K J Hannah Greenberg – 1 poem

A Fixity of Posture


Catalepsy’s initially regarded as

Socially uncouth, as also akin to

Burping, suffering borborygmus,

Eating lukewarm pottage, sipping

Brackish water, embracing math by way of infinitesimals.


See, déraciné, that dire displacement

Experienced by swathy folks, intent

Not on assimilating, but on capture,

Routes subjective sense perceptions;

Most bonkbusters discomfort grannies, distress preachers.


It’s insufficient just to chop potatoes

Into small tetragons if deracinating –

Meddlers require knives, sticks, any

Weapon, really, that fits together the

Pieces, whose components stanchion outworlder functions.


As we embrace rendition, all manner

Of terror attempts groaking unsullied

Blatteroons, talking while adjusting

Headsets.  Politicians, basically, can

Apostrophize ‘til dawn. Professional accountability wilts.


Reflect, we’re no smellfungi, just dull

Citizens cognizant that monokinis, or

Burkinis, mightn’t be for showcasing

Female form, increasing sensitivity to

Misogyny, protecting women from an ingrained prejudice.


Designs, even now, are harvested from

Lists, from geometry or trigonometry

From men too unsophisticated to grasp

Concepts correlating rates, slopes, pain,

Save no one, won’t render their communication consequential.


Viz, most noumenal (not phenomena)

Surround profoundly stuck moments.

Elsewise, practicing non-judgment on

Sad environments encourages engaging

Scary places; Benin, Burundi, Mauritania, Gabon, and Dijbouti.




KJ Hannah Greenberg 

Tobi Alfier – 2 poems

Two Dollars a Day


When Frankie was a kid, anytime

he got lower than a “D” on his math

homework or tests, he got the strap—

if not from the principal, then

from his father. They had nightly calls,

the principal and his father. Frankie

would be on the back porch, wishing

the early evening clouds would

waver him away. His father

would be in the old brown recliner,

glass in one hand, phone in the other.

Mama would be in the kitchen pretending

to ignore everything, a sad sigh caught

in her throat for Frankie, her curly-haired

baby boy, who could argue the world

with Atlas but couldn’t make change.

Truth be told, his father couldn’t count

more than a four finger pour anyway,

but he did what he thought he was supposed

to do. Frankie left home as soon as he could.


No matter what, Frankie hid two dollars a day

for special secrets. The long summer gone, air

cooling into ice through his ancient jacket that wasn’t

a jacket, rain drizzling straight down or sideways,

it didn’t matter. Two dollars plus the cost of a cup

of coffee in his pocket—each morning

Frankie stopped at the Church of All Saints,

spent a dollar, lit a candle. For mama.

For his father. For his strap-numbed hands

and for all the people and places far from his small

life—anything that needed to be blessed.


And a dollar tip for Dinah at the café.

No matter that coffee was only 55 cents,

Dinah had a son who needed doctors.

She wouldn’t take charity but she would

take tips. Frankie had money for rent,

sometimes he just ate corn and beans,

but every day—a dollar for church, a dollar

for Dinah. Nightfall sinks through tenement

windows but not through Frankie’s heart,

his mama’s sigh blown the way of a gentle breeze.





Immense Responsibility


They hug somewhat reluctantly


two magnets trying to touch

along their polar opposites

they share a child

they do not share anything else



She does not sleep well

he does not care

that has not changed


She gets his mail

the dentist leaves messages

confirming his appointments

on her phone that has

not changed


She bathes the son

cuts his hair

takes him to the doctor

goes to parent teacher conferences

alone that has not changed


And when he travels he does

not tell her, does not tell her

he will not be taking the son

so he can make the pizza

he can make the lunches

so she

can take a quick breath

that has not changed


She detects the scent of distraction

and maybe another woman

where once she used to smell

cigars she does not feel defrauded,

only a slight nudge that he is childless,

no responsibilities while she carries

the formidable weight of turning the son

into a fine man virtually alone.


