Submitted Poetry
by Ron Whitehead art by Joey Feldman 60 years ago on October 7th 1955 when Allen Ginsberg put the O in Howl I was nearly 6 years old a wild nature boy growing up on a backwoods Kentucky farm when Allen Ginsberg put the O in Howl the earth’s magnetic […]
by Cody S. Decker My whole life Is now one big poem Where each day seems to be A long drawn out stanza That always starts But never stops The things that used to be Normal Aren’t normal Anymore Each moment Now presents itself as An opportunity To pick apart […]
by Saira Viola Elegant thugs and Escort girls With boudoir secrets to sell the world Celebrity sleaze and corporate greed Sold for six figures to a magazine Designer labels and fast food for sale Grab a life from a bargain rail A chemical peel or lipo plan You need wrinkle […]
by Patrick Werle art by Josh Chambers I think about the Southern things that ride my back-mind, the easy things, the rock-n-roll things and the boiling water things waiting for the macaroni from a box that I make for my children on a Monday evening when we have worked too […]
by Saira Viola She only existed under the neon swirl of Broadway Between 42nd and 9th: A super billboard of iconic luxury, She was the freckled faced beauty of Ralph’s Americana. College cute, the world is safe in Polo dreams and monogrammed elegance. Her blue-ribbon smile cut with Woodberry pluck, and her cinema curls sprayed […]
October is the dying month, replete with darkling shades of hoary Time flying down its necessary doom — Days diminish, birds wing sadder, leaves on the waft drift a plaintive, lonely patter. — david pratt
By Alexa Poli these fiery birds of prey steal my life in pieces i’ve become disjointed, undone. foul hands washed in salt water. breathe the polluted air, suck it in fill my lungs with the waste of other’s breaths. the bag will heal me or the bag will steal me. […]
By Ron Whitehead i was 25 years old when i made a personal vow to become a non-violent … spiritual warrior one sweaty hot georgetown kentucky summer night when i was 20 years old my friend david minton ran into the pool room bloody beaten yelling we all turned and […]
By C. A. Oliver No music; dead men doing The dreaded dead-end work Coffin grinders, and morbidly dull Ghost of the former human that Roamed with proud, lofty chins Are downtrodden and desperate For change
by Stephen Aloysius Bischoff Acid skeletons riding Machine explosions on two wheels Where red men once roamed Like the buffalo they hunted Now we’re all ghosts Of the same genocide That started with flesh And ended with anesthesia Numbing our brains Into a silent submission With our final desire To […]
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