29 January 2023

Four Poems by petro c.k.

Heuristic Purge

An orchestra of
redrawn bigotry is 
indifferent to 
unbiblical others
their unguided objections
decry with hybrid knuckles
venting injured 
prurient voices 
their reason for being 
so loud 

Beryl of the Belted Poses

Seas psychologically dressed 
impartial to a presence 
in the darkness between 
long distances of life every written day 

The central lilt
to this modest world 
A nearby garden moved 
in a calmed hurry

Staying at either end of the
parentheses hotel 
the sheep with no beginning
hung in countryside hubbubbery  

Maybe they'll sit in characteristic jests
A living forest senses
who was just the theater horrific 
in the breadth of both kitchens 

Flamed for the Sound Within This Place

A symphony that birds the theatrics 
of all previous broken hearts 
that have run dry long ago 

Another day up in the sheet 
became written by then
in a sunken magazine 

Still the only static pileated image
of shallow silver waves 
to a whippoorwill passing by 
drifting deeper in the same sky 

The ancient star did not know 
that the bees knock on his door  
every time he was alone

From his eyes to his face 
leaving the house with his tombstone
in his own words 

Quagga Muscle

here nor there
Not by half or by 
the other half 
The lines run until they don't 
folding of the first day 
turns into the ocean
ancient families washed away 
in a tidal draught 
halfway through the cemetery
Buckle up the earth 
always too much 
or not enough 
invasion or
our regimen is not done 
until the tendon snaps 

19 January 2023

Two Poems by Stacy Black

Puppet Master
The cloud shears itself in two
but that's nothing new.
The bobcat in my guts wishes it was a wolf
who wishes it was a piano, 
silent and prestigious and heavy in the corner
of an anonymous LA home. 
Who knows why anyone wishes what they do. 
One movie features a puppet
who wishes it were alive but I prefer the one
where the puppets wish their enemies dead
and so go about dispatching them
one by one through the night
in the spooky mansion on the bluffs
overlooking the crashing sea. 
They all had it coming, in some way.
I wish a glacier would come crush us in our sleep. 
Serves us right, bawls the bobcat/wolf/piano.
The cloud shears itself into a million pieces 
but it's just getting started.

At Last No Future for Real

So all the ironies can finally fuck off.
Forever can all the gnarly bugs glory in eternal humidity.
Social media can die 1000 fiery deaths
amid a slight reduction 
in righteous anger.
Uninformed opinions stay steady
in the spreading sulfuric lakes.
Every love goes unrequited,
every lover spurned and kicking dixie cups
down dark alleyways up to no good.
No booze 
or alternately nothing but,
either way a nasty hangover makes bleary all creation
for everybody, forever.
Misty mornings that never end.
I put a colander on my head and smoke all the cigarettes I please
and feel finally, sincerely, at peace.

09 January 2023

Three Poems by Damon Hubbs

From the Misadventures of Sir Thomas Browne’s Skull

(Note: In 1840, Sir Thomas Browne’s skull was removed from the St. Peter Mancroft Church in Norwich when his coffin was “accidentally” disturbed by workmen. The skull wasn’t returned to lie with the rest of Browne’s earthly remains until 1922. In addition to writing “Religio Medici,” “Urne-Buriall” and “Pseudodoxia Epidemica,” the 17th century physician and essayist is credited with coining dozens of words including medical, hallucination, electricity, exhaustion coma, ulterior and therapeutic.)

#6: Ulterior

collating bones 

& books 

in a quincunx 

of exhibition halls featuring 

such Audio Tour favorites as


or the Homerican Battel between Frogs and Mice

& Pytheas Beyond Ultima Thule—

where’s your ticket Mr. Bones

says the guard 

but then it’s gone 

all gone, the art & artifacts

the impossible objects, forgotten 


the map of Musaeum Clausum 

drawn in phantom vistas 


from my back-


& windswept 

across phosphate floors

#7: Therapeutic

Whenever I feel blue

I think of your body 

hanging from morning 

till 4 in the afternoon 

& the 20-foot pike 

on the roof of Westminster Hall

your head, Cromwell, lollypopping

in the English breeze

Noir Set Piece

bean shooter


last drag of a smoldering gasper

elephant ears heeled, rodded 


in a blind alley

     only the moon 



          squirt, dut 




zzzzz, dut dut


night locked 

in a cage 

of rain


from a diner

across the street 

a waitress 

with amnesia




at the greedy touch 

of hot plates  









the room 

key is lost 


can’t be said 

for our baggage

the lobby’s 

caged birds bicker

& shriek 

the sea 

is just beyond 

the balcony

we can’t see it 

despite the king 

with partial view

you buy a new 

bathing suit,

killing time

I look 

at the terrible 

golden emptiness 


from the hotel’s 



Damon Hubbs