Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over eight hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for work published in 2012, 2013, and 2014. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver
because I was beyond tired to sleep I sat up with Bukowski waiting for the breaking point of ice to define a moment’s end goddammit goddammit don’t pull off in our shower go and wank away somewhere else I live here goddammit too old to lay naked before the fire these days chest like a worn flokati cats can’t resist a pummel what’s white will never be new again a raven’s head opens there’s a field of flowers over all the dead bones picked cleaner than a shallow spoon left out on the porch by an unwelcome stranger - James Walton 2015 James Walton's collection, "The Leviathan's Apprentice" has just been released through Strzelecki's Lover Press.
Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, Bluepepper (Australia), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
stuck in a 1980s timewarp the muzac bland, Mainstream middle-of-the-road. nothing changes. there is no War on Terror, no poverty
just row after row after row of groceries stacked in columns and battalions soldiers erect and in uniform And when the front line is consumed the back is moved to the front.
nightfall. depletion. replacement. nightfill boys are expendable too. no award rates here. individual items nonessential.
the machine grinds on.
an illusion of changelessness. continuous consumption.
broken packages put out of sight. spills are wiped up collateral damage. profits are up.
clean. tidy. and nothing
change. - Rob Walker 2015
rob walker is a South Australian writer,
composer and poet, with three collections of poems published in Australia and
one forthcoming: tropeland (Five Islands Press) this June, and recent poetry
published in The Cortland Review, Illya’s Honey and Red River Review (US),
4&20, (UK), 21D, foam:e, cordite, Australian Poetry Journal, Mascara, Rabbit Journal, Unusual
Work, Verity La and Best Australian Poems (AUST.) He has also published short
stories and collaborates with other artists to produce audio poems and musical
tracks at ccmixter.org.
she would say that and little else. Then she would rest her head on my
shoulder. After, she would disappear for at least a week or more. One of us was
lying. The way that she said it, so gently but with such intensity, it kept me
Of course I worked but gave very
little thought to exploring other options when my brush was not in my hand.
she sighed. Her eyes were a dark sky from which stars had drifted low to beauty
mark her chin. Once again no definitive plans had been made and as I walked
home in frustration, I realized that all this time she had not been talking to
me but merely echoing the prayer that someone had once recited to the sky.
I had been working hard but still
found myself feeling lonely. I was bitten and scratched by this feeling, especially
at night when the heat from making dinner required me to open a window and I
could hear people passing by down below. I taped a picture of Stravinsky to the
refrigerator as in my head it made sense to do so.
The corner as viewed from the
window by my bed. There is a traffic light, the red one; it is the
understanding of desolation. I am grateful for that light. No one walks by and
even the trees offer only a limited lattice of shadows akin to clarity of
A hymn to solitude.
Sorry, I have this prayer to share
but recite another one instead. In the early hours of a new day the street
light is crowned with a halo of mist, sainted for all it has witnessed and for
always standing alone as all who are holy must do.
Thanksgiving, the local churches
were offering their free turkey dinner complete with all the fixings, donated
by those in need of assuaging their guilt. Each had a long line spilling out
their doors and down the sidewalk. Regardless of the denomination, the queue for
each church was comprised of the same people clapping their own shoulders to
stay warm. Some talking to themselves others with dull gray blankets thrown
over their shoulders looking like extras from a Goya painting.
Not tied in to this but seeming so
by coincidence, a long line of cars moving with the traffic light induced
stuttered rhythm. Groups of people of varying abilities try to dance a
choreography in sync as they exit the city.
Later jaundiced squares of light
from apartments which offer no evidence of humanity despite their illumination,
intermittently mark the sidewalk. Counterpoint to this light, the dark
silhouettes of bushes, their roughhewn edges making them appear as a series of
tiny waves frozen at the moment right before breaking upon the pavement. If I
could see a cat, even from a distance down the end of the alley, then this
night would be perfect. I am drunk off of sweet desolation.
David Ades is a poet and short story writer. His poems have appeared in many Australian and American literary publications. Since April 2011 David has been living in Pittsburgh where he was one of the editors of the inaugural Australian Poetry Members Anthology metabolism.
Julie’s third collection, ‘Kiss of the Viking’ was published by Poetry Salzburg in 2014. Poetry appears in international journals including Poetry (Chicago) and The Best Australian Poetry (UQP). Blog: www.juliemacleanwriter.com
and your fragile ribs, then
stole your treasured sanity.
Cancer is taking a gun to
cracking bats on window
shattering the firmest
in every room of every
where people adore the shape
of your soul.
Remember when we thought a
could wreck our hair, soak
our freshly ironed shirts─
now it seems petty as a
and I'm ashamed I ever saw
the world like that─
with dirty glasses on my
Now I know that blossoms of a
last less than two short
weeks at most.
Won't you take my coffee
pour in tears you're holding
You tell me we can "beat this
but doctors' children learn
so doubt and fear crawl up
You are standing tall and
when I am leaning awkwardly,
arms upon a
afraid my elbow knots will
and I'll be landing on the
I guess it doesn't matter
where you pray,
on kitchen tile or carpets
scraping at bare knees─
or beg a distant deity to fix
a theme you cannot change
from plays like this we never
wanted tickets to.
- Janet I.
Janet Buck is a seven-time Pushcart
Nominee. Her work has appeared in hundreds of journals worldwide.
Janet's second print collection of poetry, Tickets to a Closing
Play, was the winner of the 2002 Gival Press Poetry Award
and her third collection, Beckoned By The Reckoning, was
released by PoetWorks Press in the spring of 2004. Her most recent work has
appeared in The Pedestal Magazine and Offcourse. In 2011, Buck was honored
as a Featured Poet of the Editor's Circle
in PoetryMagazine.com. In the spring of 2015, Janet was "Poet
of the Week" for PoetrySuperHighway.com. More of her
work is scheduled for publication in various journals this coming
Bluepepper welcomes submissions of up to three poems or articles and stories of up to 1500 words. All submissions should be accompanied by a brief bio. Submissions must be in the body of the email to be considered. If you do not hear back from me within 7 days then you can assume I won't be using your work. Simultaneous submissions are welcome as long as all due recognition is subsequently forthcoming.
If you are here simply to sample some great poetry and bite,then feast away. If, however, you are in search of a copy of the new collection, "Nightswim", it is available at The Bluepepper Bookstore accessed via the Bluepepper Bookstore link in the list below.