( nowness of the former and the latter


former contributor Adeeba Shahid Talukder has a new book,  SHAHR-E-JAANAAN: THE CITY OF THE BELOVED, available from Tupelo Press at the link below:

Shahr-e-jaanaan: The City of the Beloved

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on Adeeba Shahid Talukder’s What Is Not Beautiful:


check out former contributor Corey Mesler in conversation with Memphis Flyer about his new book Camel’s Bastard Son:


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former contributor David Spicer is over at the Hekate publishing blog speaking on things in the foreground of his new collection Waiting for the Needle Rain:


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recent contributor Julia Gerhardt has a poem at The Beatnik Cowboy, here:

Julia Gerhardt

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former contributor Kelli Allen has some killer work at SoftBlow, here:  http://www.softblow.org/kelliallen.html

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on Kelli Allen’s Banjo’s Inside Coyote:


former contributor Caroline Plasket has some breathtaking/giving work at The Cortland Review, here:


work in {isacoustic*}


person Julia Gerhardt, two poems

Julia Gerhardt is a writer living in Baltimore. She was nominated for the Best Microfiction Anthology 2020 and Best Small Fictions Anthology 2020. She has previously been published in Queen Mob’s Teahouse, The Umbrella Factory, The Airgonaut, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Cease, Cows, Literary Orphans, Rogue Agent, Flash Fiction Magazine, Monkeybicycle, and others. Her work is forthcoming in the Eastern Iowa Review, fresh.ink, Moonpark Review, Okay Donkey, Club Plum, Feminist Space Camp, and Rat’s Ass Review. She is currently working on her first novel. You can find her at https://juliagerhardtwriter.wordpress.com/


Her Lips

the nurse scrubbed/ loose skin/ off my grandma’s lips/ they only knew of water and love/ i know this because that’s all they spoke: water/ Julie/ water/ mommy/ giving her cream/ for her lips/she pursed them/ ready for lipstick/ like she was about to go out/ like she was twenty-two/ like she wasn’t in the room at all/ they put the mask back on/ oxygen rushed into her/ like when your head is out the window on a freeway/ it always felt so free to me/ i always thought i was part dog/ the way i leaned my head out/ the wind/ a hand/ fiddling with my fly aways / it’s a trap!/ it’s a trap!/ my grandma knew that/ she knew everything/ everything


Your Arm
your arm was bleed-
ing, bleed-ING! &
you act-ed like no
thing was wrong
but it was all wrong.
it bled slow/quick
like a dream
where you
build a world
in six seconds;
it bled a thin
line. a red line.
there is no-
thing special
about you,
not there.
i clean-ed
you with water
and i felt closer
to you than a
kiss. i threw the
tissue away.
you spoke
of a girl who
ran around
the court
with all
the boys
ball when
you fell.
i woke up
for you—
where is
your blood



person Ian Ganassi, two poems

Ian Ganassi‘s work has appeared recently or will appear soon in numerous literary magazines, such as New American Writing; BlazeVox; Twisted Vine, Oddball, Manhattanville Review, and The Yale Review, among many others. A poetry collection Mean Numbers was published in 2016. A new collection, True for the Moment, is forthcoming from MadHat Press. Selections from an ongoing collaboration with a painter can be found at http://www.thecorpses.com



The handyman was painting the room.
It was enough to calculate, but not enough to matter.
He knew we were coming and got out the broom.

They slaughtered the fatted steer. It was a party.
Sentimental claptrap like curtains hung in a manhole—
There was no shortage. They called him “shorty”

Because he was seven feet tall. Anger and madness
Must be subsumed. Otherwise, who will herd the cattle?
Who will paint the room? Who will play with the rattle?

No more questions if you don’t have answers.
There’s no charge for the apple pie,
Let’s hope it doesn’t give you cancer.

In the news, they put a man on the moon.
Turns out it’s made of cheese after all.
It’s very good cheese, if you have the right spoon,

And better than Tang and other “astronaut food.”
Table the minutes and ignore the baboons,
The bell is going to ring in a second anyhow.

