A Cliché Letter to your Old Self by Jay Coral

congratulations

you are a reformed pessimist

you look at your friends in Facebook

and you say to yourself

you're not so bad afterall

you are unmarried

no pictures in your profile

of academically superior kids

and huggable pets in your sofa

you are successful

at being a floater and a survivor

not that it matters

you recently overcoming an insurmountable odd

and thanking the Lord God Almighty for being your rock

but in your cynical middle age brow

you venerate the impression

that you feel for their suffering

and that sorrow is an equation

you share in the world wide web

ah happiness

you don't have a thousand dollar showerhead

but you are innocently happy

walking eating breathing fucking

on inspired lyrics of pop songs

isn't that what you want others

to know/think about you?

you are almost forty

and you wonder if you are any wiser

you wonder if they understand your poem

you wonder what they'll say to you

the next time they see you.

my life by Steve Calamars

right now is

check-engine lights

and disappointed

parents

a lean muscular

physique and a

bearded face

i feel more like

a fighter than

a writer

pumping out pushups

over prose

6-mile morning runs

and shadow-boxing

in the park

kafka's death and

genius stretched out

across my brain like

the strings of a violin

my own pen touching

the page gentle as a bow

making a music that

never really escapes the

echo of his own . . .

Hate Department by Abigale Louise LeCavalier

Cringing in a corner

doesn’t suit her,

much.

She does it anyway.

Waiting

for the feelings to change,

in bold breaths

breathing.

Slipping her eyes;

something less formal.

She has that “stay away from me” look

down pat,

because she cares too much.

Always the problem.

Her emotions burn

like cheap cigarettes,

cold.

Almost surreal.

And she can feel the sand

in her teeth,

the heat of her skin,

steam.

She knew this moment was inevitable,

tried to wish it away

with small gestures.

But it came just the same.

Two Poems by Billy Howell-Sinnard

In The Smoke Room

glowing coil

in the wall

like an altar

a hole

big enough

to poke

a cigarette

Quasar paces

looks up

says cameras

and microphones

in the sky

follow him

i sit beside

the quiet girl

with sad eyes

who sees God

in the linoleum

she puts my hand

in the fire

between her legs

watches the door

for the devil

who prowls the halls

his keys jangling

Growing Older

Nothing seems so horrible

anymore in this new light

of waking up

on possibly our last day.

We learn to give ourselves

in ordinary ways

with what little we have left

like the fishes and loaves

when all is lost.

We've tired of looking,

content now with this

and nothing less.

for it to work, you’ll need to hide yourself away by Tyler Bigney

I got drunk again

double fisting rum and cokes

at a strip club in a town

with a name I can’t pronounce.

They want my money, but I got none,

so some chit-chat

casual as warm breezes

will have to do.

you need to keep your wits,

keep the conversation quick.

ask questions.

don’t let them see

what’s inside of you

or what’s not.

play dumb,

make it so they don’t know

you came here alone -

your friends in the bathroom,

or got sick

and went home.

and this is your first time

in a place like this.

you’re enjoying the atmosphere. the music. the comfy chairs.

everything but them.

don’t ask them for a dance

and when they’re up on stage

look the other way.

distract yourself with the pinball machine.

don’t ever let them know

you could love them.

how you want nothing more

than to love them.

The Unbearable Solidarity of the Dead by Paul Hellweg

Day four in Paris, hungover,

food coma this time,

no alcohol involved,

just despair, angst,

Big Mac, fries, pizza margarita, and

the excruciating loneliness

that, for me, always accompanies

lack of creativity.

Slowly waking,

espresso and coffee,

reading “The Wasteland,”

hotel restaurant packed,

tourists clustered together

as if afraid of being alone,

morning chatter on autopilot,

no one looking into anyone’s eyes.

I’m comforted to witness

what Eliot knew,

I’m not the only one

death hath slowly undone.