Electric Penguins by AJ Huffman

Decked out in full tuxed,
sunglassed, red-carpet style,
They practice for their paparazzi
moment. They blink haphazardly,
not yet used
to being the focus. Excitement
rises, temperatures
drop as their body-
guards are using blow
dryers to shrink bergs into cubes
for their drinks.
Clink!

A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her eighth solo chapbook, Drippings from a Painted Mind, won the 2013 Two Wolves Chapbook Contest. She also has a full-length poetry collection scheduled for release in June 2015, titled, A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.

The News by Andrew Collard

1.
A word is written underneath her naval. I bend to see clearly but my head is blocked by phantom corners. Squinting only smears—I reach, restrained, and know the neckline pull of fingers on my pulse, the vertigo of wanting.

2.
The word is five weeks long, but it’s rumor. I echo what’s pronounced and stumble over growing syllables. The ink won’t dry though; it spreads to palms, needs reading. She rests on elocution like an undiscovered bone.

3.
She is whole where I remember less warmth, hovering unseen like a painter over canvas. I press myself against her blindly like a wall against the wind, waiting for a word to make my own.

Andrew Collard lives in Madison Heights, MI with wife/cats/Outrageous Cherry albums. He attends Oakland University and kind of wishes he had a pet lobster.

Cupid’s Vacation by Craig Kurtz

MISTER:
I say, it’s getting tricky lately
for a chap to have a cigarette
With all this fuss about the ladies throwing in
with those marching suffragettes;
Not that the gents are blameless
— they’re either effeminate or celibate
Reading Schopenhauer and moping
every hour. How deplorable!
What happened to the spirit
of bacchanalian high-jinks
And where is that waiter
who took the order for our drinks?
I used to think it was
rabble-rousing radicalism
Or the torpid symptoms of
contemporary existentialism;
The problem isn’t politics, nihilism
or its discontents; it’s men and women!
It’s more than just a little
squabbling and beshrewing,
It’s positively worse than a crisis
of neurosis
Or collapsing capitalism:
It’s Cupid on vacation — that lout.

MISSUS:
Now, let me tell you something
(do forswear your interrupting):
I, for one, have had my fill of machismo
and dare I mention mustache-twirling.
It’s brutes like you fomenting
partisan imbroglios
and conspiracies of protocol
inveterately feudal. Indeed!
Blame it on the liberal press
stirring up those abolitionists
Or point to global brinkmanship
from a factious working class,
Do what you will — now, where’s
our drinks? Let’s just get the bill.
The Devil’s in the details,
the issue is societal;
Upheaval in the colonies 4
is a trifle when you think of this:
It’s men and women! There’s the gridlock
in another campaign cycle
When demagogues are querulous
and filibusters universal;
It’s positively irremediable
When Cupid’s on vacation — what a rout!

Craig Kurtz lives at Twin Oaks Intentional Community where he writes poetry while simultaneously and crafting hammocks. Recent work has appeared in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Blue Hour, Drunk Monkeys, Literati Quarterly, Outburst, Regime, Indigo Rising, Harlequin Creature, Reckless Writing and The Tower Journal. Recent music featured at Fishfood & Lavajuice.

Self Portrait by DS Peters

My heart an old woman
skirt hiked up mid-thigh
as she slowly crushes
porto grapes with her
smooth bare feet
My blood is not porto
but magma rolling
sluggish as it cools
in a stream at the foot
of the calming volcano
though it still tastes of the grape

My head a red clay pot
my cerebrum soil, synapses seed
my hair grows thick and long
Dionaea muscipula
good only for consuming flies

My mind is quicksand
not even my mind can escape

My Spirit a Spirit
not a soul, covered
in soft feathers, deep
eventide tinge, with eyes
the color of the sky just before
a morning storm at sea

The rest of me is
as the rest of me appears
once a desire churning to burn
one day ash carried by the wind

DS Peters earned his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY, and obtained his BA from UW-Milwaukee. He writes speculative fiction, earthbound fiction, poetry, and odd bits of non-fiction. He is a traveler, and currently resides in South Korea where he works as a professor and observes human behavior.

