Trump As A Fire Without Light #513 by Darren C. Demaree

I am burning.  Right now, I have a rash on my arm, and I have been calling doctors all day to try and get an appointment before I am asked to place my whole, failed body in unused Styrofoam as a form of healthcare.  How cost-effective it will be for me to die from a simple, un-treated disease?  I know one thing; I will learn every violence if it’s my children that learn about their shortcuts before I do.

Darren C. Demaree

My poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, Meridian, New Letters, Diagram, and the Colorado Review. I am the author of six poetry collections, most recently “Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly” (2016, 8th House Publishing). I am the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. I am currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with my wife and children.

Memory of Slightness… by Molly Beale

Memory of slightness tends weight,
bends, gnarls like slow motion willows.
Starcloud portals and borealis hewn needlepoint
palmpaths, gesticulations. Assemble me
under slow turnings of thought,
sight- hands that leave room
only for hankering,
a constant fumbling. Pushing down on
napes and dimples like how
God made the hills. A new world crafted.
The full sweetness of hersheys in my pockets,
teardropped chocolate small but enough
in my pink mouth
which I like(d) you to kiss.

Molly Beale

My name is Molly Beale, and I am currently an undergraduate studying English and Creative Writing at the University of Kent. I have had previous work published in Datableed zine online, and now have my own blog on WordPress called Tomboy. My Instagram is mollygbeale.

My Rose ‘Pierre De Ronsard’ by Sofia Kioroglou

More seductive than Rose ‘Pierre De Ronsard’
Enchanting and intoxicating
Her cheeks carmine-pink
Peaches and cream complexion

Penelope never spits snow pellets
Always sweet and velvety smooth
She melts like crème caramel
I crave to taste those lips

Sofia Kioroglou

Sofia Kioroglou is a twice award-winning poet, journalist, writer and prolific blogger residing in Athens, Greece, with her husband Peter. Her work can be found in print and online, most recently in Galleon Literary Journal. To learn more about her work, visit:

Subtle Exclamation Marks by Paul Tristram

She’s pining again… impatiently.
Hoping that he catches
the fragrance of her
overwhelming feelings
as he swaggers on past.
‘Notice Me’ she screams silently
inside her ‘Climbing The Walls’ mind.
She cannot bear the thought
of another lonely walk home… unnoticed.
She’s studied, pruned, pampered
and prepared for the eventuality
of his priceless attention.
Stuck inside an invisible waiting room,
she’s temporarily sold her soul
to a cruel, stark expectancy.
“It’s my turn next” she mantras
under nervous breath.
“I’m sick of using plastic
and my fingers have changed into shovels,
turning over moist earth…
to evaporate seedless and alone.
The tarot cards have stopped making sense
and I’m tiring of decorum.
My heart is full to bursting
with both love and murder
and it’s only his whims rocking the scales.”

paul smoking - Copy

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. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!

Decept by Catherine Zickgraf

Sleight of eye, never
could she explain or pillow-spill
tear guilt.  Never does she open lids in
the dead of midnight, light candles,
hold vigils for her soul.

She’s unlikely
to lie awake wasting sight
on the darkness, her skull lacks
glow with no jolt-spikes, no
remorse—can’t taste
the numbness.

She forgets
to consider living
while complete—she
is half-whole, half

Catherine Zickgraf

Catherine Zickgraf has performed her poetry in Madrid, San Juan, and three dozen other cities, but now her main jobs are to hang out with her family and write more poetry. Her new chapbook, Soul Full of Eye, is available on Find more of her poetry at


Police Are Hunting Their Killers by Jo Else

This May Day dressed herself as hag,
And when she came,rained down unseasonal cold upon
Street barbies, brought murder to a bungalow door.
They lie together on the tarmac now,
Lukewarm in blood-specked macs.

A nan and granddad both cut down,
They could not make it farther than their drive.
Saved by the maniac’s gun from afternoon regrets,
From nursing fees, thick-whiskered lips.
Trips to the garden centre, trousers that stretch,
Saved from their final, catastrophic sex.

Jo Else

It’s no fun being a dyspraxic with a deficit visual memory. Imagine if Sylvia Plath had to do formatting- she’d have topped herself even sooner…. Poetry keeps me sane, the rest drives me nuts and I’ve won no awards. And there’s nothing wrong with Readers Wives, my Mum was one.