Just get up early to enjoy the cartoons.
It was time to break out in the usual acne.
Unfortunately, the Oldsmobile was running on fumes.

Friends of the deceased are invited to the event:
The piper crooning all the little piggies to market;
The grasshoppers in the manhole growing darker.



It’s time to break out the castanets, the tambourines and bassoons.
It’s time to dance around the willow tree.

“It’s a little late for that,” he said.

“Good thing I didn’t contract lung cancer, I never would have lived it down.”

The party people can’t be blamed for their spontaneous combustion.
That’s why someone has to be sure that the fire door isn’t locked.

The sleep of a sheep, a sheepish sleep. The sleep of a salamander, a sheepish salamander.
The wet dreams of a skunk cabbage. This is redolent of something—roasting meat for instance.

We go around and around the sun, but we grow old and die by the calendar.

I have forgotten all my Latin, every last declension. I keep a tiny
And completely useless bit stashed away in one of the distant corners of my brain.

The narcoleptic taxi driver, drifting peacefully through the red light.

The local FBI building has no windows, at least that a pedestrian can see.
It keeps out the dangerous gaze of people walking their dogs.

It might be too late, and it might be too early. It’s hard to go on if you can’t stand
The weather. Is it Naugahyde or leather, oil or acrylic, Vaseline or tambourines?

It may have an incredible kick, a “beautiful rush,” business as usual.
But, like the working week, it will kill you if you keep messing around with it.

Or you could just throw them out. But where is out?

The news from elsewhere requires a warning label.
This maze must lead somewhere, or so theorized the rats in hell.



person Sophia Naz, one poem

Sophia Naz is a bilingual poet, essayist, author, editor and translator. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, in 2016 for creative nonfiction and in 2018 for poetry. Her work features in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Poetry International Rotterdam, The Adirondack Review, The Wire, Chicago Quarterly Review, Blaze Vox, Scroll, The Daily O, Cafe Dissensus, Guftugu, Pratik, Gallerie International, Coldnoon, VAYAVYA, The Bangalore Review, Madras Courier, etc. Her poetry collections are Peripheries (2015), Pointillism (2017) and Date Palms (2017). Shehnaz, a biography of her mother published from Penguin Random House in November 2019. Her site is SophiaNaz.com



When it smashed in a slammed car door she shed a universe of sound. The bed bled in fluid silence. Blood turned black before the white-coated sanguine said pins and needles baby! Broach the subject already.

To resist a piercing, refusing to capsize a frozen sea of hemoglobin, its plankton of platelets and plasma capsuled in milk-glass stillness. Underneath an icy lake blood red as algae blooms, paralyzing industry. Nothing doing. Thumb your blackened rose as rorschach test, nature of tether.

In time the nail lifts up from the nail bed, stunted crustacean raising a claw as if questioning the miscarriage of trajectories. Dear Hit or Miss did you know that crust comes from kreus, Proto Indo European for anything that begins to harden or freeze, or that the acronym for said origin is PIE which brings us back full circle to crust? Everything depends on dark matter which matters only because it alters the velocity of objects moving through it.

Dug into flesh with a savage tenacity, feral as a meathook, the jagged nail is a gnawing bipolarity, both earth and air, a wing of Lilith, a Kinnari, bird-woman in microcosm. Perhaps this is the original meaning of familiar, pain as a totemic animal, a prehistoric relic perched on her wrist.

By the seventh week she has gone through three hundred and twenty four bandaids, testimony to nail as tail of leviathan catching on any random object and ripping her cuticle. She wonders if monsters were created to give form to inchoate suffering. Many secrets have bitten the nail. Both skin and earth release their confessions under duress. The memory that resists and the memory that propels. Time is the elastic born out of this.

It is a daily autopsy, this obsession with the miniature delta of blue blackness, blood-resin sticking to the nail underside, trapped in it like a ship in a bottle. There are pilgrims in Medina right now, suffering from heat stroke under the awning of such an ill thought canopy. Each night after the half-hearted sterilization of a fat needle she pokes at blood now crud, wincing as the eye of the needle grazes raw thumb ground.

