspurrs
causing a conscious clasp to lack.

Drifting into a world of sober dreams
all confrontation falls discreet
and in claridy everything seems.
Thriving in a tranquil mood,
relishing the cool presence;
maintaining a wish on the brink
within the mistiy summer nite’s pleasance.
The core of verdant  contentedness,
is allowed in the nite to revel,
as clier the stars that glisten
on every lucid level.
Walking with unwakeful strides,
peering though lethargic eyes;
sleeping in the softened winds,
cherishing the nightly prize.






Heath Brougher received the 2018 Poet of the Year Award from Taj Mahal Review. He has published 6 books, the most recent being To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press, 2018) and The Ethnosphere's Duality (Cyberwit, 2018). His work has appeared in hundreds of print and online journals including Boston Poetry Magazine, Chiron Review, MiPOesias, The Dope Fiend Daily, Mad Swirl, SLAB, BlazeVOX, and elsewhere.


Friday, March 22, 2019

Another Bad Night by Ian Copestick


I lay downstairs in the dark, my wife has
Barred me from the bedroom
And isn't letting me put the light on down here.
That's why I sit here, angry and writing poetry
In the dark to try to keep myself sane. It's not easy
To keep myself sane. Although she's kicked
Me down here, she won't leave me alone.
Shouting abuse, making herself
Feel better, but I have to say, it's not doing
Much for me.
So I pour myself another drink, a strong one.
Try to ignore her, finish this poem,
Worry about the morning.
Something tells me that it's not going to
Be much fun.






Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash.




Thursday, March 21, 2019

A Short Poem Describing A Couple's Search For The Best American Brewery of 2016. by Robert Halleck


Outside Morrisville the GPS lost the signal
as we entered Vermont's Northeast Kingdom.

We continued with dead reckoning.  A misty
rain fell outside Greensboro Bend where we
stopped to ask directions. Go down the road

turn left on Taylor, right at the flat, don't
give up. The old farmhouse appeared out

of the drizzle. Tall windows, steel vats,
brew masters working in white suits.
We opened the weathered white doors, shook

away the rain drops and entered. An hour later
we left with two growlers of Hill Farmstead's IPA

clutched to our breasts like the last candy
in the Easter basket.    





Robert Halleck's work has appeared in over 40 poetry journals, magazine, and annuals in the last few years. Recently his poems have appeared or will appear in the San Diego Poetry Annual, The Paterson Literary Review, The St. Ann's Review, Third Wednesday, Chiron, and The Mockingheart Review. He is a member of San Diego's Not Dead Yet Poets and is a regular attendee of the Kenyon Review's Summer Workshops.

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Karma Cowboy by John Greiner


To die with boots off
on the stained sheets
of others,
beyond Monument Valley,
John Ford
      and John Wayne
in one of the many rooms
of the west.
How long was the walk?
Did your feet bleed?







John Greiner is a Pushcart Prize nominated writer living in Queens, NY. He was educated at the New School for Social Research.  Greiner's work has appeared in Sand, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Valueand numerous other magazines. His chapbooks, broadsides and collections of poetry and short stories includeTurnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2017), The Laundrymen(Wandering Head Press, 2016), Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press, 2014),Modulation Age (Wandering Head Press, 2012), Shooting Side Glances(ISMs Press, 2011) and Relics From a Hell’s Kitchen Pawn Shop (Ronin Press, 2010). 

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Learning to Dance in the Rain by Alfred Gremsly


It’s raining outside,
but everything in here is okay
Because everyone else is just like me
Trapped in a house staring out a window,
as if it’s the zombie apocalypse
Which makes me happy
to be like everyone else
-if only for a moment
But how I hate the sun
and how it dries up all the rain
        Which brings back my loneliness
                     which brings back my pain
which brings back the fact I’m still the same,
    lonely, isolated, sad, depressed person to afraid
                  to go out into this maze called life and have fun
    Instead-
I close all the blinds
and pretend the world is dead
and I’m the last one alive
I’m alone and sad
But I’m alive and safe
And alone and sad
is better than everyone else,
who died before the rain stopped falling