My Life and Medieval Times by Howie Good

There’s a new exhibit at the museum. Many odd items are on display – hair from the heads of madmen, baby clothes that were worn by a miniature pinscher, a jar of eyeball jell. The visible has become fugitive, taking a cue from the language that birds invented to preserve their secrets. Those of us waiting in line avoid any discussion of what is art. We all must share one handkerchief. It’s like watching TV with the sound turned off. The real content lies elsewhere, perhaps with the falcons that feast on the crows feasting on the bodies of hanged criminals.

Howie Good’s latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work.

Elephantal Humans by Laura Taylor

eugene asked why I liked women
I should have said hectocotylus that’s why
duck sex with screwdriving gangbangs that’s why
invertebrate hypodermic insemination
that’s why
but no
elephants are matriarchal
built with chastity-belt shaped penis-clits
it’s true
for the giants of drum-beating hearts
their consent is holy, is sexy, is built-in
my dark friend from cameroon
thinks lesbian sex is practice
likes his girlfriend to kiss girls
but not other men
eugene, I like elephantal humans.
more often than not,
their earthsuits are female
just as the packages you prefer
that’s why
and when your girlfriend prefers other lips
to yours
her yes is holy,
her kiss is never practice.

Laura Taylor was raised in Hawaii, but currently lives in Oklahaoma, which she says is Ok! For more poems and such, check out Laura’s blog.

Sometimes We Share by Kenneth Gurney

Sometimes we share
a cup of starry nights
and drink the empathy
of the ancient buffalo herds
that thundered the world
and channeled a waking
of distinctions
between theory and practice
and a spirit-world-substance
that we label friendship
and reshape a little
through mathematics
to form such a biology
that the knowledge of oneness
is contained in a song
that flocking birds follow
on their semiannual migrations.

Bio: Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA with his beloved Dianne. His latest collection of poems is Curvature of a Fluid Spine. To learn more visit kpgurney.me

Things I May Never Understand by SaraEve Daly

Daytime drinking on a rainy Monday
is always going to make me think of

my mother.

If you met her now, you would not
have any idea why she’s the reason I
scared myself straight

for almost a decade.

The last time I saw my mother drink,
I bought her a shot of top shelf whiskey
at one of my features.

Like a real fucking grown up.

Born and raised in New Jersey, SaraEve is a performance poet and epilepsy advocate from Union City. She is currently the editor-in-chief of Wicked Banshee Press (2014) and has competed in the 2013 Women of the World Poetry Slam. She volunteers regularly at National Poetry Slams and facilitates advocacy in poetry slam workshops. She is a Stephen King nerd, and writes [H]ouse fan fiction in her spare time. You can find out more about SaraEve by visiting her website – http://saraeve41.wix.com/saraevepoet.

Transmogrification by Bruce Harris

Transmogrification

I.

War changed him. Alcohol and drug abuse, petty robberies, assaults, run-ins with
the law too numerous to mention comprised a police record intestine long. He
returned commutated. That was the plan.

II.

That was the plan. He returned commutated. Alcohol and drug abuse, petty
robberies, assaults, run-ins with the law too numerous to mention comprised a
police record intestine long. War changed him.

III.

No war.

IV.

No plan.

Bruce Harris is the author of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson: ABout Type.

The Feckless Illuminati by Richard King Perkins II

Bly put in a word for me with a few editors and soon I was publishing routinely…” J.R.A

I have no great cause
against his chosen words—
sincerely addressing the meditative
like an old tomcat’s
milk-content purr.
But is this really
how you would go about it—
foregoing meritocracy
in favor of witless patronage?
I prefer the poet
who will claw my face
and give me nothing
at all
except a steel bar
that taunts
and waits
only for my ascension.

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. His work has appeared in hundreds of publications including Poetry Salzburg Review, Bluestem, Sheepshead Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The William and Mary Review, Two Thirds North and The Red Cedar Review. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and has work forthcoming in Broad River Review, Emrys Journal, December Magazine and The Louisiana Review.