Christopher Jones founded Lost Prophet Press in 1992 and published the literary magazines Thin Coyote and Knuckle Merchant: the Journal of Naked Literary Aggression for many years. His most recent books are the poetry collection Swamp Yankee: A Book of Verse, and Exploding Fellinis: Chronically Distrubed Tales, a collection of stories co-written with Kelly Green. After many years of dire servitude in the Southwest, he now lives with his family in West Saint Paul, Minnesota.
it claimed it was a non-smoking unit but it reeked of stale smoke and there were cigarette burns in the bedding and the refrigerator was about a meter from the bed
and there was a towel in the freezer and a toaster and coffee pot were on top of the water boiler and there was a hat wedged behind the tv and the toilet seat
was cracked and someone had left infection ointment in the vanity and given the number
of bugs and other hungry organisms in the room you got the impression the owner of the hotel was a believer in the sanctity of life
he was a little old indian man a kind old man with the most elegant hands you’ve ever seen but when I called him to complain the phone just kept ringing and ringing so eventually I gave up
and had a little whisky and watched bonanza then lay down on top of the mattress and slept with all my clothes on.
M.P. Powers is a Floridian living in Berlin, Germany. He is the author of The Initiate (Anxiety Press, Fall, 2023) and Strange Instruments (Forthcoming ’25). Recent publications include the Columbia Review, Black Stone/White Stone, Stone Circle Review, miniMag, and others. His artwork can be found on Twitter and Instagram @mppowers1132
Radio? Radio! News cast, a lure a hook, whether I should or should not.
These days are cold; nights hot, a conformity desert for the song and the city, no end probable. News may never stop but there is control — pop news for pop people with pop tastes — thought control… Individual termination, a politics of fashion to be worn, warned, or discarded…
All census and no report.
ii)
Have a pleasant evening? … As I am ordered then to do.
A-ha! So clumsy. A-ha! So deafened… A night of firsts.
I know what I am doing: not enough, no — not enough. Everyone is beyond, out of range of vision and “vulnerable” bites.
Everytime I see that wall of brick, I see a wall of brick. The window panes insult me like the bird.
… Please don’t kill what makes “me”.
iii)
Gasp from my tears, hide in the blatant, safe in the open. Every society needs their bastard like in their stories I disbelieve.
I am forced to look behind all masks because they are there. Most masks smile: those who donned them deaden.
Lit with awe and wonderment this night, a suspect am I. All ways in ways no more I will see what is left to be done.
Look beyond the rags on that fence. I will say hello… And scare you.
The voice on the radio stutters.
iv.)
Us us, or them them?
Some point in argument, all that sustains the pop plan leads me lost, rules my ruin — the propaganda of sticks! All as one is strength is not when one is one and knows, when everyone is aware as merely a one there can be no bundling, no propaganda of sticks.
Too much is too little. The majority are tight. The societal common stagnates — so many creative ways to be imprisoned by the imprisoned.
v.)
Shown the starkness of being, awareness creeps that the average are sold the gain of strength through conformity. They are to aspire to be a part, a piece, never a whole, no self in a part, in a piece.
The powers devised a plan that all should be unaware in a swarm’s instinct.
Am not weak — am not apathetic. They hate, so hate themselves, fight and struggle — stare with eyes growing weaker at such sights.
vi.)
“So, you think you’re special, huh?” … No. I just have my differences.
“So is that what makes you think you’re so special, then?” … No. You just seem to have known no one different than you or your belief and ways. I do not share your beliefs. I do not share your ways. I am no more; I am no less.
“Not being too elitist are you?”
The voice on the radio changes.
vii.)
No clear patterns have emerged as to who as a rule will succumb to individuality or of awareness nearly individual; freedom is myriad.
Conformists have died on their coffee break. Conformists have died during coroner inquests. Conformists have pulled party lines too hardline. Conformists have died live and on the air.
They are they and I am a man out of room. They cannot break what has been broken, an attracted stare that will not undress just any woman.
viii.)
Listen! An underscored symphony.
A lot of time is spent out of room. Firsts are reluctant; to fight for. The thinker must fight to think and to practice the thought.
If the room was my mind I would arrange my thoughts felt physically, to be the scene — would be the centre of it intricate.
In this place when one leaves one leaves with them, and everyone is there as bereavement clashes.
ix.)
The place is bleak cold and dark; most endangered are the naked in the rain. No security, no shelter. Fear makes it darken, sends you deeper, clutching the broken.
Be adrift in the cinema of the soul. Sordid corners, eMpTyVision, satisfaction is not mine; performance is not yours.