The White Working Class by Ally Malinenko

Maybe it’s the rationalizing
that bothers me the most
the instant hop that so many
took when things didn’t work out
the way we wanted
the way we planned
the way the polls

It was not into ourselves that we looked
nor to women
or people of color
not to the marginalized
the silenced
the persecuted
or our long long racist history
but instead

it was to the white men
the working class
the ones paying their taxes
and apparently not being heard.

The real hardworking people
that like to think they built this nation.

We have a deaf ear, America
tuned to the same old channel
spewing white supremacy
the fallacy of the over franchised
cloaked as disenfranchised

and all I hear
when you say
what about our jobs
is that is more important
than brown bodies
more than queer bodies
more than women’s bodies
more than immigrant’s bodies

that white people
and their economics
matter more than
any other people
and their economics

Except I know that
when the millstone
grinds all of us to dust
the powder left behind,
the work and labor
the back breaking
pain and tears and suffering
generation after generation,
when the bones of this nation
are revealed

they will not be white.

Ally Malinenko

Ally Malinenko is the author of the poetry collections The Wanting Bone, How To Be An American and Better Luck Next Year as well as the novel This Is Sarah. She lives in the part of Brooklyn the tour buses don’t bother with.


Hitch by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

You level your thumb and no one stops,
not even the creeps that would enjoy a single soft snippet
of your hair to sleep with
and it is raining, early November according to
the calendars of this land,
you have packed light, abandoned most of your limited belongings
because you are not a camel caravan,
traversing ancient deserts in search on new trade routes;
you are just a man, still young enough in the face and hands
to remind others of their own youth,
but with a protruding gut that was not there
only a few years previous,
and you hold a single red backpack over your head
trying to stay dry,
turn and level your thumb again many times;
the cars not even slowing on their way
to further pavement.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan Black & White

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none. His work can be found both in print and online. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.

Taking The Pulse by Chris D’Errico

city entitled with this advantage or disadvantage
city happy sunlight and hindsight
city surrounded at every turn
by highways and low roads

city of natives and faces not invested here
city of leisure and idle hands
snapping pictures and comparing tattoos
city of idols and lesser hands
city of vengeance and poor kids taking notice

city of workers eating tacos off trucks
sucking on a colas and generic cigarettes
city of the rich sipping on mocha cappuccinos
in boardrooms and penthouses

city is a who is a what and a where
this city of dullness and of waste and of want
city full of itself and incalculable debt
full of suspects and street-smarts and of vice

flowers and smoke and ash
city of bedbugs and roaches and rats
wisdom of friends you can or cannot count on
city of rope shaped like a noose

Chris D'Errico

Chris D’Errico has worked as a short order cook, a doorman, a neon sign-maker’s helper, and an exterminator, among other vocational adventures. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, where he writes and makes music. For more, visit


While The Building Superintendent Builds Model Train Sets In The Foyer by John Grochalski

the landlord doesn’t return phone calls
so i’ve got proust holding up the bedroom windows
and in the living room
there are so many cracked blinds
it might as well be high noon around these parts
i look around the place and think
maybe i should’ve learned a trade
instead of going all in with fiction and poetry
it feels emasculating to have to wait on these people
for every little thing
to write the same note after note
next to the others tenants who aren’t getting their things done
expecting no result
and there are divots in the linoleum on the kitchen floor
and the wood is splintering in the bedroom
and the toilet sometimes doesn’t work
when you flush you can hear water and cracked wall fragments
rushing down into wherever behind the wall
brown water keeps backing up into the sink
the landlord he could be in florida for all i know
spending my rent check on margaritas
and a disappointing piece of ass
and while the building superintendent
builds model train sets in the foyer
his drunken wife smokes cigarettes outside my bedroom window
letting the blue-gray cancer permeate my living space
and as his kid screams bloody murder
running up and down the halls
he tells me he has too many projects
to fix the kitchen sink that leaks water on the floor
to fix a broken shower that dribbles water as hot as dragon piss
on my dry and reddened flabby ass
and as the garbage piles up in the basement
and the mice and cockroaches converge
to wage another world war on this building
i pick up the phone to call the landlord again
but then throw it back on the coffee table in frustration
fix myself a double vodka drink
as the sounds of televisions and music from the other shitholes
come wafting through these thin walls
like a symphony of despair
a soundtrack to this pitiful existence
that people around these parts still want to call freedom.


John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and the novel, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013). Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, in the section that doesn’t have the bike sharing program.