Issue #19

They stormed, 
 on what everyone 
thought would be 
a regular morning.
They stormed,
because they were 
allowed to. They 
were let through, 
permitted to swell
in numbers that 
splintered wood
and shattered glass.
They were downright
joyful, the united 
populace full of 
random, righteous
chants. Smiles laced
in pride and boundless
boasting. Storming
through on a rampage
focused on willful
destruction
and defecation.
They did many
things that early
January morning. 
Because, among
other reasons, only
THEY could. If they
were anyone else, 
they would’ve never
made it off the sidewalk.

Shontay Luna is the author of four books. Writing credits include appearances in Misfit Magazine,  Blue Lake Review and Brittle Paper. Majoring in Poetry for two years at Columbia College Chicago, she remains there with her pens and notebooks. Her published work is on Instagram – @shontayluna

I want to paint it all black, create a darkling.   Yet my flowers bloom into what’s lacking
Sprouting off shoots like basketball shots 
All net, all swoosh, like winning at the slots
A rose is a rose is a rose
I am who I am. I died but I rose
A resurrection of my body I suppose 
And here my soul sings solely, soulfully 
Just for kicks in this game of monopoly 
Planning a plot to own the electric company 
Then the boardwalk and the railroads also
To have it all, is that not an American motto?

Hello Gulf of America, yet how is this true
When the USA did not settle you. 
We are the aliens here; we forget we cement Over burial grounds of others here before us Ancient histories, cultural stories, covered
Up massacres, persecutions, genocide
Yet here we are standing on the top of it all
Safe and secure on the inside just talking air 
Blowing up a hydrogen ballon 
And not expecting explosions anytime soon

Smell the coffee, he’s no fragrant Hyacinth
Twisted thinking as David Bowie’s labyrinth
An evil goblin king simply cannot win 
We must band together and stop him. 
Weave wild weeds to twine his actions 
Grow green vines to bind his factions 
Yes, yes keep jumping this rope
Yes, we can do it! Do not lose hope!

Vanessa Vicario, born 1977, has been writing poetry since age 11. She is a 1995 graduate from Bangor Area High School, a 2001 graduate from Kutztown University (B.S. Psychology) and a 2004 graduate from The University of Pennsylvania (M.S.W., Master of Social Work) Vanessa is currently residing in Bangor, PA with her two children, Tazio and Tatiana. Her work may be viewed at https://www.facebook.com/VioletteSunshineArt/

On the sunny wood deck
In Galveston, you find
A tawny creature with alert ears
And question mark tail
Willing to rub her face on your shoes
But not quite come home with you
With deli slices, cheese, canned meats
Before exams, after hours
Until one day, in a bundle
You deposit her in a box house
And she’s yours in the green house
In the Far West house
On a plane to Pacific Northwest
Where you grant her a brother
And mountain views
And travels and travails
And late nights, and more flights
And weekends away
She hides in the corner
Hisses in displeasure
Curls in her bed in cold winter
With the roll of years
Her tipped ears remain raised
But at some point
Her huntress skills wane
She starts to warm to others
She naps on the bed
On the couch, at your feet
Until: you grow slower, more hesitant
Thinner despite the broths
Fur thinned and lackluster
And I knew time did not spare you
Any more than those in the unit
Whose every lab I trended
But for you, it wouldn’t do
So in the end
On your last day
It was just like our first
In your new bed
A warm basket in the sun
Resting at my feet as I worked
No longer a student
But the person I’d aimed to be
When you first ate from my hand
Then I sang you to sleep
The same Dirtbag song from before
And it was the last you knew
Like the Romans I called
Your name three times
The way I told the time of death
In the night at work
And I don’t know if you
Need a coin to cross the river
In Blackwater Woods in April, I let you go

Jean Liew is a rheumatologist and clinical researcher at Boston University Chobanian & Avedisian School of Medicine and Boston Medical Center.

She won’t stop pressing the capital “P”
on my old electric typewriter.
Then she pulls out the sheet, crumples it,
and starts playing with it on the floor
in front of the TV,
like a cat.
Then she smiles at me,
while the Christmas lights twinkle,
pours me a glass of vodka, takes my hand,
and we go out on the balcony and watch
the snow falling under the moon.
She does all those little things
that stop the erosion of the soul and make time laugh,
and forget about us, if only for a little while.

Peycho Kanev is the author of 12 poetry collections and three chapbooks, published in the USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Rattle, Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others.

Displacement is weaved all throughout American history 
in immigrants, homelessness, communities 
Imagine feeling displaced from yourself 
you have been serving others like a blue collar worker 
in a capitalist society

Imagine feeling so, so deeply 
that you are displaced from everyone around you 
just because you didn’t get the social cues right 
You set boundaries and suddenly no one wants you 
that’s how infantilization starts 

They think you should just accept everything thrown at you 
if not, you’re yelled at or told you’ll never be good at anything 
The lack of empathy for differences never fails to terrify me 
but somehow neurodivergent people have to be people-pleasers 

“You have to go to this campus” 
Removed from home where my first true friends are 
You come back at events after graduation 
You realize how much time passes when students who come 
stare at you blankly. 

Being displaced is a horrific lack of human decency 
Feeling displaced means losing yourself and everyone around you 
Until you are faced with a ghost-town

Kinsey Krachinski is an incoming Fall 2025 graduate student in the English M.A. program at Indiana University South Bend. She previously earned her Bachelor’s degree in English Education from Purdue Northwest in May 2023. Kinsey worked in Editorial and has had 48 articles about pop culture published. She has helped co-write two children’s books with S.H.I.N.E. and Westville Warriors. Kinsey’s poetry has been published in Everscribe Magazine, Just a Cuppa Lit Literary Journal, Fresh Universe Magazine, Eloquentia Magazine, and South Hall Literary Magazine. Kinsey’s poetry is slated to be published with Furnace, Chartium, and The Chrysanthemum Review. When she is not writing about mental health or self-care, she’s enjoying her time with her family, friends, and boyfriend. 

I wrote a poem on a napkin.
The poem was about
Richard Brautigan
because I have become
associated with him
in certain dusty quarters. 
The poem was short,
the way he wrote them,
without his wit or his
tragedy. The waitress set
my tea on the napkin. 
The poem ran. It now looks like
the face of a loved one 
seen through murky ocean waters.

Corey Mesler has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Lunch Ticket, Five Points, Good Poems American Places, and New Stories from the South. He has published over 50 books of fiction and poetry.  With his wife he owns Burke’s Book Store (est. 1875) in Memphis. 

“Doctor (Doctor), Mr. M.D. (Doctor)
Now can you tell me what’s ailin’ me?”
— The Young Rascals

So, this is how the end begins–by extension,
Apprehension then tension. Alpha arcs to omega.
It does not help knowing that what is begun will run 
Its course. Each visit comes with the risk of being
The beginning of the end. There is the dread of
The nervous introduction, awkward at best.
Then the dreaded diagnosis explained with
Requisite excess. Then comes a prognosis (what
In Las Vegas they refer to as the odds of beating
The odds) is offered, which is accepted pro forma, 
Informative normative hypnosis–medicinal gibberish. 
Gag reflex. Shock it is hard to chew, hard to swallow,
Let alone digest. Cognitive indigestion. Ad nauseum.
Upsetting? You bet.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). A chapbook, Olive-drab Khaki Blues, is forthcoming from FootHills Publishing. His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.