“Church Flowers” It’s called the blue church Because the roof is blue. Inside is dark and sombre, Chandelier light is golden. The Father sang and echoed. I would look at the walls, At paintings of bible scenes, Empty spaces filled by flowers. Five petals, faded blue or red, Yellow middle and curled leaves, Arches, frames and crowns, Second pairs of halos, Perfectly symmetrical, Perfect repetition - maybe stamped on? The saints all look the same too. --------------------------

“Her” All these lines. All these words. All these thoughts, scribbled across paper for a girl I do not see. (Not know.) Scribbled in ink, staining the paper.                                     Staining my soul.                                     …But she is—                                     …she is beautiful… She is the way. On the composition notebooks pages before me: Dig deep.                                     Dig deep to the bottom—   and think of her,     to the r

The Quiet Fizz Of Slow Joys Grief is not downing another glass of prosecco while the moonlight excavates the quarry of a night sky. Perhaps it's the cold hugging  your hand while you struggle  with the weight of something  strong enough to crush a bottle  caught in the temporary boundary  between his hand on yours,  and the rain muting your cries as you remember how your shadows  shoaled together, fizzing in joy. ------------------------------------------------------------ Th

object permanence: queer death i troweled loam last summer for this,  a pine sapling, loitered with creeping charlie, door- knobs of little cabbages. pink geranium hustled by bittercress, seeds puckered onto my wrists  like a rash of bullet casings. what’s left is wind.  if i don’t claw the earth  from the earth, more & more  genitals return. wild turkey thrash  at the mulch regardless of the silver  tongue of bird tape. most houses build around  their canopies. in a decade,

“A head full of flames” A spell of rain Wash the smoke rings from my brain I hope, I know Let the floodgates overflow Through my veins What remains? Of dust and ash 'lectric wires, broken glass Concrete, pale heat And an empty plastic seat Cant maintain, can't complain How long can I delay? Not another day It's gonna get easier I've spent some time alone I'm glad I've always known It's gonna get easier Five years have gone And my life flows on and on  What a dream, what a dre

Timers   Understand this. It is an error to think that One need obviates another. Picture the parts  Of yourself as a row of egg timers: differing Amounts of sand are left, your job is to watch, but Realize,  You cannot watch them all. Some Will fall,  Regardless of your attending to them, or not, Some demand more. This one, which Happens to contain some deep, essential Grain of you, it scales The same fascination with down as the rest - Watch for a time, observe how quickly

My dog's head hangs out the window, breeze on his face with a little support for his hind legs.

We sat on the park bench together, on opposites ends, in silence. The birds swirled around our heads and played tag. Flowers danced in the breeze and showed off their beauty. Kids played in the dirt. Dogs chased their tails around and around. Kites soared higher than I could ever get them to go. We only spoke to each other once. It was simple and to the point, never over complicating the situation. After 24 words were spoken, we got up from the bench and parted ways, never to

game boys when we’re young  we ask our parents  if our friends can stay  one more day for play when we’re older  we ask our lovers to stay a night longer –  one more round of games the press of A button we used for controller –  now updated: the newest version of two men together:  shooting and reloading –  before entry into  the next level grape hyacinth  more holy than Bethlehem sage  are these bells atop their steeple.  the first coming of the garden –  Eucahrist of higher

Her eyes were shiny and still, like glass. Her skin, now the texture of porcelain, and devoid of any life; pale as the face of a ghost. The frequency of a thousand shattering dolls rang through the space between her ears as she mindlessly played the cello. She could not feel the bow in her right hand or the instrument pressing her thighs. She could not feel anything. The fair lady stared into the dull abyss of the crowd with a tragic blindness.  1968  Tabitha Rogers was a s

Robert M. Zoschke was raised in and around Chicago, where he was a winner of the Chicago Sun-Times essay contest on Best Neighborhood Bars.  He co-edited and contributed writing to the anthology Reflections Upon the 50th Anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.  His 2008 book of fiction and nonfiction—Door County Blues—was recognized as a Number One Bestseller in Door County, Wisconsin, where he lives and writes. 

How informal to be so normal In a world where no one is defined As such, because a definition Can’t be a summation, If the meaning changes As frequently as it does How mutual to be so usual During a moment when originality Gets lost in between everything And no one is willing to improve What’s been done anyway In order to make it new today How habitual to be so typical While standing in a room Holding a crowd of familiar beings Engaging in a dialogue That can’t be above it al

Dylan Garcia (they/them) is a Best Of The Net nominated poet. They have an extensive competitive poetry history which includes appearances at the National Poetry Slam and the Individual World Poetry Slam. The second edition of their chapbook Not Every Word A Fist was published in 2022, and their second chapbook Love Loss is forthcoming in 2024. They can be found online as Dylan Garcia Poetry.

Jade thrusts the marinated fish into the wok before instinctively flinching. The oil jumps up from the wok immediately, just as she anticipated; one pop after another. The little girl struggles to keep her balance atop the splintered wooden stool, despite her toes being firmly planted. The cabin is not evident of any signs of life, with the dead silence only disrupted by the sizzling of vegetable oil. She adds a spoonful of salt and mixes it around with a chuan, routinely. Sh

Nevaeh Phillips has grown up in a small town, and they still have a lot of growing to do. His poetry is inspired by the people he knows and the natural earth around her. She has some amazing friends, and they’re all incredibly supportive. They run a podcast with one of their best friends (Authorized Staff Only on Spotify) and they’ll continue to write poetry in the future. You can find them on Instagram @the_poet.the_artist

glass glass isn’t sincere;  sure, it’s clear,  it’s as breathtaking as kashmir,  but it jeers,  it’s damage is cold and precise like a spear, and it’s bound to hit you, no matter where you steer.  it has already got to me,  slicing the faint skin o’ my soul,  the shards know their position,  to rob, to abduct –  they take everything except my ambitions.   i’m left with that,  for what?  well, glass is a reflection after all…  so is my ambitions all i have to offer?  the glass

August of 1999  When Jim Gradferd died, everyone in the bloodline had rushed to the chapel, even those who weren’t speaking to him during his lifespan.  Mammilyn Gradferd, the feeble widow of Jim Gradferd, had taken a seat in the back row of the church, staring at her husband’s solemn portrait that was displayed on the left side of the casket. His black tie looked more faint and his limpid eyes looked more cloudy under the gleam of the pristine chandeliers.  The Pastor

It started when the viewer was young. Too young.  Urged to ingest death as a trooper,  or a spectator to gladiatorial games,  only with a laptop computer.  Brothers laugh hysterically, “let's show the kid,”  a video of a woman being stuffed full of squid.  Full screen, “how about that other one?”  A roadside murder with a shotgun.  Head exploded like a watermelon — this is something new this New Colosseum offers quite the view!   Now let's try to sleep,  a day started with ca

Rebecca Harding is a 23-year-old aspiring writer and poet who is a recent English Literature graduate. In her spare time, she likes travelling, meditating and long walks. Rebecca enjoys incorporating themes of nature in her writing and feels that by exploring the relationship between humans and the environment, we can learn more about ourselves and our inner nature. She also likes to encourage readers to appreciate the world in which we live.

Chriss is a poet and author living in Northern Idaho with their spouse, cat, dog, and too many unused college degrees. Healthcare professional by day. Daydreamer by night. Look for their work in new words {issue three} from new words {press}, as well as in milk: on consumption, materialism, and taste from Carrion Press and the debut issue of Tension Literary: Writing with an Edge, both to be released later this year. You can follow them on Instagram @viciouschrisss.