Let go — all this time. All this pain — too long. Stay not still. Century to century. Fire. Murder. Wheel. Moon.
David Alec Knight grew up in Chatham, Ontario, Canada. In 2021, David was recipient of The Ted Plantos Memorial Award for Poetry. His first book of poetry, The
Heart Is A Hollow Organ, soon followed. His second book of poetry, LEPER MOSH, was published by Cajun Mutt Press in 2022. It featured his artwork on the cover, combining his interest in art with his writing.
Recent works have appeared in Verse Afire, Night Owl Narrative, and Medusa’s Kitchen. Anthology appearances include Poets For Ukraine Volume 1 and Love Lies Bleeding.
David sees dark and light around him in equal measure and explores that in his poetry, whether exploring working class themes, neurodivergence, addiction, urban living in conflict with Nature, and the effects all these things have on relationships.
Once flesh, in the visible world, I am this stone. It bears my name and figures that’s enough. You can touch it but any response is all up to you. My stone will, forever, have a stone’s life.
Maybe my image floats up in your head. But, without the being to back it up, I am increasingly decreasing.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
Simultaneous terror Hair stood on end 500 million volts Bolt and Clap are one Human Communion with An impersonal god and goddess. His load delivered to her surface Through blood and bone. Painless instant transition Is of no concern to them. As all bodily fluids boil Boots burned through
Bad end to a good day In the deep woods My Bleached remains found By a fellow wildcrafter Years later amidst a huge chanterelle flush
Picked up my skull and said "Ah the Heretic Vicar, I knew him once!"
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DEATHSTYLE
Hey kid welcome to the human race Got your carbon chain shackles and a working cranium Prepare yourself to take your slice Of Gaia's pie. This progressive linear resource butchery Has been our phillistine practice in many ways throughout hominid existence. Rules are : Consider yourself the last generation. We all thought we were. whoever digs the deepest hole wins. Blinders on stay focused. Never mind the noise or chemical smoke. Give No quarter to the woke. Step on toes. Compete! It's the 4th Reich Fuck the liberal elite! Eat their lunch. Remain in denial. Never play fair or they'll win. Dig like a pig for 80 years give or take. If your lucky grab your chest. Sorry you were born so late You may BE the last. No American Dream for your kids. Bear Witness to human extinction. 30 or 40 ice ages from today The cock roaches will say The monkeys had their chance.
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I don't know how deep the well. the angels won't tell . they frequently speak through my pen. They're here again. Provide the only thing that makes me excited about life anymore. guided trips through my grey matter imagery. Hamsterwheel chatter..it never stops. Goddess forbid if it did of what use would I be.
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Memories of war Abhorrent acts On the Killen floor Faces live forever in Minds eye Thin veil Rationale It was them or me. Thought I could drink away the feelings But it doesn't work anymore Thousand mile stare I'm back there Like it was yesterday
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Whats left after closing time All the shred and drama done. Only music fit for listenin In my arrogant opinion
More stories of the killen floor and my dying day played on some slack key resonator Preferably a Pegamule with an abalone inlay..don't make it sound no better Just pretty like a full body tattoo girl Curled up around my soul Might as well dream still While I'm on this side of the dirt
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I have a part in all my wrongdoing I can no longer point the finger Serenity exited long ago Insomnia coupled with amoral thoughts Too much late nite chocolate
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YAQUI TANKA
Ain't they the same place Killen floor and prayen ground Transition spirit Death approaches from the left Yaqui desert sorcerer
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Looken foreward to tea with a coven adorable michigan druids. Dredlocks, snakebites. Faces tattoo'd With celtic knots And ravens. Conversation kept light; as I'm the only man seeking divination advice. A misplaced word might be misinterpreted as a slight. Resulting in a curse ,Jinx, or hexes Cast the bones, read the stone. Melodic incantation Tell me witch! What do you scry? Does intuition say she's the one? Do I give it another try? Or preserve my occluded heart And say goodbye.
Voracious reader but lately doesn’t have the time.
From an auld Bucks County family of poets (brother and grandmother were both published).
Despite working around the performing arts, Chris didn’t pursue creative writing or performance till a year ago when; through some introspective journaling to cauterize a broken spirit he noted certain phrases had a ring. After attending a fellow poet’s funeral he was invited to read at the New Hope Beats gathering and hasn’t looked back! He now seeks to be published, travels to many open mics and hosts a Thursday monthly read at the Living Room Ardmore. His work has been described as ruminating introspective.