If the heaviest organ of the body is the envelope keeping the mess of our insides from spilling everywhere on the journey, then the thumbnail is a kind of milestone. A measure of the grave yardage of life. In the tactile theater of cinema verité, the thumbnail is a frame of film, flammable as any painted sheen of celluloid, while behind the scenes whorls of swollen underbelly toil on, invisible emblems of everything that is not book-knowledge. This is the light and the dark of the thumbnail, its manicured privilege, its drowned anchor.

In the trailer where she has been living since a surreal snow of ash felled everything in one unclean sweep, three small windows offer up a daily view of the burned hillside which the valiant stubble of November grass fails to cover. Home is also a thumbnail now, a file she must revisit in order to complete the catalog of loss. The woman she inhabits has resisted doing this, unanswered voicemails on her cell from the lawyer pile up like tree rings. If language is skin the words recalcitrant and cartilage rise up as ridges in an endless rosary of circular days.

At nine weeks, the gestation of the new nail is finally more than a crescent moon. She has clipped the wing of the old nail until it is no more than the beak of an emu. Soon to be extinct, like the wounded bone of a lost continent.

Towards the end the woman she inhabits goes at the nail with a tender cannibal lust, biting at it like a cat catches her kittens, by the scruff of their necks. The new nail is three quarters of the way in, eerily synchronous with the risen moon, red tinged from the smoke of wildfires raging north and south. Fire’s mouth the ultimate cannibal, sparing nothing and no one. Paradise has been lost, leaving nothing but the poisoned pints of thumbnails.

What is a nail compared to the pangs of birth? The last breath of death? A sadhu sleeps on a bed of nails, and what if one head holds a mushroom cloud and another dominoes of daisy chains? In the dream she and all seven billion are swaying in a cosmic sea, all filaments of the Pale Blue Dot called Gaia, murmuring Endling, Endling, Endling.


person GJ Hart, one poem

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.


The Ghost of Mole Hill

Not a soul on The 5.20
Except me, sitting
across in a seat
Silken over blacklands
And loam, a fleet ghost
Through newbuilds
and pubs.

If not dead it is me
Grown old
only four stops From London,
I search For my ticket
Like I’m fumbling
A telegram –
there have been
Many delays,

But now morning
Has completed
Its industry, offers
Anything if grey and nothing
Has changed –
The gap patched with ply,
I climb the gate
just a fucking field.

I remember pumpkins
like litters
Of suns – now fallow
And grief
Is gravity here, weights the weed’s
Gaze, turns the bird’s keys
Black –

I close my eyes and play:
Each time you rise up
I pound you back down
Again and again
And again.


person Paweł Markiewicz, haiku

Paweł Markiewicz lives in Bielsk Podlaski, Poland.  He writes meek-Apollonian-propitious haiku and he is one of winners ( Hasegawa Kai selected 「Special Selection」) of Soka Matsubara International Haiku Competition 2019.


a broad-leaved garlic
I begin thinking about
his – vans of soft dreams


person JBMulligan, two poems

JBMulligan has had more than 1000 poems and stories in various magazines over the past 40 years, and has had two chapbooks published: The Stations of the Cross and THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS, as well as 2 e-books, The City of Now and Then, and A Book of Psalms (a loose translation). He has appeared in several anthologies, among them: Inside/Out: A Gathering Of Poets; The Irreal Reader; and multiple volumes of Reflections on a Blue Planet.


“Night is the better half of time!”
(Wolfgang Hildesheimer, “Sleep”)

A shape of shapes shapeless in shadow –
and cloudborn wind
shaking treesticks
at the windborne clouds’
aimless dark stampede.

Calm, at the center of the spin,
holding in, exhaling smoke,
this minimal vision:
all light evaporate
(crystallized in stars
behind the herd),
light as a dried, puffed sponge.

The internal racket of color
muted, the prodding fingers of thingness
curled in sleep’s loose fist,
the world can be given
shapes of a beauty
similar to ours,
if we had what we wanted.

into daybreak

Snow in predawn shadow
over field and hill.

All the trees erupted.

Morning slowly fills
the bowl of the sky
with what has been lost.

Being is knowledge.