By Lucas Restivo
Lucas Restivo is OPEN for representation and endowments
Tag: poetry
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DRAGON OF THE DARKNESS FLAME
By Tyler Plofker
Tyler Plofker is a writer in NYC.
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PIECES OF A MAN
By Uchechukwu Onyedikam
Uchechukwu Onyedikam is a Nigerian Poet/Photographer based in Lagos, Nigeria. BOTN, Pushcart Prize nominee. His poetry has appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Poetry Catalog, Sky Island Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Spillwords, among other publications. He and Christina Chin has co-written and published two poetry chapbooks. He’s a contributor at Mad Swirl.
By Rich Boucher
Rich Boucher resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Rich’s poems have appeared in The Nervous Breakdown, Eighteen Seventy and The Rye Whiskey Review, among others, and he has work forthcoming in The Literary Underground and Cul-de-sac-Of-Blood. He is the author of All Of This Candy Belongs To Me. Interestingly, he can’t stop looking at the sky.
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THAT YEAR
By Sofija Popovska
Sofija Popovska is a poet, translator, and editor-at-large at Asymptote Journal. Her other work can be found in mercuryfirs, Circumference Magazine, Grotto Journal, and Poetry Daily, among others. Her poetry collection, Thaumatropes, which she co-authored with Jonah Howell, was published in 2023 by Newcomer Press.
By Bill Whitten
Bill Whitten is a husband and father of two wonderful boys in St Louis where he spends 15 minutes at a time recording entire albums all by himself. He also finds the time to write and send it to us to publish. Go find his music and buy it; from St Johnny to Grand Mal to William Carlos Whitten. He also makes youtube videos. An amazing talent. Black Mystic Speed by WIlliam Carlos Whitten
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2 Poems
By 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
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3 poems
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
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3 Poems
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.
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2 Prose Poems
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.