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Poetry

There is Always Fear in All Your Love Songs
by S. A. Griffin

the atmosphere is
crackling
like a small fire

cutting directly through the middle of
everything as the needle grooves deeper into
the
vinyl
skipping and jumping in the most casual
fashion
right on by these old affairs of the head
as told by
Bennett
Mathis
and

Sinatra

and I stand
like a lame animal
howling at the stark white twilight

the hook is deep

I am twisting myself into knots
and tiny ribbons holding court with the
creeping sunlight as it

crawls across the carpet
and papers itself methodically against the
wall

struggling with the semantics
trying to understand
the sobbing things I tend

at times
I am radioactive with it
pumping it into the air with my lungs

pulsing with the meltdown

it was said that
I possessed a greater degree of
honesty

well
fuck honesty
it is an idea
an enigma
a popular singer from another time
that survived longer than the bullshit
the walls that are always there
and the immense beauty that is
within them

November
by Nicole Panter, for Jim Krusoe

I’m in kind of a strange mood
these days.
The tang of brimstone wafts through the air
and clings to me like perfume.
Gusts of wind rile piles of leaves
in my path,
Swooping them into small tornadoes
around my ankles.
Household pets give me a wide berth
and sidelong looks.
Cars bang into each other in
my wake.
I ask for my steak extra rare
and I think about a glass of Blood
Orange juice
I drank in London one
November

The Man in the Red Flannel Suit
by Julie Sklut

At the mall,
the young girls
look so fresh
like newly killed deer

I imagine them
roped on top
of my car

later,
their heads
mounted
on my wall

Soap-n-Holy Water
by Kevin G. Wixted

What a mess I’ve made
of things, all twisted
and limping.
I’ve rented out my temple
to feasting demons with
their insatiable demands.
The roof, I fear, is where
the missing shingles
sunlight pouring in,
oh dear it’s been leaking
for years.
The destruction is deep.
My floor, my sweet sweet
floor, so old so mistreated
the loneliness it must
feel
with an arrogant organ
staring broodishly and
pumping out hymns one no
longer hears.

The pews, nothing but
sun-faded lines, rusted bolts
broken roots flaunting their
absence, I sold them years
ago, I can’t quite remember
if they were ever full.
Those doors were solid oak,
big strong, warm to pulling
but never easy to push.
Ivy, I mean ivy covered these
walls, a lush blanket standing
guard to the elements
it slowly retreated to the cracks,
where no one
will see it.
It’s the altar that let me
down you see, so many coats
of paint have sent it
crashing to the ground.
Forgive me father for I have
sinned. ♦