Farewell TransmissionBy Damon Hubbs
Abigail’s Party
The Banker’s Son
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. He’s the author of three chapbooks and a full-length collection, Venus at the Arms Fair (Alien Buddha Press, 2024). Recent publications include Spectra, World Hunger Mag, Horror Sleaze Trash, Don’t Submit!, and BRUISER. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Twitter @damon_hubbs
By Chloe Wheeler
some things i hate
the flavor of the dying vape i found
on Leya’s kitchen table. burnt watermelon.
microplastics. bruised apples, green bananas.
i hate that my I is all knotted up in your You.
codependency. entanglement. enmeshment.
i hate my eyes glued on You, ascending
the steps at 145th St. Station. all my books
and my clothes in crates in your room. i hate
being a Capricorn. talking to CPS on the phone.
poorly affixed coffee cup lids. so many stains.
the sunny Sunday after tragedy befalls you.
inappropriately wonderful weather,
the shrill cries of blue jays, telling lies.
bad cover bands. cryptic tonsils swollen
like fat grapes occluding my vocal tract.
wheezing out an aria. smokers lung.
wasting time trying to understand
its passage. the insidious oblivion
of Youtube shorts. mukbangs.
your big sneezes, smearing snot
on my leg in the absence of tissues.
the absence of You, taking
all of my Me.
i fucking hate Tuesdays.
dear Madi
i can’t help but think daylight wasn’t meant to be saved.
the road is a void, i stop at a red. the tire pressure light is on.
you helped me fill the tires on Luke’s Subaru in New Paltz last February.
he snapped a b&w photo of us doing it on a disposable Fujifilm.
i’ve got a copy somewhere, must’ve misplaced it.
we’re both city slickers now, downtown degenerates.
the scene subsumed us, didn’t it. and as it were,
i don’t remember how to put air in the tires.
checking the Honda booklet while the red still burns…
dashboard. cd player. airbag warnings. moonroof, mirrors.
the sun is too often the main character.
the moon is almost always a symbol of itself,
yet i feel its tug the strongest.
we got thrown out of orbit, didn’t we?
long island is but a quagmire, my dad texted.
i drove him home last week from the hospital in Oceanside,
avoided every pot hole on New York Avenue.
i thought of you, and your dad. how’s Bryon doing?
how are the dogs? how’s Mooney and her thumbs?
it’s only 5:49 and it’s so dark i can’t read the manual.
a flash of green. i’m accelerating. kale mushroom egg bites
on the steps of St. Nicholas park. reading Luke’s poem.
we touched grass. i’m so happy we’re in love.
i’m so happy—i could cry and pull out all my hair,
stuff it in the Nicorette box we kept
on the table at Tompkins, beside the ceramic mallard.
i swear you were there when i saw the green ray
in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. like the click of a laser
beamed into my corneas. irrevocable instant.
the waves broke immediately after it passed.
i ate tomatoes doused in olive oil at a tiny bar
by the beach, and thought of the storm
we were caught in two years ago, on another
coast, clutching you as ozone flooded our olfactory,
clay oozed from the cliffs, and lightning smote the sand.
it’s impossible not to see God in your eyes since then.
at Sunoco it’s $2 per vend, for four minutes of air.
counting change, i open the moon roof for some circulation.
jamming quarters into the slit, i fill my tires with thoughts of you.
home, sick
choppy sea of carpeting,
L-shaped couch,
Led Zeppelin poster.
my high school boyfriend was a painter.
he had a knife on him, always
stowed in the pockets of his cargos.
when i’d sing he’d cry.
he sold a 6×6 foot canvas
to the drummer, the guitarist
didn’t know what to think of him,
and the bassist was always barefoot.
i don’t know what made me stop singing,
when the pitches bent, and i got lost
in some ceaseless caesura.
all i know is that when i’m home,
in Long Island, i hide
under leaf piles, poking my head out
only to watch herds of deer
dash down the hill
in my parents’ backyard.
my ex-boyfriend was in a car accident
and walks with a cane now.
the Mustang was speeding,
and spun out—
it was nobody’s fault.
with his disability checks
he balls out on Grailed.
i just happened to crash out.
it was nobody’s fault, but my own.
i moved to Brooklyn for fucks sake.
it was bound to be a blight, at any rate.
that band? they’re still playing. the guitarist sings now.
i’m happy for them, truly.
but all melody becomes mist.
sound moves at a rate of 340 meters per second,
until it becomes intractable, immaterial, barely an echo.
sound is the ephemeral incarnate.
only light never decays.
