The Forgetful Man

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Contributor: Teddy Kimathi

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O, what a forgetful man!

He forgot the wallet
in the car.

He forgot the car keys
in the restaurant.

He forgot to pay for a meal
in the restaurant.

He forgot the name
of the restaurant he went to.

He forgot where he parked
his car.

He forgot his driving license
at his house.

He forgot his cell phone
in the restaurant’s washroom.

He forgot that today is his third
marriage anniversary.

O, what a forgetful man he is!

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Poetry is one of Teddy's first loves. You can his poems in Leaves of Ink, Three Line Poetry, Tanka Journal, Literature Today, Shot Glass Journal and Inwood Indiana Press. His fiction works can be found in Beyond Science Fiction & Every Day Fiction.

I Risk

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Contributor: Nikhil Nath

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I risk

in a curfew
of beer

and for Berlin
I carry

a grudge
full of football

without trophies,
but Moscow

can swim, in
KGB lies no more,

and find strawberries
too Wimbledon

for its taste,
a curse of gymnastics,

perhaps to see heads roll

as marriage is
still the Royal thing

in old Britannica
sans fish and chips

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The First Lily

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Contributor: Bobbi Sinha-Morey

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Like lighting the stars in
heaven we move where
instinct moves us; our
spirits strong as a candle
flickering in the dusk.
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you, the scent
of an unspoken prayer
ripe in its joy. Hope is as
easy as breathing in,
and we hold it as a flame
in two cupped hands.
In the kiln of my dreams
my path is chosen by my
heartbeat and, when you
touched me, we remarked
on the light. The first lily
bloomed, and graced by
the welkin, it glowed.

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I am a poet living in the peaceful city of Brookings, Oregon. My poetry can be seen in places such as Orbis, Plainsongs, Open Window Review, Pirene's Fountain, and others. My books of poetry are available at and

Cogito Ergo Sum

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Contributor: Diego Sieiro

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I can’t be left alone with my thinking
For it bullies me
Bringing up my secrets and forcing tears.

I can’t go alone anywhere,
For I may run into any of my ideas
They all are crazy and want to tickle me.

It’s not that I am out of my mind
She herself kicked me out
for not washing the dishes.

I as usual was late
Lost again my train of thought
and had to walk galore.

I talk to my self,
But my self is tired
Of the same old questions

I thought I had lost IT,
IT had left holding a girl’s hand
And alone IT returned.

My memory is not what it was
It is what it is
And never was what I wanted

Ergo cogito
Ergo sum

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Diego has written comics, short stories and fragments of books in Mexico, Spain, the U.S. of A. and Ireland.
Poems he writes whenever Calliope tugs at his ears.

Tornadoes in the Parlor

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Tornadoes in the parlor,
in the kitchen, in the bathroom, too,
churned every hour Dad was home.
He never worked
and with good reason.
Sis could tell you more.
She'd help Ma board up the house
when I'd walk out the door
and ride my bike around the block.
If you find Sis today,
she’ll tell you funnels
tore the basement, too.
So what, you say?
Well, Dad’s been gone
for seven years
and Sis is somewhere.
She needs to know
good weather here
is still a squall.

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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.


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Contributor: d0ll

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A scratch over the scars
Speaking out my words in sequence
I sure as hell try
With a half-comatose smile
To keep my distance
My spirit’s gone away
So give me a slap
If I’m not awake
Or I don’t listen
Staring at the walls

Well we both know that these bruises
Will soon turn from black to blue
And that I’ll leave and turn away
To walk on without you
I am not meant to stay
A faceless clown
Still trying to smile
While my red nose’s melting down
As my lipstick mouth fades

These letters vanish
From the paper with time
Though once so bold and proud
The minutes run as you chase them
Every morning becomes sad and boring
As you shiver with cold
Days are slowly crawling
When your heart grows old

Butterflies don’t flutter their wings
And the stars never shine
Deep down in the gutter
But I remember that
There used to be morning at noon
Midnight at sunset
Dinner for breakfast

No hope for a wasted weekend
Monday just won’t wait
Last cigarette in the box
Take it or I’ll throw it in the fire
This is it, my friend
No liquor left for tomorrow

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Student, DJane, alternative model, DIY enthusiast from Slovakia

Ode to the Hood

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Contributor: J. R. Trensey

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4-banger wheezing clunkily along
then a rust-eaten pick-up truck, filled w/ salvaged furniture
followed by a shiny black Expedition, bass rattles your brain & eyeballs.
Travel any way you can—
riding a stolen, black-spray painted bike
by foot, running (from authorities)
or walking, like I do, through this hood
on rugged, cracked concrete sidewalks
strewn w/—
fast food containers, crushed styrofoam like snow
socks, broken flip flops, (must have gone home barefoot)
chicken bones & ample glass shards
amber & green beer bottles
enough cigarette butts to build a house
spent condoms & lighters
dolls & toy trucks w/ missing parts
and of course piles of refuse too long gone, identity lost,
I could go on.


In this hood, if you're white & female,
you travel in a pack, or as fast as you can
if on foot, project a black belt air
you're fortunate to get from here to there
without being offered—
$20 for a throw
a joint (laced w/ PCP), a crack pipe, a 'daddy',
& all your dreams to come true.
You form a callous overcoat,
but the gooey center is that
the piss & body odor & rotting
wafting off the decaying condemned homes
is the closest scent in memory
to the only 'hood you've known as home.
It reminds me of my family.


Who I worked so hard to get away from,
who I worked so hard to 'do better' than—
Master's degree, professional career,
and enough self-help books, therapy
to keep me out of the ward,
moved to a new city, made a new life,
just to find that I moved back
to the ghetto
and it feels like home.
The only home I've ever known.

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Jessica R. Trensey earns a living as a white-collar cube dweller to support her endeavors in dark poetry & art in Indianapolis.

Arc Of Dawn

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Contributor: Bobbi Sinha-Morey

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Let's lean upon this
moment in the arc of
dawn, our faces having
been pressed together
in sleep, sprinkling ourselves
in a love that comes like
the light, and hymns these
Sunday mornings like sighs;
the scent of water inspiring
our faith, breaking the glass
of our old reflections; the bond
we have when our fingers meet,
holding in air, when our lips
curl round a single prayer,
admitting their ownership,
and we lay, the white petals
of a carnation spilling in
the care of His open palm.

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I am a poet living in the peaceful city of Brookings, Oregon. My poetry can be seen in places such as Orbis, Plainsongs, Open Window Review, Pirene's Fountain, and others. My books of poetry are available at and

Six Black Sambuca’s Later

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Contributor: Paul Tristram

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Where the hell is Mikey?
Where the hell is Pedro?
Where the hell is Clive?
Where did everybody go?
I’ve woke up in a bus stop
I was sleeping upside down.
Just six Black Sambuca’s
Have ruined a night in town.

I pull out my mobile phone
And give the boys a bell.
Pedro’s walking through a field,
Mikey is not sounding well.
Clive is not answering,
They are feeling just like me.
But they’ve got jobs to go to
While the pub is calling me

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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Brain Waves

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Contributor: Suez Jacobson

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The head
the body
the thinking
the doing
easier doing
just a body
on a bike
in the water
But the brain
the thoughts pester you
you must respond
the brain never sleeps
the dreams persist
the shortcomings
the failures
the insecurities
all there
long after the body
finds rest.
But then the body
begins to crumble
left with a brain.
Please, no.
Too demanding.
Too close.
Too loud.

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trying to live lightly
and write

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