That has not changed.





Tobi Alfier (Cogswell) is a multiple Pushcart nominee and multiple Best of the Net nominee. Her full-length collection “Somewhere, Anywhere, Doesn’t Matter Where” was published by Kelsay Books. “Slices of Alice & Other Character Studies” was recently published by Cholla Needles Press. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (


J.S. MacLean – 1 poem

The Fisherman and the Kid


Back in the 60s an underage kid

with a legal second cousin and friend

were served beer in the Triangle Tavern

in a small five forked rivers college town.


Several local lobster fishermen

in slickers and rubber boots, trap haul done

for the day, sat nearby; spinning, laughing,

exaggerating, and drinking beer too.


“See the guy wearing the blue baseball cap?”

my cousin asked me, and “yeah” I replied.

“It’s a woman, but they allow her in

because she’s one of them; a fisherman.”


Rivers flowed onward in that afternoon

with two stowaways belonging along.






J.S. MacLean has been writing poetry since the early 70s with two collections “Molasses Smothered Lemon Slices” and “Infinite Oarsmen for one” available on Amazon. He has had over 150 poems published in journals and magazines internationally in Canada, USA, Ireland, UK, France, Israel, India, Thailand, and Australia. He enjoys the outdoors, and indoors too. In 2007 he won THIS Magazine’s Great Canadian Literary Hunt in Poetry (1st Prize). He strives for the lyrical and hopes for the accidental.


Gerard Sarnat – 2 poems

“medicine work” 



does describe

Doc’s untoward


hellishly jobbed


passion play

or unavoidable




not forgiving


highest dose

mushroom cap

black magic,

               which as

my boy gets old

is oy too much

for moi what

with losing

track pale body,

unaware parts

such as bladder

thusly pissed

meself in all

buck naked glory

— so we lower

to 2-3 grams

which remains



that ends up

doing the trick

though push come

to golly shovity

shove shove,

in comparison


Miss Molly’s

MDMA seems

a cooly predictable

picnic lovefest of











i. Better dead than read


come cowboy cum slowly whimpering

to impotent late-stage capitalism


misfits’ wet dream dark night soul

fastfood delivery, oy maybe Turkish


girl takeout — defamiliarized scrib-

bling nonce doginish form swirls;


I used to write toward y’all once

wishing to elicit pissed humanoid


barks. Or as we juiced hootenanny

addicted Jewish ex-communist droll


dysphoric standup comic assholes

called for laughs/ boos: if gaffes,


booze/ shoot up drugs (perhaps

even our heads off deliverance).



ii. Hints Of Bourdain’sParts Unknown



Instantaneously after

this celebrity known for

telling truths passed, Tony’s

Q score jumped through the roof…


Sicily just ran posthumously on

CNN despite this seeming paragon of

inspiring lively happiness paradoxically

hanging himself without any suicide note


“I am famous for my optimism…

I feel something snap [diving for

octopi] and then slide quickly into

a spiral of near hysterical depression…”




iii. holy ghost



brain drip


truth, fake

news can




eyes flash

— I dead.






Gerard Sarnat is a physician who’s built/staffed homeless clinics as well as a Stanford professor/healthcare CEO. Gerry’s been married since 1969 with three kids plus four grandkids and more on the way. He has been nominated for Pushcarts plus Best of the Net Awards and is widely published beyond medical in academic journals such as including by Oberlin, Brown, Columbia, Virginia Commonwealth, Johns Hopkins, Wesleyan and in Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, MiPOesias, Margie, Blue Mountain Review, Danse Macabre, Canary Eco, Military Experience and the Arts, Brooklyn Review, San Francisco Magazine, and Los Angeles Review. KADDISH FOR COUNTRY was selected for pamphlet distribution on Inauguration Day nationwide. “Amber Of Memory” was the single poem chosen for his 50th Harvard reunion Dylan symposium. Collections: Homeless Chronicles (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014), and Melting the Ice King (2016).