Week 33: Howie Good

Dislocation Blues

I’m not afraid of dying, no. There’s always a price to pay no matter where you live. All the windows burst out. Give it a week, people are going to start looting. I often get asked, “What’s taking so long?” That’s the kind of place this is. When I close my eyes, I smell ground zero, a lot of gushing blood, gurgling almost. Don’t assume it’ll go away on its own. We’ve seen fish in parts of the kitchen. People want to know is it climate change. I can’t help them as the door is already on fire.


The Book of Life

Since we started working on our book, I’d say about a third of the book is gone. It was just bambam-bam, the sound when a dude keeps his finger on the trigger. We know we’re in the presence of history when things are blowing up. Funny, right? Most men just like killing stuff. So few seem to pay any attention to the moon. Try to notice the cold, wet sensation. If you can’t after fifteen minutes, just sit or stand there. Two slim, undersized men lurk in a doorway. They have no idea what they are about to experience. Bodies arrive in shreds. Some arrive in halves. And no cops for miles.



Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of The Loser’s Guide to Street Fighting, winner of the 2017 Lorien Prize for Poetry from Thoughtcrime Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.

Week 32: Alyssa Trivett

Tuesday Morning Train Station


Bright hungover taxi driver-side mirror

key shocks my eyes. Passing by. No puddles included.

Souls and backpacks float.

I rotary-dialed my way into the morning,

stepped over footprints I couldn’t claim as mine,

so the sun did.



Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul. When not working two jobs, she listens to music and scrawls lines. Her work has appeared both online, and in print, in approximately twenty different publications. She recently had 15 poems published in Ambrosia: A Poetry Anthology.

Week 31: Christopher Prewitt

Milk Money


Like a pair of dead roses

let’s sing in the park.

When Gretta finds us,

she will put us in a white vase

no matter how dark

our singing.

I don’t know about you,

but I adore Gretta.

When she goes to the hospital,

I paint portraits of her in oil

on paper plates.

I tape them to green waves

in the lake on Falcone’s private

land. It’s his money and dread,

he can be an abomination

if he wants, for there’s money enough

to silence god

and his god, too.

As for you, my best friend,

with your open mouth

a dandelion

rendered in purple pastel,

not tonight.



Christopher Prewitt is a writer from eastern Kentucky. His poems have appeared in Vinyl Poetry, Ghost Ocean Magazine, Four Way Review, Merida Review, and many others.

Week 30: Margarita Serafimova

Something was making noise on the roof.

It was the Morning –

she was breaking pieces of ice off my house,

and touching them to her cheek.



Serafimova was shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize 2017. Her work appears in London Grip New Poetry, The Journal, A-Minor, Minor Literatures, Noble/ Gas, The Birds We Piled LooselyObra/ Artifact, Writing Disorder, Punch, Futures Trading, Ginosko, and elsewhere.

Week 29: Yi-Wen Huang

Week 29, Yi-Wen Huang


Dr. Yi-Wen Huang is from Taiwan and an Associate Professor of English and Linguistics at University of New Mexico-Gallup. She lived and attended universities in Long Island, NY and Pittsburgh, PA. Her research focuses on language and affect. Her hobbies include Zumba, spinning, thrift shopping, EDM, and traveling as a foodie and tea aficionado.

Week 28: John Franklin Dandridge



One dead body in

a room full of dolls.

A spider plays

housekeeper. A spider

auditions for spouse. Crickets get

jealous, crawl corners, wonders why

mice violence.


Clocks curse. Second

hand wants to say

something like:


but it just ticks. Sick because

there used

to be time, till someone

telled an inside joke.


Machine hide blueprint?

Now there’s only room

for distraction. And distinction.


Enter thin king.

Stand on a knife; sit night,

carve stars to feed—

lucidicious—tongue tasting

drip, so sour hot.


Numb numbers, twitching digits.

Pocket flares, pleased to dig it.

Stealing beach one grain of sand

at a time. Some stuck

in the camera. Left over

ounce of disease.




Pace the foyer with face

in elevator. How did large

talk turn so loud,

uninteresting, starting from what the shirt

said to the pants:

don’t wear me if you can’t keep up with my colours.


Ours later. Fall is unforgiving. Egonic, fleshed




auction of power


More losers than winners,

more or less.

Oil castles drilling and pulling

against the veins of nature.

Everyone wonders

if a bird flew over the ocean.

Or was it a plane,

or a super villain.

Magnets haul power plates underwater,

hurry games—shake wicked sticks of lightning.

