As the winter vacation shrinks and dies, people will go back to school and still write poetry. For some reason.

The Editors,

Luis Rivas
Henry Ajumeze

—

Forgiveness
By Ronald Kichurchak Jr.

Shelly cowered in the corner

while the tears rolled down her face.

There was a shiner beneath her eye

and a bruise on her left cheek.

Blood trickled out her nose

as if it was a faucet whose handle

had not been cranked tight enough.

Mark stood near.

He said that he was sorry.

and reached out his hand for her,

but Shelly refused to look at him

and instead she covered her face with her hands.

Tomorrow she will cover it with make-up.

She can forgive him then,

after the bruises are hidden

beneath a fresh coat of concealer.

It will be easier to pretend

that it did not happen.

And once she believes that,

it will be easier to pretend

that it won’t happen again.

Continue Reading »

I was standing in front of Bar 107 on 4th Street in Downtown Los Angeles, smoking. A man approaches me, admits he’s homeless and asks if I would like him to write me a poem for a modest contribution. The idea struck me as sad and beautiful (although, admittedly, if you are going to offer your services, writing poetry for strangers is probably not the most sought after service; maybe if he could sew or cook, he’d be better off, but, alas, some talents you do not ask for; they follow you forever like an unwanted child). Continue Reading »

The leaves are turning, the winds of fall blow colder and yet the protests in America are staying put despite eviction notices, arrests, one death and disagreeable weather. Poets who do not write poetry sometimes make better poets than the ones that write as if it were a career. The collection in this issue shows the vast range of the poet’s mind: from blunt, cold realism to soft and cushy surrealism.

Fuck the world.

Yours truly,

Luis Rivas
Henry Ajumeze
Amber Bromer

The Editors of Poetic Gloom

—

All that fall
By Richy Campbell

In the midst of the
puddle, where she had been pushed
Mary leaned forward

to face him, as moist
brown countries soak into her
legging cloth. She sits,

supporting self with
palms, eyes yellowing, serpent
like. Billy watched as

arms grew from her back
and purged down into her throat,
deeper, reaching for

her spine which crashed to
the puddle like a tower
into a lake; skin

floating above the
pave. In noon wind, skin-Mary
wraps around his small

head like a dispelled
shopping bag, and as shaking
recedes, arms going

limp, she lets go, and
her spine enters where left
to fill the floating

flesh-phantom. She stands
over him, thick sweat lacquers
the yellowing, air

deprived stripes on his
forehead; his hands on knees, spit
seeping through teeth on

the granite. She smiles
before leaning over close to
whisper in his ear

stands, leaving him, ropes
of phlegm swing and rattle in
his throat with wheezes.

Bio: Richy Campbell is writer and musician based in Staffordshire, England. He has been published in a few journals and works as a freelance indexer.

Continue Reading »

So here we are. For some reason I’m in Chicago. For some reason thousands of people are occupying both public and private spaces in my country that’s not my country – that has been steadily and speedily destroying the Earth – flirting with the potential of an all-out uprising. Poetry, much like Bertolt Brecht’s take on art holds true:

“Art is not a mirror to hold up to society, but a hammer with which to shape it.”

I dig that. So as you read the poems, keep that in mind. Question everything. Break things. Fuck shit up. Continue Reading »