Hand stamped the language is unfamiliar if you didn’t live it, if you didn’t hide it how easy sleight of hand how easy to cover with smiles and accomplishments but the fear the danger measured, weighed now out in the open the creature gets too confident, arrogant extremely real and then caught whether or not you believe it.
LB Sedlacek is an award-winning writer and poet. Her latest poetry book is Unresponsive Sky published by Purple Unicorn Media. Her latest book of short stories is The Renovator & Motor Addiction published by Alien Buddha Press. She has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize both in poetry. Her mystery book, The Glass River, was nominated for the Thomas Wolfe Memorial Prize. She also enjoys swimming and reading.
I’ve always been a Master of Sabotage, but only if it applies to myself. The reasoning goes, if I’m just going to be Icarus, fuck the fall and burn the wings, not caring until later that I never learned to fly.
Today. Yesterday. Last week… I’ve been biting my tongue, sitting on my hands, and staring at the Sun with matches in my pocket and wings at my feet. And I can’t allow myself to move.
Because this time, I want to taste those clouds as the wind takes me higher. I want to feel the heat as I climb to just the right spot. And I know I might end up in the dirt, the sea or worse, but first, I want to fly!
So forgive my silence, my stasis and my temporary fear, but I’m waiting for that moment I can trust myself to pick up my wings and put the matches down.
Chris Dean is a storyteller, spoken word artist and self-proclaimed Magpie Poet who writes from the heart of Indiana where they live with their husband, dog and too many cats to mention.
Their work has been featured by Cajun Mutt Press, Fevers of the Mind, Dumpster Fire Press and the upcoming Gal’s Guide Anthology. Their debut Book of poetry, Tales From a Broken Girl, was released in 2023 by Storeylines Press.
boxed in/crushed ground powder all that’s left in the bottom of the bag for sleeping/remembering a dream/dread & drowning in the black coal dust/empty grain husk, siloed/alone having fallen asleep, letting go the running board running out of food or water— something to drink (how many hops in a straight line under the influence until you fall?) slipping or mistaking the speed plunging break-neck into snow deep six feet (in, in it begins to seep) stunned÷the blinding white light stomped beneath the shoed hooves of the bull unable to crawl or getting out & having to watch you fall & not wake up.
Roy Duffield’s debut collection, Bacchus Against the Wall, was published by Anxiety Press in 2023. Roy helps edit Anti-Heroin Chic – “a journal that puts those on the outside inside” – and you’ll find more words of his in the likes of the Nashville Review, Into the Void, Seppuku, Unlikely Stories, Fevers of the Mind, Cephalopress’s Ink Sac, and Back Room Poetry’s Flights. He was chosen to perform at the 2019 Beat Poetry Festival in Barcelona, and has been shortlisted for the Book Edit Prize (2022), nominated for the Best of the Net (2023), a runner-up in the Still We Rise competition for revolutionary poems (2023), and won the Robert Allen Micropoem Contest (2021). Contact him on Twitter (@drinktraveller) or Instagram (@drinking_traveller).
Fear Of Falling Backwards by Ian Mullins will be available on September 19th!! This collection is an internal boxing match between the author’s thoughts. As he goes toe to toe with darkness and light. 15 rounds with life itself. I’ll have a copy soon to post more pics of.
Fear Of Falling Backwards by Ian Mullins
I drew the cover art. It’s a reference to the closing poem . . .
Rabbit Punch
How did round one go?
Not so bad; took a few stiff shots, a couple below the belt the referee never noticed, a gouge to the left eye, some spit in the right, tried to jab
but fell a little short: knocked down twice but bounced back up before they could rush the count,
so who is this guy I’m fighting anyway? When he held me in a clinch before he bit off my ear
I believe he whispered he was me.
I’ll share the link once it goes live on Amazon. Please leave a review if you grab a copy! A list of all CMP titles can be found by following the link below: https://cajunmuttpress.com/…/cajun-mutt…/
“Ian Mullins renders the brutality of being. Like Samuel Beckett, Francis Bacon, William S. Burroughs before him, Mullins chronicles bleakly the human condition. His self crucifixion, lowered sights with little to no expectation, does not lead to a personal resurrection or salvation. Yet in the darkness a radiance is revealed in lines like, “remembering how you love cloudless nights, when even the stars glow cold.” The Fear of Falling Backwards is a journey through darkness. The brilliant poems of Ian Mullins are worth the toll for the road.” —Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Beat Poet Laureate
“The poems in Ian Mullins’ book take us to dark places where he pulls off a masterful balancing act between mystery and joy, and futility and impending doom. There are fighting words between these pages and some fine writing too.” —Mark Berriman author of Holding the Door for Barbarians
I trudge to the interstate and follow it to the place that loved me once. A day-burned man asks me to move into his shadow. “I’m just trying to feed my three fears dinner since I lost my job at the cloud factory.” Recession is a four-letter word. No one knows the night’s middle name, but we all hit it up for something to do. He’ll never forgive me for getting so fat. Maybe it’s not easy being you, but I’d sure like to try. Everyone along the road cheers for the rat that found all that pizza. At least somebody made good. Graffiti is another name for love. Take me to the kitchen and let me fry you up something. I’ll just clear the bullets out of the way so I can shred some cheese. Jesus would never be caught dead in your church. What will you give winter for its birthday? Knock out a wall so you have room for a writing desk. When the ceiling comes down, start a new chapter. Pencils made of licorice. A joke no one else can hear. It’s so expensive to pay for everyone else’s lifestyle. All of this used to be protoplasm. And will be again. When I was a boy, I used to hunt these hills. Never got a damned thing. Now, I hit KFC after work. Progress. That’s just what Big Science wants you to think.