Chloe Wheeler writes poems. Her writing has appeared in Expat Press, Hobart Pulp, Don’t Submit, Bullshit Lit, among others. Twitter @sardine_enjoyer
By Edward Anki
Mellow Beer Glow
Bullseye
Pricks and Purple Flowers
Edward Anki‘s poetry has appeared in Ballast Journal, JAKE, BOMBFIRE, Rejection Letters, Roi Fainéant Press, The Feathertale Review, Qwerty, The Chaffin Journal, and others. A chapbook of his poetry, Remote Life, was published by BareBackPress (2014). His first full-length poetry collection, Screw Factory, was released in 2022 by Anxiety Press. A former stand-up comic, bartender, and agonized telemarketer, Edward is currently engaged in part-time studies to become a psychotherapist.
By Julián Martinez
WD-40
The key was having a harder and harder time with the lock. The lock was having a harder and harder time with the door. The door was having a harder and harder time with the frame. The frame was having a harder and harder time with the wall. The wall was having a harder and harder time with the house. The house was having a harder and harder time with the block. The block was having a harder and harder time with the tenant. The tenant was having a harder and harder time with herself. Her self was having a harder and harder time with her country. Her country was having a harder and harder time with its laborers. Its laborers were having a harder and harder time with their bosses. Their bosses were having a harder and harder time with their bosses. Their bosses were having a harder and harder time with their bosses. Their bosses were having a harder and harder time with their bosses. Their bosses were having a harder and harder time with their spouses changing the locks.
IKEA Bear
My girlfriend didn’t care that the stuffed brown bear in a lawn chair in IKEA was carrying a gun. Our cart is packed, she said, staring forward. Look at that bear, I said. No one in the store besides me was watching it load its pistol, the sneaky freak. We had been arguing over money and each other’s lack of listening skills all evening, so she kept walking when I made eye contact with the bear and broke into a sprint. I’d wrested the gun off of it, both of us snarling, when a salesperson asked if she could be of assistance. The bear plopped to the floor. The gun went behind my back. She was confused. She had no clue how the bear had gotten into the store. Was I sure it wasn’t mine? I blurted, yes, uh, actually it’s an engagement gift. As I kneeled down to pick up the bear with one hand and squeeze it tight, it bit me, pulled the gun free and shot me in the face. It fled on all fours, everything going black. While I was in a coma, my girlfriend built the furniture then took it all with her when she left. I’ve been practicing my revenge on the bear at the local gun range every day. The bear’s probably by the side of the highway in the forest now, making fun of itself for being so fragile and soft.
Julián Martinez (he/him) is the son of Mexican and Cuban immigrants and is from Waukegan, IL. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Hooligan Mag, Little Engines, The Sonora Review and elsewhere. His debut chapbook, This Place Is Covered Head to Toe in Shit (Ghost City Press, 2024) is available now. Find him online @martinezfjulian or martinezfjulian.com, or IRL in Chicago.
By Sam Pink
A huge dog charged me in the street snapping
and I just yelled Hey and
it stopped, growled a little then retreated.
My battles settle themselves anymore.
At least, that’s what I want.
Burning in reverse. Problem solved.
We should all be kind to each other.
Isn’t that cool of me to think. I’m so great
and I know you can see it.
Which is what’s important anymore.
The universe meets you right
at the point of existence. Unfolding through you.
Machined finely against your every move.
It takes no pleasure or pain
in your defeat or victories.
Teaching lessons through jokes
you couldn’t dream of, not caring
to be heard. With a morality way beyond
any idea you could ever have.
The universe puts you through cycles
you have to see to defeat, or ignore
and continue to be defeated by.
But the cycle will be presented
as many times as necessary.
And that’s that. I won a long time ago
when I decided to just keep going.
The difference now is, I love it.
I see behind the curtain on mental processes
I’ve developed (and clung to)
and entire architectures disappear
like completed lines in Tetris.
And some will ask, what happens
when they’re all gone, when you’ve cleared them all.
To which I say, Who gives a shit.
I’ve relied on a future version of myself I know is real
but isn’t yet and has shown no signs of coming
and it pulls me up every time.
By muscles earned. Frontiering forward.
I forget myself. All my best decisions
happen without me. Being authentic
is a stupid goal. It’s a pretense
that immediately reverses itself.
A dog doesn’t say
I’m gonna be extra like a dog today.
You should be living it.
It should be obvious. I keep reminding myself
this. It’s at the point now where
everything is absurd
but it’s not depressing, it’s funny and awesome.
It’s like how people morph into chickens
in the eyes of a hungry person in a cartoon
except to me everything morphs into
a golden retriever wearing glasses in front of a computer.
And the difference now is, I love it.
Dropped out of the pageant, king of my own sideshow.
So get with it, stupid.
American Reloading is selling
500 (blemished) 124gr hst’s for like 60 dollars, shipped.
Which is pretty dang neat.
When people say they want to see you change
they mean die.
I freeze stars with how much I hate.
And begin Spring with my warmth.
It’s called being a human.
And the difference now is, I love it.
This is not an audition.
It’s the universe unfolding,
a small part of the big idea.
Everything that happens is my fault
for listening or not.
