by Brian Rihlmann I first discovered the limits of photography in 2003, after climbing Longs Peak in Colorado. Elevation 14,259’. A “Fourteener,” as they say. I scrambled over boulders and through a notch in the ridge known as The Keyhole, emerging on the other side to dizzying emptiness a drop-off of a thousand, two thousand feet.

Dream Poem #5

by Ann Pedone Tuesday night reading Rimbaud to you over the phone no, I’m not going to try to read the French. What does the evening mean other than the lamplight and the moon somewhere we can’t see. I noticed how old I looked in the mirror again this morning. I wanted to tell you

Pizza Rat

by Jennifer MacBain-Stephens PR likes the hustle and gum heels are guillotines cement cracks leak tokens, saliva and cigarette butts avoid the small skull smash PR brings the crust fast uplifts the angles slow and business lunch-like time to turn up the grime heaves the slice each step a dam each step Mt. Rushmore, the

REVIEW ☆☆☆☆☆

by Karen Loeb We are pleased with the mattress. It really did come rolled and compressed inside a box. No, the Fed-Ex person will not stay and unleash it into the wilds of your bedroom. No, it doesn’t suddenly explode when you release it. It’s kind of like a person waking up, stretching and flexing,

He Called for Mama

by Pamela L. Laskin In memory, George Floyd Eight minutes on his chest he called for Mama now George Floyd is dead he called for Mama in heaven now with God and also Mama Black boys still harassed without their Mamas children they are bruised without their Mamas while others in their graves with tears

lingua franca

by Joanne Grumet my tongue is mute servant of words longs for pleasure to lick at life has tasted the sweet and the bitter Joanne GrumetJoanne Grumet’s chapbook Garden of Eve was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020. Her poems have also appeared in the journals The Poetry Quarterly, The Same, Jewish Women’s Literary


by Howie Good It crawls through trees, a smell like the rancid diapers of the spawn of Satan. But how is that my fault? Autumn looms, fine black cracks etched all over. Courtship systems have collapsed, seemingly overnight. Who knows whose hands or breath harbors the virus? Please, oh please, preserve me from people who

My Private Chernobyl

by Howie Good It’s the village where the kill switch was flicked and a malfunction occurred, where disaster originated, where a Socialist-realist mural of cunnilingus is brightly lit at night, where characters from cartoons and fairy tales (a farmer, a firefighter, a Soviet cosmonaut) have been abandoned. Everything else has been declared safe for visitors