Literary

Ken Wetherington/Fiction

One Night in Las Vegas   Jackson and I pushed our way through the crowded casino to the table where Marcos dealt blackjack.  We stood among the spectators, watching as his deck diminished.  When a dozen or so cards remained, he scooped up the discards and began...

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Fiction/Allen Davis

  Fireball   by Allen Davis ey chief,” says the big guy in dirty, mustard-colored overalls as you walk up to the store in the village. “Come ‘ere for a sec. I wanna ask ya somethin’.” He’s got a...

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Alexis Rhone Fancher/Poetry

LUNATIC POEM #1   “Would you be a moon for the lunatics here?”*   I’m already looney. Pick me. The luna plena sneaks in from the high window. You burrow between my legs, howl and howl. Some people can turn into wolves just by wanting to become one. I bet this...

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Desirée Alvarez/Public Poetry

At Governors Island I anticipated a dark apocalyptic response to the current administration. What I got instead was a utopian vision of empathy, kindness and integrity. I also got overwhelmed, unable to keep up with the steady flow of lines written by the public.

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Monique Gagnon German/Poetry

  Yoga: Just Follow Instructions Yoga is the blocking of mental modifications so that the seer re-identifies with the Self.  – Sage Patanjali Inhale chest arms up, Don’t think about the phone call arms down exhale, bend forward into ragdoll, the tin plane you have to...

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Meredith Cottle/Poetry

Arrhythmic Morality perhaps I was the devil all along a crumbling and shameless little fool pleading to malicious cards of chance among the dying and their reverence that you should go, my benediction stands, as you have ceased to love or ever thrive, and I have...

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Scott Thomas Outlar/Poetry

  Center of Your Silken Den Your couch was made of velvet. Supple to the touch. I didn’t notice as my defenses went soft. Waking up, I felt the marks left by your claws. Your teeth were sharp as needles. Subtle with their sting. I should have known the invitation...

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Ashley Germinario/Poetry

More I want you to drink until her body turns to liquid gold — glowing as if wan moonlight in the dead of winter, from the dusty skylight above your bed. I want you to long to be wrapped up beneath her warm skin — her rib cage like a crime, entrapping you as a...

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Aura Redwood/Fiction

Photo by Miguel Orós on Unsplash *** The Itch by Aura Redwood he bell rang, shrill, demanding, echoing through the small classroom.  Without needing to be told twice, a swarm of small children echoed their...

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Books for Long Nights/Reviews

  About Consciousness by Heath Brougher (ISBN #1974100529) 2017 46 pages,  12" x 8.5", paperback, full color ($14.99) Alien Buddha Press. Middleton, DE (https://alienbuddhapress.com/)   About Consciousness by Heath Brougher Review by Eli T. Mond  ...

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Alexis Rhone Fancher/Fiction

Unsplash: Henning Witzel photo *** His Full Attention   by Alexis Rhone Fancher duardo’s exceptionally large. When he drives too fast up the mountain, yanking me to him on the curves, his body is an...

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At the Năvodari Camp/Daniel Dragomirescu

The more I wished to go on that journey, the longer the waiting seemed. My father’s stories about seeing the Danube, Saligny’s bridge and everything else were not enough and I was burning with anticipation. I wanted to see myself on that train once and for all.

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Richard Livermore/Poetry

The following poem by Richard Livermore is excerpted from his book in progress "New Selected Poems", which will be published in Bibliotheca Universalis, a series of chapbooks organized and published by Daniel Dragomirescu in Bucharest, Romania.    by RICHARD...

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Notes from Wheeler Hill/Michael Czarnecki

Those days everybody was heading west to California, to the Rocky Mountains, so I went east to the Adirondacks, New England, the Maritimes. I hitchhiked over 30,000 miles, off and on, over three years. I’d head out from Buffalo in Spring, return in Autumn, work again till next Spring and head out once more. I backpacked on mountain trails for days on end. Hitched on expressways, highways, small country roads. Stayed a third of the time in peoples’ houses without ever asking once. Spent time with folks who lived in the country and had gardens, chickens, put food up and lived simple lives close to nature. Through all of those hitchhiking miles I never had a bad experience.

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Summer Reading for the Fall

    Summer's Over, but Don't Let That Stop You... from burying yourself in these fine reads   by Mike Foldes Took awhile to get enough traction to settle down and actually plow through anything but a few hundred emails containing repetitive updates on...

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Carol Smallwood/Book Review

Meter is often challenging for any poet to handle and it is discussed with easy to understand examples, definitions. It has the best chapter on meter I’ve run across and should help even the most timid poet—or even those accomplished in using it.

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Greg Stewart- On Location/New York

The name Knockdown Center comes from the fact that the “knock-down” door style, which could be assembled from a variety of pieces on construction sites, was created here in this factory space under the Manhattan Door Factory. Before that it was a glass factory under the auspices of Gleason-Tiebout.  The open courtyard space has an overloaded bike rack, a handful of cars, and a few twenty-somethings milling about with cigarettes dangling from their lips and fingers. The theater-style sign draws in anyone who may walk past, with the name of the venue, the promise of a bar, and nothing more.

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BOOKS and More Books/September 2017

    Floating Tales by Jeff Friedman ISBN 978-1-941196-46-5 $21.95, paper. Plume Editions, MadHat Press Asheville NC https://madhat-press.com/collections/plume-editions   Floating Tales by Jeff Friedman With an introduction by Daniel Lawless  ...

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Painting Rust & Blood and Salsa – Tom Bradley Review

Full disclosure: Jonathan Penton is this reviewer’s fraternal twin. That’s right. The author currently under examination was parturated clinging onto my red-hairy ankle. He entered upon this particular incarnation all primed to fuck me out of my birthright for some dribbles of lentil soup the color of blood, salsa and unpainted rust. So, how have I managed, in this strange critique, to approach my rival sibling’s stuff with such an unjaundiced eye? Is it due to the magisterial disinterestedness of my critical faculty?

Perhaps it’s just because—as I’ve suddenly come to realize, now that Bradley’s Complaint has been duly lodged and I’ve delivered myself of my authorial pet peeve—I don’t give a fuck. I don’t even recognize the notion of birthright.

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Dzvinia Orlowsky/3 Poems

Invisible Departures                            —internally displaced persons, Crimea, 2015   How long before choosing to kiss an angel’s hand, to reach for heaven’s fruit-bearing boughs— the bee not disturbed too drunk— How swollen the seeds of heavy-headed...

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Thad Rutkowski/The Ore Hole

    THE ORE HOLE   By Thaddeus Rutkowski During a school day, a science teacher took my class on a field trip. We hiked to a patch of trees growing in a crater in the ground. “This was an ore hole,” he explained. “Iron ore was dug here; then it was...

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