It’s all my fault and that’s fine.
It only gets bad when I try and
blame anything else.
Because the future is ruthless and right.
I salute you on your path, from mine
where you’re not allowed.
Roses are red
violets are blue.
God loves me more
Than He loves you
Sam Pink – twitter: sampinkisalive
Instagram: sam_piink_art
By Carla Sarett
Carla Sarett writes poetry, fiction and, occasionally, essays; and has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best Microfictions, Best American Essays, and Best of Net. She has published one full-length collection,She Has Visions (Main Street Rag) and two chapbooks, including My Family Was Like a Russian Novel (Plan B) Carla has a PhD from University of Pennsylvania and is based in San Francisco. x/twitter: @cjsarett
By Jeffrey Hermann
You Couldn’t Pay Me
They say to be good at one thing but I can’t decide. I make some phone calls and I send some texts but it’s Friday. People are heading out to Long Island. “Don’t fuck it up” is the best job advice I ever got. The world only needs so many healers. Someone has to drive the truck. Someone has to think about scrap metal. I’m thinking about scrap metal when I discover a thirteenth month. It’s sunny but breezy and it loves people, unlike the others. Offers worth millions come pouring in. Instead I name it after my dog and give it away, no charge. According to the calendar it’s still July. In the Atlantic, sharks are doing what they do. Only the beach people are worried. If there’s blood in the water, they can’t smell a thing. Seen from below, their legs look like flippers.
Hold On, Is this Thing in Reverse?
We saw a shadow on an x-ray in the shape of New Jersey. It was nothing, some normal muck inside the body. The doctor rubbed his eyes and left the room. When he got home to his place in Secaucus his kids were watching pilot episodes of shows that never made it. The nurse stayed with us and spoke with her hands; two birds finishing each other’s sentences. I saw them later in the next room delivering difficult news, then they went home to the Palisades. Sometimes I look at the sky and forget which season comes next. Will tomorrow be a little colder or a little warmer? Sometimes I don’t fully trust my car’s instrument panel. People who aren’t afraid of being alone probably get too many phone calls. I silence mine and sometimes miss my wife asking for help. My two greatest fears are letting go of her hand in the hospital hallway and rolling backward over an embankment.
Jeffrey Hermann‘s work has appeared in Okay Donkey, Electric Lit, Heavy Feather, Trampset, and other publications. His first full-length collection of prose poetry and flash fiction will be published by ELJ Editions in 2026. Though less publicized, he finds his work as a father and husband to be rewarding beyond measure.
by Graeme Bezanson
Graeme Bezanson is a writer living in southwestern France. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from BOMB, X-R-A-Y, GlitterMOB, Sixth Finch, HAD, and elsewhere. You can find him online at graemebezanson.com.
By Scott Neuffer
I will say on the plane over I saw elevators
descending in passengers’ eyes.
I will say when I saw the Empire State Building
it was pointed in the gray light like a compass needle—
if only I were built stiff enough for that sky.
I will say at the Met, the Monets were less than lustrous?
What’s most real in New York are the lurches
between bricks, the way a corner splits
sense,
sewer steam, snuffed ass,
the ache of the unfeted.
In dusk I come to 83rd Street, metal bench.
Crouched hand to ear, I assume it’s blood running
through my head that makes a gritty sound,
and I wonder if every person also shudders
at the thunder of their own blood.
I will find my way back to you, I believe.
There is a world where we listen to each other;
it lies at the bottom of the poem.
We didn’t host the party this year;
a broken patio chair sits against the house.
In a friend’s neighborhood to the north, where the river touches
the desert and grows the Northern Nevada Correctional Center,
I sit in a luxury chair and dream of mass transit
that took the copywriter from Brooklyn to Manhattan
for thirty seconds of gloss, their million-dollar slot–
but something is off, human.
Maybe before the game the copywriter had a moment
pulling a snake of hair from their apartment sink
and sink from drain in a miraculous fit bruising the drywall.
Maybe it was enough to remember how ink can bleed on the page.
It’s funny how I am not alone but want to be alone
as the TV commercials glow like radiation,
and the prison windows gleam like half-decisions.
Inside me is something like ice on fire, primal, without ink,
conjuring words to stay lined up dancing in the air.
Scott Neuffer is a writer who lives in Nevada with his family. He’s also the founding editor of the literary journal trampset.
By Devin Sams
who knew
the telephone
would become
a camera,
or Dolly Parton’s tits
would perk up
yet another talk-show?
is it time
that gets weird
or is memory
too prude
to change clothes?
I saw a dinosaur
at the supermarket.
it was on a t-shirt
worn by a baby.
the music sang something about
“it’s the most magical time…”
year
after year
after
year.
Devin Sams is the author of Climb Out Your Window And Run With It/Songs For The Doorknobs Who Missed Their Turn from Gob Pile Press (2021).