  Fresh cut flowers wilt in the sun
But, a deeply rooted plant potted inside
thrives on a window seal
So, why would I want to leave the safety
of my box,
just to make others happy?
The times I’ve been forced outside,
I was nearly eaten alive
 by hordes of the walking dead-
       - to rude to hold doors
       - to disrespectful to say thank you
-and by those who would rather spit on you, as to say excuse me
                     No thank you!
 I’ll be the house plant and watch you wilt in the sun
and sing sad songs for the memory of everyone
I’ll be sad and alone,
but safe and alive
        Only me and my children,
        with our deeply planted roots will survive
        Watching you from our window;
        will know, we can only go out in the rain
        when everyone else is inside
        hiding from the water that poisons their body
        They watch us like were the walking dead,
         dancing in puddles
    But we do not see them watching
    Nor do we care
        …..we are the only ones left alive

                         





Alfred Gremsly is an American born poet whose works can be found on social media sights such as twitter and Facebook. He is the author of two short adult/children books and has been featured in numerous anthology's.
This poem in particular comes from his forth coming book; a 140 page collection of poems entitled " SMiLE 'scheduled for release in early spring 2019

Moments. by Don Robishaw


It’s the smell of freedom on strangers that draws me to them. Can the smell of not expecting much from life be described? Is it the odor: that stench of beer or whiskey-laden breaths? Is it the shakes, the sweat, the refusal to look a stranger in the eye the next morning in bed? Ah, the whiff of a real drinkin’ woman or man. I long for those moments, yet have come to realize there is a bottom -- and when I look in the mirror --  it looks a lot like me. Drink, it’s here for me when there’s no one else. When nothing else works, there’s drinking. There’s nothing, nothing else like it. Need a drink? Four blocks away, cross the Three Rivers Bridge over the bottomless River,
and there’s the Dew Drop Inn. I look over the side. I have three choices. I close my eyes. The struggle continues; today I’m drawn back over the bridge, towards those moments.







Before Don Robishaw stopped working to write, he ran educational programs for homeless shelters for thirteen years. Don's also well-traveled, using various ways and means: Sailor, Peace Corps Volunteer, bartender, hitchhiker, world traveler, college professor, and circus roustabout.

His work has recently appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review, Drunk Monkeys, O’ Dark Thirty, Literary Orphans, Crack-the-Spine, The Remembered Arts, Open: Journal of Arts and Letters, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. His chapbook, ‘Willie’s Bad Paper Odyssey’ was a semi-finalist in Digging Through The Fat Press 2018 Summer Chapbook Contest.

He like to write poetry, satire, tragedies, and gritty fictional tales — of men and women from various backgrounds — that may have sprouted from a seed, from his past.

Many of the characters he developed have been homeless, served for periods of time in the military, or are based upon archetypes or sterotypes he's met while on the road.


Monday, March 18, 2019

Oh, What the Hell by Ken Allan Dronsfield


Gracefully inept at life's perfection
gleefully disorganized and simple;
who put the beer in the top freezer?
I think Leprechauns live around here
hiding things and stealing my coins in a
glowing and rising of the grand red sun.
I think I forgot to buy the coffee cream;
good thing my favorite color is black,
since the toaster forgot to pop again
burnt toast and tepid black coffee today
ribbon-like clouds drift off to the east.
chickadees return to the empty feeder
rain arrives, my umbrella misplaced.
I have five but can't find even one.
adapt to life with its imperfections, oh,
what the hell, drink a beer and smile.










Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He has three poetry collections, "The Cellaring", 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, "A Taint of Pity", contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken's third poetry collection, "Zephyr's Whisper", 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, "With Charcoal Black, Version III", selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry International's recent Nature Poem Contest. Ken won First Prize for his Haiku on Southern Collective Experience. He's been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.


Saturday, March 16, 2019

Standard Man by C.M. Crockford

I've become a standard man,
keeping some steady routines.

I've become a standard man,
drinking strictly after five.

I've become a standard man,
howling at the moon only on weekends.

I've become a standard man,
avoiding cockfighting rings.

I've become a standard man,
hating my job.

I've become a standard man,
taking out the garbage.

I've become a standard man,
skipping lunch at 7-11.

I've become a standard man,
going to bed before midnight.

I've become a standard man,
running errands on Saturdays.

I've become a standard man,
holding hands with someone.

I've become a standard man,
sharing a piece of myself.

I've become a standard man,
greeting my heart at the door.

I've become a standard man.

So far it's not bad.








