old pottery by Carl Miller Daniels

Posted in Carl Miller Daniels on October 7, 2018 by Scot


the slimy muck and mess of everything —
the absolute sliminess of reality — it’s all
just, well, it’s all
just so slimy. gooey. slippery.
yep, the utter sliminess
of everything sometimes overwhelms.
saddens. envelopes us.
you. me. everything.
just a big gooey mess.
i envision
myself a pile of bleached white
bones on a secluded hillside.
dry. dry, everything
is so clean and slick
and dry. bones, wind-blown,
dry, not a droplet of anything
moist or gooey left.
yet the wind
hangs around,
ever vigilant, just
in case.


The Grand Old Party by S.A. Griffin

Posted in S.A. Griffin with tags on September 24, 2018 by Scot


the Star Spangled Banner is playing so loudly
that nobody at the party can hear Lady Liberty’s muffled screams
coming from inside the Lincoln Bedroom

flat on her back Liberty is doing all that she can to fend off
an unsteady Trump Daddy drunk with power

he has an executive hand over her mouth
while his other fat fingers climb up her garments
desperately attempting to find their way past her port of entry
and into her sunset gates, “C’mon, Liberty baby –
lemme smack that sweet huddled ass of yours
yearning to breathe free. You know you want it!”

the Donald’s aerodynamic pomp quacks and achieves liftoff
cutting manic shadows into the bedroom walls as he
smashes his tiny Trump thing into Liberty’s weakening flesh

Uncle Sam is catching all the action standing sentry
behind home plate in front of the locked door
the old wizened white beard waving his hot dog wildly about
shouting, “Uncle Sam wants you to play ball!”

outside in the Rose Garden
Congress is making hay with the gerrymandered vote
holding hands kumbaya like for the cameras
singing Citizens United and it feels so good

Emma Lazarus rises from the grave on the shoulders of
uncountable millions upon millions of wounded women roaring
ME TOO across the crowded centuries

President Great Again deaf to their declaration
continues ripping away at Lady Liberty’s tattered gown

the ghost of Emma Lazarus
breaks down the door of the Lincoln Bedroom
shattering the supreme darkness
as the colossus of angry women comes rushing in behind her

they will not be denied

it’s the Donald’s Waterloo

not even Putin can save him



Two Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

Posted in Rose Mary Boehm with tags on September 17, 2018 by Scot

Pull up and go

The streets too narrow, the boys
too ugly, mother too mother.
Landscapes made from iron and stainless
steel, gasometers and loading cranes
and coal trains. There was one row
of sycamores and the forest where
acid rain ate the green.

I kissed Heinz in the fire-red light
of the glowing slag run-off or, rather,
he kissed me, and wet and slobbery
it was, and the mirror showed no change,
no maturing; my sacrifice had left
no visible mark. And he told.

I couldn’t wait to get out, re-invent
myself, go where no-one knew
that I grew up in a world of soot
and glowing steel, that I kissed
the wrong boy at the wrong time,
that I once wore woolly knickers
and had no idea what ‘virginity’ was.

And how I wish
I could go home again,
but they don’t remember me.



White Bones

Doves dive after breadcrumbs
the old woman has seeded with
an imperial gesture,
standing on a park bench.

With milky eyes she observes the
swooping, clawing and picking,
the frantic chaos, vicious flutter
of wings, threatening clucks.

I see myself cut open in a field,
vultures picking me clean.



A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of ‘Tangents’, a poetry collection published in the UK in 2010/2011, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was three times winner of the Goodreads monthly competition, a new poetry collection (‘From the Ruhr to Somewhere Near Dresden 1939-1949 : A Child’s Journey’) has been published by Aldrich Press in May 2016, and a new collection (‘Peru Blues or Lady Gaga Won’t Be Back’) has been published (January 2018) by Kelsay Books.

Three Poems by Sarah Carleton

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on September 17, 2018 by Scot


Rolling down Nebraska Ave in the rain,
wiper blades and Drive-By Truckers fighting

for the beat, I drive by strip-joint
strip malls, warehouse churches, Salvation

Army-Navy surplus, minimarts, go-karts,
swim-in-place pools and kid carpoolers.

My route’s a seedy, soggy loop track
—a pink motel mushroomed five miles back

then popped up again another spot—
but the bumper stickers are all over the map:

I’m tailing a car with blue stars & stripes
while the truck zipping past flashes coexist.



The blinding-black night, the hotel drive
winding uphill, the creepy grime of the blankets—

where were we headed? No idea.
What was the year? Don’t recall.

The room had a hot tub with no water;
our little son pretended it was a bed.

The three of us lay on our backs
and looked at the mirror on the ceiling.

I do believe we were the only guests.
Our need for sleep was accidental—

the rental car, which should have been invincible,
broke down, setting us back several hours.

But our playlist made us bulletproof.
We laughed every time Ok Go sang about

the woman with lights behind her eyes,
and when the road grew squirrelly

we switched our brights on and off.



Cat Day Afternoon

Our backyard neighbor, kitty-corner,
is caterwauling on the phone.

I recognize the tone
—though not the raspy tongue—

and cut her slack.
We are all cat-smacked in this heat.

Even the feline guard no longer
pace for prey but drape themselves

on our screened roof
like snaggletoothed tarpaulins.



Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo and raises her son in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Off the Coast, The Binnacle, Cider Press Review, Nimrod, Chattahoochee Review, Tar River Poetry, Crab Orchard Review and New Ohio Review.


