Pity-Kyle Bauer

Pity

Her touch was so warm, so gentle

Her skin was so soft, so smooth

Her hair was so long, so luscious

Her eyes were so deep, so gorgeous

She sinisterly smiles

While she gazed upon the white garments

Decorating her own corpse

She stands tall feeding off the pain of her own misery

Her touch is so cold, so haunting

Her skin is so stiff, so rough

Her hair is so frayed, so entangled

Her eyes are so dark, so much pain

She locks me inside of a cold, dark cage

Her cold, corrupted hand reaches out me

But yet so lonely, so much pain

A twisting agony infects her while she reaches out for me

She is weak, pathetic

Hardly evil

When The Revolution Comes-John Grey

WHEN THE REVOLUTION COMES

You won’t enjoy the revolution.

Not when doormen spit on you,

cars skid through puddles

just to soak your new suit.

You’ll be working for the office boy

and some dying child in the Sudan

will give him his orders.

Homes won’t open to you.

Even the subway train will

boot you onto the platform

three stops before your own.

You’ll walk out on a hot day

and the breeze will stop blowing.

Birds, if they open their mouths at all,

will sing dirges.

Your trophy wife will run away

with the trash collector.

Your bank account will shrivel

like falling leaves...

in July of all months.

Forget the government.

They won’t help you.

They’ll be paying back the bribes.

And not the church.

They’ll be too busy

selling off their artwork

to people with no money.

A world turned upside down

won’t suit you I am sure.

The sidewalk will step on you...

on the crack in your head...

bad luck for somebody. 

John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris. 

Buried Within My Heart is a Treasure- S.R Lee

Buried Within My Heart Is Treasure


Buried within my heart is treasure

needing aid in its recovery,

for the soil has endured long winter

and won’t give way easily-

at least to my hands alone.

Oh lover does not your own heart

ken the presence of these gems,

that pulse and then radiate

when I am in your presence?

Do you not feel their warmth?

Underneath this mare’s nest skin

beats a heart waxing faster,

causing that incandescent shine

in my face when you are near,

Is that not worth its imperfect skin?

Buried within this heart is treasure

needing aid in its recovery,

oh lover I am willing to share

with you alone its bounty,

Why do you not seem to care?

Old Dog With Wings- Gerald Ruiz

Old Dog with Wings

The old man sat alone in his room, feeling despondent, around 2a.m. He was
reminiscing of all the old days and how it feels as if it were all a dream. Staring out his
dirty window, he noticed a single star on the corner; looking out there—it reminded him
of his loneliness too. And it also reminded him of his younger days: the days which he
used to be a World War 2 fighter pilot. Those were the days, he thought, the days when
he used to feel young and alive. Now all he sees is a glimmer, a flash of the old times still
embedded in his aging skull. Nothing feels the same anymore, he thought, as he missed
all that was left behind, especially his beloved wife Lucy. She passed away a few years
ago, yet it completely feels like a lifetime—wishing nothing more than to be with her
still.

Only loneliness and desolation consumes his life now. The attendants at the senior
living facility here come and go, yet they treat you like you’re already dead—most of
the time. “I’m only seventy-five, goddamnit!” he yelled. Of course, he knew no one
would hear him. The other seniors slept cold, like rocks, without a soul. And he had been
drinking brandy still, even at this age, even at this night, as the moon shown full through
the window in all its brilliant mocking glory. There was a kid he hired to bring in the
liquor of course, at least once a week; it had always helped make his night, especially this
one.

As he gazed out upon the night, he felt a shimmer of his younger days come to
him. He got up and opened his second story window, letting in the fresh breeze of the
night. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning over with the chair’s reverse
end upon the edge of the window. He could feel his younger days now, as he closed his
eyes—the glory days in which he fought for his country, pride, and glory, soaring high
above the clouds of World War 2 Europe.

Now he was really flying. He could see the cities from the clouds above, and
he was patrolling the bordering skies. Nothing but lights below and that lonely star
out there in the great beyond, which he liked to believe was Lucy, watching over him.
Suddenly he’s under fire! It starts raining and there’s thunder now, as he goes for evasive
maneuvers. But it’s no use; the Nazi scourge is hot on his tail. “Damn it, I’m hit!” he
says, as his plane starts twirling menacingly down. He feels it all; it’s too real now.
“Lucy baby! Here I come!”

The next morning, after the attendants had breakfast—they saw the old man lying
flat outside on the grass. They looked up and noticed the window open on the 2nd floor…
They turned him over.

“It appears that he died instantly…” said one of the senior attendants to the others,
“at least he went out with a smile.”

Downward-Samantha Seto

Downward

Dust fairies dance to paint the wall
in darkness of shadows.
Candlestick illuminates,
impartial to the burning scent.