My poetry and writings have been published in Ethos Literary Journal, Neologism Poetry Journalism, and The Junction among other journals and magazines. The first chapbook of my poems, Adore, is out now from Iron Lung Press. I'm a writer on the autistic spectrum. I live in Philadelphia, PA.



Friday, March 15, 2019

The land of Mom, Continent Earth by Melanie Browne


I knock on my daughters
bedroom door who is home
from college on Winter break,
I peek my head in,
"did you floss,"?
I notice the squares
on her laptop
filled with talking people
like the theme song from
The Brady Bunch
"Mom, we're playing
Dungeons and Dragons!"
she squeaks,
"Hi Mrs. Browne,"
says one of the
people on the squares.
I wave and remove myself
from her room.
I only played D&D once
with my younger brother
and he said my character
died mysteriously
by being eaten alive
by fire-ants,
after that,
I held a dim view
of the game,
although sometimes
I catch a glimpse
of halflings &
other sentient
beings snacking on
frozen waffles,
so I know more than I let on










Melanie Browne is a poet and fiction writer living in Texas. She has been published in various journals and 
online literary magazines such as Pulp Metal Magazine. She has also been included in several anthologies, 
including Zombies Galore and Everyday poets 2.

Thursday, March 14, 2019

HEAVEN IS A NEAR EMPTY BAR. by Bradford Middleton


Outside this room the country crawls on
Failing as it always does when the snow comes
A centimetre will leave the trains paralysed and
The planes will remain grounded but here
I don't care as I sit alone, planning on nothing
Beyond a visit to a dealer or maybe a walk along
The promenade to check out just how few
People there are around.  Last night I went to
My local and had a few beers and a run of whiskies
But on the way there I was the only one walking
Down my old street with the sea on one side
And empty holiday lets on the other and I got to
Confess, as I walked along, high and smoking again
I did pause momentarily, looked around and declared
Yeah, this is beautiful.  That reality was broken all
To sunder as soon as I walked in the bar to
Discover people, only a few but still too many, had
Ventured out and dared to invade this space that I
Hoped would just be mine so I simply did my drinking
Mostly alone and in peace before turning, knowing
Finally that 'hell is other people' as I left, walking back home.








Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize at the age of nine.  He then gave up writing poems for nearly twenty-five years and it wasn't until he landed in Brighton, knowing no one and having no money, that he began again.  Ten years later and he's been lucky enough to have had a few chapbooks published including a new one from Analog Submission Press entitled 'Flying through this Life like a Bottle Battling Gravity', his debut from Crisis Chronicles Press (Ohio, USA) and his second effort for Holy & Intoxicated Press (Hastings, UK).  He has read around the UK at various bars, venues and festivals and is always keen to get out and read to new crowds. His poetry has also been or will be published shortly in the Chiron Review, Zygote in my Coffee, Section 8, Razur Cuts, Paper & Ink, Grandma Moses 'Poet to Notice', Empty Mirror, Midnight Lane Gallery, Bareback Lit and is a Contributing Poet over at the wonderful Mad Swirl.  If you like what you've read go send a friend request on facebook to bradfordmiddleton1.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Today by Wolfgang Carstens

today,

i texted my wife
to let her know
i was bringing
home some milk

but
autocorrect
changed it
to milf.

i discovered
the error
when she messaged me back
asking if the milf
was hot
and should she
send the kids
to the neighbors
for the night.

see,
that's why i love her.

it's also
the main reason
our marriage
has lasted 26 years.

she's always
willing to try
something

new.






Wolfgang Carstens lives in Canada with his wife, five kids, grandson, dog, mortgage and death. His poetry is printed on the backs of unpaid bills. More information at wolfgangcarstens.com.

Tuesday, March 12, 2019

Hungry for Mexican. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan


Do not go to prison.
Everyone goes to prison.

Do not find the madhouse
like a lost Easter egg
thirty years after the fact,
madness is the new enchilada
if you are hungry
for Mexican.

Do not be gay because it is trendy
or straight because it
is expected.

Do not sit in bars
paying top dollar for depression
when you can buy in bulk
and sit in the dark
at home.

Listening to all the tear jerkers
you want to
or nothing at all.

Any man who can drink in complete silence
night after night
for years  
is a true Spartan
warrior.

Try it some time
if you don’t believe me.