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on August 28, 2018 by Scot


there are three leaks in my bedroom
ceiling as winter keeps us unbalanced
springlike one day alaskan cold the
next like first fourteen year old heart
break you cling to sharp ache of the
boy whose ring you wore round yr
neck caught kissing cheerleader with
long dark ponytail tears like broken
soda fountain poured you bleached
yr hair blonde & never looked back
then on his knees begging for second
chances you’d never fall again pain
kept you safe all the other males vying
for yr yellow head of fluff remember
how good it felt to smash his class
ring with a hammer & throw it into
river of the dripping ceiling reminds
me slow healing makes you strong
enough to break yr heart again & again
each crack cementing grief & joy staining
yr brain like the circles of peeling plaster
i vacuum sad brown carpet waiting for
the roofer who never comes

Four Poems by Kristofer Collins

Posted in Kristofer Collins on August 25, 2018 by Scot



The Departed

for Larry Levis



Behind the corner gas pumps someone has blessed
the late morning traffic with a mural, a procession
of skeletons sagging against the eastern face
of a remodeled bar, and back of that McConway
& Torley adds its daily share of poison to the air.
Larry Levis once intimated loneliness is undignified
then whistled a Billie Holiday tune into his own
last darkness. Did he slip his feet into the water
before walking away? Did he see these white
doses swallowed up by the trusting sky? In the end we all
become timid accountants tallying what we gave and all
we still owe. I come here for the noise and rabble
and a chance at that white horse. I sit at the bar,
lose myself not in the drink but in that river of voices.
Like the other three this river is contaminated,
but still I long for it and, though years will be taken
from me, I bury my head in that deep red rushing.
If I’m very still and listen closely my father’s voice
will surface like flecks of gold in a prospector’s
sieve. It’s true those who remain must carry the departed,
Larry. And there is no shame in that. Hell, it’s good to know
there’s something I still have to offer the so many
I have failed. Alone as I am there is much work to be done.



The Suicides of Paris

It’s spring again and the suicides of Paris are all the rage.
Twin sisters bound at the wrist and twined by bad blood
were pulled from the Seine. Here the Allegheny

is dredged and a stray B-52 becomes the new museum attraction.
Think of it, an atomic bomb right there in the river. Look
at the bodies on the shore. Taste the ash on the air. I know

an artist who insists on leaving the erasures apparent in his pencil
sketches. They fetch good money in Shadyside galleries
where we feel the ghost lines glowing. Old home movies

of Lawrenceville are shown. The colors of the neighborhood
soak into the shoreline soil. Men in old Steelers jerseys
and sometimes bare-chested dive from wobbly canoes,

their children delighted and terrified by the enormity
of the river. The mothers are witnesses to infinite hunger
and the white sky droops across the faces of white buildings.

All of it the same smooth white of scars across the wrist
floating there on the dark and heaving water.


Acts of Contrition

for Jason Irwin

The bell tower burned down the same year my father busted his right wrist
chasing a wobbly foul ball right off the garage roof near Butler and 62nd
and the bells we hear this evening chiming Vespers were first recorded
closer to Cincinnati than to Morningside Avenue, nearer the whispering
west than to these brown choppy waters that take tugs and all the scrap they haul,
concealing them in the shade of metal towers, dark as Washington in funeral regalia
who said too much suffering is never a good thing for any city, his cold eyes
falling across the scabby wet knee of Millvale broken out in blood and beer
and the warning we hear watching the bruised hands of Maxo Vanka in prayer,
and just as it took only one good day for James Wright to declare the impossibility
of death so this one good shot of whiskey absolves us of the burden of our days,
as you become a shadow now fallen across the still surface of your glass, happy to risk
the undertow, foolishly assured I or some good stranger here is strong enough
to carry you should your will give out.


Apology to John Dorsey for Missing His Reading

Let’s blame it on being middle-aged. Let’s say
the languid bodies of the crowd kept me
from coming. My own starched skin prickled
at the touch of the sun and my eyes at full-squint
could not find the way. Let’s say I am a liar.
Strange to think we spend our time this way,
but writing these poems is no different
than drinking at the bar. It’s in our blood, I suppose.
It required generation upon generation of bullshitters
to contort my tongue in this precise fashion. Perhaps
you suffer from this same genetic malady. Instead
I made my way through the dry brush and potted
re-bar to the water. When you get down to its level
it’s black as mirror backing. Nothing but shadows
in there, and the garbage floating down from Blawnox.
Look all you want you’ll never have to confront
your own image here. The muck just won’t allow it.
On days like these I prefer the river to our poems.
If I had to see myself, as I so often do in your words
I don’t know how I could return home, go back to my wife
and believe that yes everything will work out fine.


Kristofer Collins is the publisher of Low Ghost Press and the books editor at Pittsburgh Magazine. He lives in Pittsburgh, PA with his wife Dr. Anna Johnson and their son Cassidy.

Not an age nor an era by D. A. Pratt

Posted in D. A. Pratt with tags on August 20, 2018 by Scot


This is not an age
nor is it an era
and everyone should stop
using these terms: they exaggerate
the mini-moment the world is enduring
and we definitely don’t want to do this —
it truly is “fake news” to call
this an era or an age …

We’re experiencing a period … yes …
a period … this is exactly what it is …
and clearly what the world needs
are tampons worthy of the situation … yes …
tampons … tampons to handle
what we’re all going through …

The world’s collective endurance
of the forty-fifth president
of the United States of America
will ultimately end up being seen
for what is really is: just a period …
not an age … nor an era …
there will be light days
and heavier days —
the tampons we need
will have to be versatile
but that’s all we need …
the flow will end
and we’ll all quickly realize
that the whole damn thing
wasn’t an age
nor an era …