He was probably often ridiculously sad
like all of us get sometimes
drinking a beer looking at a yellow wall
and then he would spend endless hours
at a drawing desk drawing cels
that slowly moved the Coyote
closer to some inevitable cartoon cliff edge or fake mountain tunnel
to some hilarious not-death
and that was his job
The first person
To ever eat
The first person
To eat a rock
I was walking
To the purple school
The purple school
Was far away
And as I walked
And I started to run
The school never grew
It was after midnight
And I was late for school
And I’m 36.
Mike Andrelczyk lives in Strasburg, PA. He is the author of the chapbook “The Iguana Green City & Other Poems” (Ghost City Press, 2018). Find more work at neutral spaces.co/mikeandrelczyk.
“Why are you sad, Daddy?”
“I was thinking about Grandpa.”
Pale blue eyes,
Colored by the horror of war in the South Pacific,
Once filled with promise in the redemption of a returning Marine,
Alive, warm in the embrace of young love,
Those eyes, stern and fair, glowed with pride for his family and grew calm with the wisdom of a well-lived life.
But in the twilight before his mind disappeared, those eyes begged me to stay;
Lenses clouded, they pleaded to understand the loss of will and control.
Eyes that searched mine for peace, finality,
Until the last flicker of reason was but a pale blue whisper,
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too.”
“We love each other.”
“Yes, we do.”
D. Price Williamson is a veteran, dad, lawyer, occasional writer, and wannabe outdoorsman and athlete. He lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, youngest daughter, and a silly dog named Isabel.
In regard to me, in regard to us
So it possesses the burden of the blood
Who put her on the floor?
The preparation of her body
Was a charitable event
Her edges would brighten
Her father placed her there
Nearest to the grave
Between the blankets being fathers
Between the fathers being graves
It was a charitable event
She looks happy smiling iridescent
Are my legs shut?
Is the music still on?
Nicholas Beren is a New Jersey native. In addition to his poetry, he has written film criticism and features for sundry outlets, online and in print. You can find him on twitter @BerenNicholas. He still lives in New Jersey.
The refrigerator is there and it always will be,
until the building gets torn down.
I have the urge to move it.
That is likely impossible, but certainly I could topple it.
Someone stole Ronald’s sandwich and this has happened before,
so he was on a tear.
He was going to find The Thief.
He kept saying that.
And once he did, I wondered,
what exactly was he going to do?
Thrust his arm down the person’s throat
and pull out the remnants of his sandwich?
I don’t even know how it happened.
I was in Maxine’s office working on the just delivered
last chapter of the manuscript,
only to get disturbed by some writer that I had never seen before.
He talked about Maxine like he knew her well,
and I kept explaining she was out for the rest of the day.
Finally, he left.
When I settled back into my seat,
I realized the manuscript was gone.
I’m staring down to the streets below and looking at all the people.
They don’t look like ants.
They look like people, and any one of them
walking this way and that way to who the fuck knows where
could be the crazy person who stole the manuscript
and is about to collapse the charade of my career
before I even get a chance to start one up.
Are these windows really unbreakable?
I’m not even supposed to be here.
I haven’t eaten anything all day.
Fucking Ronald and his sandwich.
I walk over to the refrigerator and pull.
Jeffrey Yamaguchi creates projects with words, photos, and video as art explorations, as well as through his work in the publishing industry. @jeffyamaguchi (https://twitter.com/jeffyamaguchi) | jeffreyyamaguchi.com
My train of thought is derailed as the emergency door swings wide for a man shaking a cup of change. He drags his bloated leg along the walkway; pants ripped to accommodate the bruised appendage’s girth. He speaks labored breaths. His eyes cast down.
A renegade with his gut hanging over sweatpants man-spreading across two seats points to the leg and says to a female stranger, “See that’s what happens when you don’t take care of yourself.”
He moves to the next car and I drift again. But he’ll circle back through, ignoring my warning signage, until I acknowledge him.
Zack Peercy is a legally blind playwright based in Chicago. He has work in Memoir Mixtapes, XRAY, Occulum Journal, formercactus, and others. He is a resident playwright at Three Brothers Theater where his full-length play “That’s Fucked Up” premiered in May 2019. His plays are available on New Play Exchange. Audio versions of his published prose can be found on soundcloud.com/zpreads. This specific piece can be found here.
And I don’t remember a damn thing
You could have told me:
that you were a ghost or
perhaps the dog was carried away by
an owl or that you wanted to
leave the country and wouldn’t be
home to make coffee in the morning or maybe
the dryer was on fire but
the woodstove was already broken so
at least we’re warm for the night or
that you want to streak while
jumping out of a plane! Your penis
airborne for the first time!
You could even have told me that Atlantis was
discovered inside the stomach of
a beached Loch Ness monster but—
why would it have mattered anyway?
You would still be gone—
so let me sleep.
Kayla Lutz is a poet living in the Seacoast area of New Hampshire. They are a poetry editor and the social media manager of Periwinkle Literary Magazine. Their work has previously appeared in Royal Rose Magazine. You can find her unpublished ramblings on