The walls actually close in on you
like a trigger happy swat team
on edge.

Do not publish
what has already been
published.

There is no surprise
in that.

Be unusual.
Come from strange angles.
Make hummingbirds
out of couch cushions
and never look
back.  






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 Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.

Monday, March 11, 2019

Chrysalis by Holly Day

She squeezes him tight and he fills her with larvae
destined to pupate, develop wings and molt
shatter her skin like the wood of an old door frame
in their attempt to break free and fly far away.

But it will only hurt for a moment, and too far down the road
to worry about—for now, he comforts her with pictures of kittens
tells her stories of his own childhood, how he can’t wait to feel
butterflies beating under her skin, how he’ll never leave her alone.

She wonders silently about scorpion children
babies who devour their mother as she sleeps
boys who grow up to be psychopaths and murderers
girls who grow up to be beaten and lost.









Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press),  In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press).

Sunday, March 10, 2019

BIG BLUE ROCKET SHIP. by K.W. Peery


In Studio A
at Soundworks
late last night
with some
help from
Evan Williams
and a souped up
Goltop Les Paul

We threw it all
against the walls
as Kenny christened
this big blue
rocket ship
and we set sail
a little deeper
into the cosmos







Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. Peery is the author of eight poetry collections: 
Tales of a Receding Hairline; Purgatory; Wicked Rhythm; Ozark Howler; Gallatin Gallows; Howler Holler; 
Bootlegger’s Bluff; Cockpit Chronicles. 

His work is included in the Vincent Van Gogh Anthology Resurrection of a Sunflower, 
The Cosmic Lost and Found: An Anthology of Missouri Poets (Spartan Press), Best of Mad Swirl Anthology 2018 
and the Walsall Poetry Society Anthology, Diverse Verse II & III. 

Peery’s work has been published in The Main Street Rag, Chiron Review, San Pedro River Review, The Gasconade Review, Big Hammer, Blink Ink, 
Rusty Truck, Mad Swirl, Veterans Voices Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Mojave River Review, The Asylum Floor, Horror Sleaze Trash, 
Ramingo's Porch, From Whispers to Roars, Culture Cult Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only Magazine, Under The Bleachers, 
The Dope Fiend Daily, Ariel Chart and Apache Poetry. 

Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than twenty studio albums over the past decade.

Website: www.kwpeery.com

Saturday, March 9, 2019

Leap Year by Cathy Goguen

There was a week with six days

a leapweek

You know the kind

when your heart leaps out of your chest

just because

he says hi or doesn’t

The next week had seven days

normalcy

a perfect routine

the good morning music

some midday surprise

and the pillow talk

randomness

the best week ever!



No one ever said

it existed,

but a five day week came-

the black hole week

where you fall

not in love

but in to darkness

absent your lifeline

your heart skips many beats

bradycardic, spiraling

until it stops

And suddenly,

the week with no days…

you and your lifeline, free at last

you, free of pain

your lifeline, free to love

the time warp








Born in Jellico, TN, Goguen began her writing career before she could even write words. “I always remember being fascinated by dialogue and plots, even before I knew what those terms meant. I used to spend a great deal of my childhood playing with my paper dolls and those homemade ones I tore out of the Sears and Roebuck’s catalog. I didn’t know at the time I was, “writing” when I would create the elaborate plots or their pretend language but as I began school and gained the skills of the written word, I found it easy to transfer my earlier stories on to paper. And that’s how I became a writer. 
2016 EKDAS first recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award

Roots of the Bluegrass semi finalist 2010, for The Dinner Club.

May I Have Your Attention Please?, published by Pioneer Drama in 2003 has been performed all over the US and Canada as well in Great Britain and Ireland. The play won the prestigious Critic’s Choice Award at the Wisconsin State Theatre Festival.

Looking for Mr. Right, published by Brooklyn Publishers

Roots of the Bluegrass 2015 runner up for, Boxes , co-written with J. Michael Radford

2016 Ten Minute Play Winner, Kentucky New Play Series, RE DO IT.

The Most Human published in 2018 by Brooklyn Publishers.

Gorilla Girl, Reading at ArtsPlace, Lexington, KY, 2018

the characters in my novels seem more real than me. By John Grochalski

the booze runs down my throat like my own personal niagara and the characters in my novels seem more real than me always ...