Better safe up your suit.

Find something else to die about.

No tears near the water.

And keep your kids off the alligators.

Wrench off the dirt.

Pull out a stack of batteries.

Flattery feeds on envy, sucker up,

stickers across a kitchen, little room to bathe.

These fools need a new stage to masquerade,

a sea of cold blue feces.

Put your hands on this nice-to-invent-you bible.

It’s bulleted with electric words.

There are sensors beneath its leather bound,

that’ll shock through your fingers if you lie.

Stings, Velcro at the end of whips,

sun rinds on your lips.

Birthday flakes and all you get is a short allowance.



John Franklin Dandridge received his M.F.A. in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago. His chapbook of poems, Further Down Rd., was published in 2010 by Fast Geek Press. He has poems published in past or upcoming issues of Callaloo Journal, Cerurove, 12 Point Collective and Former People. Franklin lives and writes near the North Pond in Chicago.


Week 27: Lana Bella



What else is winter for but

transparent hands

nudge flesh into black,

making peril of endings?

December drifts with snow

under the oaks; cobblestones

graph with metal scores,

wherefore comes the brassy

sounds of splinters,

each stirring appears a wave,

mere relic of ice lost in

its own exactness of memory.

An elsewhere pulls within,

lit in cataract slate of

the fence post—strung up to

a height that froths down

the trees’ dark rows,

stroking what continuous

and seem as one,

as vertigo blinds softly on

frost-bound, stranger roads.



A three-time Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net & Bettering American Poetry nominee, Lana Bella is an author of three chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016), Adagio (Finishing Line Press, 2016), and Dear Suki: Letters (Platypus 2412 Mini Chapbook Series, 2016), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 400 journals, including Acentos Review, Comstock Review, Expound, EVENT, Notre Dame Review, Word/For Word, among others, and work to appear in Aeolian Harp Anthology, Volume 3. 

Lana resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps.

Week 26: Árpád Farkas (trans. Paul Sohar)

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Árpád Farkas, a Hungarian poet, translator and journalist, was born in 1944 in Transylvania, Romania, in a small Hungarian farming community. At university, he began his career, eventually publishing ten books of poems and translations. His poetry often speaks out for the survival of his ethnic Hungarian minority.

Paul Sohar has published fifteen books in translation and earned three prizes for them. His own poetry: Homing Poems (Iniquity, 2006) and The Wayward Orchard, a Wordrunner Prize winner (2011). Prose works: True Tales of a Fictitious Spy (Synergebooks, 2006) and a collection of one-act plays from One Act Depot (Saskatoon, Canada, 2014).

Week 25: Hannah Rodabaugh

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Hannah Rodabaugh has poetry in Berkeley Poetry Review, ROAR Magazine, Horse Less Review, Written River, and Nerve Lantern. She also has poetry in Flim Forum Press’ anthology A Sing Economy and Nerve Lantern’s Yoko Ono: A Tribute to Yoko Ono. She’s received grants from the Idaho Commission on the Arts and the Alexa Rose Foundation. She is the 2017 Artist in Residence for Craters of the Moon National Monument. She works at The Log Cabin Literary Center and as a co-curator for Ghosts & Projectors: A Poetry Reading Series.

Week 24: Gabe Kahan

I Remember a White Light

I gave myself to a doctor and asked
what my chances were
and, like glucose caught in the back of my throat,
the moment stopped.

On either side of my ribcage stood warrior rivers
galloping down from some archetypal mountain I knew nothing of,
yet something in the air tasted familiar,
so I let two fingers slide inside.

Your flesh was cold, even starless
—like a ripe mango—
I giggled and you joined in and we became a choir,
but I felt the blankets wrap around my ankles. A synthetic glove
roped itself around my shoulder

in discrete terror. We were all mummies again,
and you were gone. Back in the produce aisle at the co-op
swimming in the lightly misted air,

I found my arms had reached the floor
and my thumbs were toying with the dust of another patient.
“You’re free to go,” the man said, the angel barked,
the quiet persisted.

I was a toucan now, a real body buster
who had pawned his heart to build a house made of metal and carbon fiber.
So I walked
home after that,
but it never stopped



Gabe Kahan doesn’t leave the house without his Burt’s Bees beeswax lip balm. He falls asleep with flickering LED candles by his bedside. He approaches his poems as a kind of musical composition, enjoying both the colloquial and mythopoetic. Gabe works as a freelance writer helping thought leaders and startups innovate and grow. You can follow him on Twitter @GabeKahan.