Tuesday, February 16, 2021






Stones will weigh you down,

break your bones.

Leave them by the roadside

for the next sucker

to try on for size,

send condolences

when they’re buried in the rubble




7 a.m.



We stayed up until

7 a.m. that morning

to finish the job

but nothing felt different,

your eyes were discolored

as if the color blue

had ceased to exist,

your body was cold in touch

and manner,

business-like, handshake salutations,

stiff arms, shifty hands,

no recognition of sacrifice,

no piece of the puzzle

had been altered.

All pieces, borders and middles,

still lay strewn on the floor,

getting kicked under the furniture,

edges fraying,

the image broken,

misaligned, incomplete,

even after I helped assemble

the frame.

I was exhausted,

staring at you

with hooded eyes

in the middle of your daydream

where somehow

you did it all yourself.




Money and Courage



The globe showed him

the Seychelles

and he decided

that’s where he would go,

the Indian ocean

would be his new home.


He hesitated,

then gave the globe

another spin;

Lima, Peru.

South America,

a different America

than the one

he was currently

floundering in,

there must be

new life there.


One more time,

he reasoned,

and the Seychelles

entreat him again.

The final decision was made.

All he needed

was money

and courage.

He pulled out                    

his empty pockets,

searched a pale heart,

stared at the blue water

of the globe,

swimming in halting,

awkward strokes

until the ocean

consumed him.

Two fingers reached

for his new home

then fell listlessly

to his bedroom carpet.




My Words



These words I write

are for me.

You can read them

but they remain mine.

You took so much

in the past

I won’t let you have

my words.

They don’t sound right

on your tongue

and your eyes

don’t see the meaning.

When I write them down

the universe takes notice,

a bond is formed

that only links me

to my words.

You don’t get an invitation

to this party for one,

the words I write

are for me

even when they’re about you.





Fairweather Street




Houses dot the landscape,

family dwellings

holding the American dream of

mom, dad and 2.5 children.

“Don’t forget me,” says Maxi

the golden retriever

and we all laugh.

Infrastructure delineates one side of the street

from the other,

roads, bridges and right-of-ways,

the lines separating chaos.

A new house has just been built

waiting for a new family,

an addition to the neighborhood,

a mystery.

Will they be friend or foe?

The birds and squirrels don’t care,

but the couple across the street does.

It’s quiet now

but after they move in

the kids might scream,

the TV may blare,

maybe the husband and wife will fight,

life on Fairweather Street hangs in the balance.

Houses fill the landscape,

family dwellings

lost inside the American dream.




The Churn




The bridge is closed,

I can’t get to you.

There’s wreckage

in the water,

someone went over the side

thrashing in the churn.

He looks like me,

but no one is helping,

they’re turning around

to go another way.

This is the only route

you gave me.

I said your name

and a line of cold water spilled from my mouth.

My ears have closed,

all I can hear

is the rush of waves.

I want out of the car

but the door won’t open.

The bridge is closed,

I can’t get to you.




 Christopher Hivner

Tuesday, February 2, 2021



Fill the spaces

between your fingers

with the pictures of

a swaying



like a glowing

corpse upon a

lonely vessel

moving upstream

in a procession

of soft songs that

you have

never heard



I can sense it

like a prowling


like a shark,

like a cruel


like a hawk or

eagle, snake or

crocodile, ant

or spider:

that exact


when it is

time to strike –

hold the pen



and ink will

spill into the

shape of




saturated with






memory knows


of this


as it does

with all

other days,





before me,

those moments

will never be

lost or stolen

or loved





Walking down a strange street

in New Jersey: 7 a.m.: a wine

and brandy hangover – I

continue walking, stopping

to heave and retch and vomit

every couple of minutes: I

see a bench, rest and smoke

a cigarette and look up into

the skies and clouds of the

USA: I find a café and

order coffee, toast and eggs

and eat and after find my way

back to my room: my

neighbors are all strangers

and when I cracked-open

a beer at 8 a.m. they

looked at one- another

and frowned but said

nothing as I offered

them a bottle of

morning sunshine and

drank deep.


Sometimes, it feels like

we’re all on death-row,

no matter how true and

convincing your story –

you will die:

now it seems this Covid

horror has issued

another death warrant

for mankind:

nowhere to run or hide,

fear of going out to

the shops for food and

booze: we all look

like masked bank-


another silent enemy,

another war

and right now, who or

how the fuck it

happened doesn’t


globally we can hold

hands over this one.


Death is always close by

but even from an early age,

one could sense it within

her: she seemed to lack

everything except

intelligence and it would

prove to be fatal:

she once lived with an

asshole, who I knew and

disliked: he beat her

several times before I

found out and offered

to go beat his ass but she

told me to back-away,

that she could take care

of herself and she

knew that was bullshit:

wanting an end,

she was alone,

it must have been


withdrawing and

freezing to death

in a lonely alley,

juts a few miles from

where I write this.

John D Robinson

Monday, February 1, 2021

Succubus 4.5.


my heart is on fire

a burning red mass

soon to be nothing but a dried up puddle.

you ignited a passion

inside of me

and you take pleasure 

in watching it burn.

you are my temptress

my seductress

a succubus continually feeding on my soul.

as I cry out in my dreams

you grow stronger

until I am a simple vessel

wandering these lands

as you sit fulfilled

apon your throne.


welcome to the night.


welcome to the night

covet the darkness

where a man can get lost

in the dimly lit barrooms

the junkie filled alleyways 

the semen covered motel rooms

of long lustful encounters

the dark dungeons of the deviant

and perverse.


welcome to the night 

shun the day

filled with the workforce slaves

the fakes

the families hiding their pain

with masked happiness

and the devout followers with nothing to gain.


welcome to the night

and all its power

welcome to the people 

that come alive as the subservient sleep

welcome to the world

where the madhouses have been cleared

and the wildmen 

are freely roaming the streets.



a work of art.


I would like to capture you on film

and hang you on the wall

over my bed

capture all your beauty

your blonde colored hair with dark roots

the sadness and power combined

to make up the reality in your eyes

the smile I put on your face

when we meet after months of being apart.


I would like to be a spokesman for all of the flaws

of your body matured with age

all of your imperfections and insecurities 

that make you unique

and make me love you even more.


I would like to paint you on a canvas

and hang you on the wall

to look at when your gone

so I can remember

all the good memories along with the bad

something to put a smile on my face

as I lay on this bed alone.

Keith Wesley Combs

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...