Blending moths rustle in and out
of gray curtains as I plaster
pages of written letters,
smearing ink on the walls.

One glass tile broken in the window,
from the outside looking in, paper catches fire,
circling the floor, in time warp.

Emptied water spills in the center,
like birds on fire, whirlpool down.
Ghosts of those who remembered,
refuse gravity to pull me down.

Tarnished mirror reveals blackened flesh,
blurs of rouge on my face.

Enigmatic nature of visions
my life flashes in front of me,
ghosts hold death in their arms -
immediate in forceful impact.

 Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, The Screech Owl, Nostrovia Poetry, Soul Fountain, and Black Magnolias Journal. Samantha studies creative writing. She is a third prize poet of Whispering Prairie Press.

Delta House- Lance Manion

Don't let the poor grammar fool you, I am wicked smart. I said wicked because when I think of myself
I think of the Matt Damon character in Good Will Hunting so I immediately throw on a Boston accent
because I'm so much like him. Except I don't like to fight. And if there is one thing I have more of than brains it's money. I am Bruce Wayne rich. Again, there are a lot of similarities between myself and Batman's alter-ego with only one clear exception. There really isn't much call for a superhero who prowls the streets at night seeking out, finding and then fleeing from danger.Other than that I'm a dead ringer.Wicked smart, wicked rich and a humanitarian. The total package. For instance, the other day when I was taking a leak I had a really great idea. So great in fact that I actually heard a "Ding!" in my head like when a microwave oven is done microwaving your Hot Pocket. I have a terrible memory so in only a matter of minutes the great idea disappeared but what remained was the idea that perhaps brain waves and microwaves are related. Now probably none of you are bright enough to point out that microwaves are radio waves while brain waves are electrochemical impulses but on the off chance someone reading this isn't a complete tard I will point out that yes I am aware of this but that's just the kind of thinking that impedes new discovery. Sometimes you have to see the connections that aren't there to make any progress. Like neurons sending out millions of signals in your brain, maybe some of them aren't accounted for Maybe, just maybe, could it be because they are sent as radio waves?
And speaking of signals getting lost, could that be a possible cause of autism?Maybe researchers have been looking in the wrong places for answers. The wheels were really turning now. Imagine if I could find their misplaced thoughts. There was only one thing to do. Put my considerable intellect and wealth to work and start doing my own studies. You have to get involved. Take for instance all those pink ribbons. If those women were serious about curing breast cancer they'd stop having walks for the cure and start having walks untilthere's a cure. You don't think seeing legions of dead and dying women at the side of the road wouldratchet things up a notch?After leasing a space, buying an EEG, a few test tubes filled with various colored liquids, a microwave (for Hot Pockets ... test subjects have to eat), a dozen cell phones, a kicking turntable with speakers an a radio it was time to get to work. If you have enough money you can rent anything and before you knew it I had a busload of autistic people arriving at my door. I explained in detail what I was going to be doing and everyone seems enthusiastic about it.
Well, perhaps enthusiastic was overstating it but nobody seemed to mind. The Hot Pockets were an
immediate hit.This is where things sort of ran out of steam. The cell phones weren't picking up anything unusual despite having some using the low-microwave/high-UHF frequencies around 1.8 GHz, some in the 2.4 GHz ISM band and even some utilizing U-NII frequencies in the 5 GHz range. A real disappointment. I forgot to rent someone to work the EEG machine so I was really counting on the cell phones to grab some stray microwave thoughts and prove that my hypothesis was correct.I even set up the turntable and asked if anyone had any desire to be a DJ. I figured that perhaps the their brain would leap at the chance to express itself through radio waves as opposed to brain waves but nobody even cared enough to wave their hands in the air like they just didn't care. When it got to be after 6 o'clock I realized I'd forgotten where I rented the test subjects and if I had told them when they should pick them back up and return them to wherever it was they had come from. I was almost certain that I hadn't.
Supplies of hot Pockets began to run low.So much for good intentions.I snuck out the back, hopped into the Sciencemobile and roared off into the night.

Dry Hopes-Valentina Cano

Dry Hopes
A tide comes over this house,
bringing with it
sun-bleached bones and shells hollow enough to sing.
We wake with this debris around our bed,
left there like an offering
for something we can’t hear yet.

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, A Narrow Fellow, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Rem Magazine, Structo, The 22 Magazine, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Niteblade, Tuck Magazine, Ontologica, Congruent Spaces Magazine, Pipe Dream, Decades Review, Anatomy, Lowestof Chronicle, Muddy River Poetry Review, Lady Ink Magazine, Spark Anthology, Awaken Consciousness Magazine, Vine Leaves Literary Magazine, Avalon Literary Review, Caduceus,White Masquerade Anthology and Perhaps I'm Wrong About the World. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize.You can find her here: http://carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com