JUNE 2020

WARNING: GRAPHIC IMAGES AND CONTENT

an open letter to (FUCK) you

by MEH

for making me add another body
to the list poem of hashtagged names
shot, choked, and strung together
in Emmett Till infamy.
HRG

HAD ENOUGH by Andrew Velzian

I neck another valium and lose count 

Of how many  

And how much 

I want this. 

HRG

BRITTANY GETTING DRESSED TO GO OUT

By John Grey 

 what looks 

sexy in the bedroom 

 feels so vulnerable 

in the street 


HRG

UNTITLED

By Lindsey Heatherly 

you confess you’re full of shit 

that truth is relative to yours and mine 

so you cut off your pinkie to prove a point 

and tap it over the pile in the ash tray 

yet you wonder why I keep silent 


A Banned Poem

By Clayre Benzadón 
 

Child, phones will always look like guns 

when they  blend into the  black  ground, 

where you’re  always chalked into sidelines, near  walls rebounding 

unmap, rewrite   resurrection— 

home  can  only exist  skyward.   

HRG


BUZZKILL

By Scott Manley Hadley 

Sometimes 

I would almost cry 

Because Toy Story 2: The Game  

Was just too hard


MICHAEL MCGILL

UNTITLED

By Michael McGill 

New York cars at dusk; 

a debutante on Cunt Mile; 

lust in concrete slabs. 

MY DAD NEVER TELLS STORIES ABOUT WHEN HE WAS YOUNGER

By Charlotte VanWerven 

Some mothers and sons have Nerf gun 

fights between chili pot barricades and 

warped Tupperware shields, 

but my grandma’s last son took out a 9 mm 

in her kitchen. 


BLUE LIVES MURDER 

By Leah Mueller 

The police are here to preserve disorder. 

Power concedes nothing to reasoned complaint. 

Justice won’t come without violence, and probably 

not even then. No one has anything left to surrender:  

no job, no home, no future. Everything stolen. 

Might as well burn the motherfucker down. 


HRG

UNTITLED

By Chris Prewitt 

Who am I to speak of love 

when I’m a chainsaw 

floating 

through a house of mirrors? 

JEFF PREWITT

LIFE IN CEDAR PLANKS

By Michael Luketich

“Virtual reality” is only virtual because we 

cling to the hope that reality is more than our minds 

deluding us into believing that we’ve moved. 




HRG

SHITHEEL

By Alane Ford 
 

Having done many a thing for no good reason, 

with no good outcome, and nothing to show 

was the preamble to this godawful love. 

If they ask why I’m with you, 

I’m just working on the scar. 


HRG

PAUSE

By Dave O’Leary 

Swarms of mosquitoes swirl and buzz  

in my living room. They dive bomb 

me and I swat, miss, hit myself in the face. 

But I do not curse the goddamned things. I breathe, 

sip my beer, ready for one more pass. 


PREWITT SCOTT JACKSON

CHECKING THE COUCH CUSHIONS FOR SPARE GOD

By Prewitt Scott Jackson 
 

pocketed alms slip into the tiny canyons 

of your latest Ikea 

 
the holy trinity divided by the fuckery multiplied by the treachery 

         equals  

sheer terror squared 


MINNEAPOLIS

By C.L. Butler 

tear gas consumed our lungs as we cried for justice 

we are fighting a war against corruption and constructed lies 

the people are tired of suffocating and no longer can be silent 

Molotov’s whiz by my head as we fight for the right to exist 

this was the day the city burned to the ground 

“Righteous Anger, 2020” By RODERICK CURRY

HRG

BBQ

By Arel Kassar 
 

They ran out of whole chickens at the store so I got a turkey instead and traded the six pack I had in my cart for two forties.

At the house I opened one of the malts and drank half, then I covered the bird in salt and pepper and shoved the bottle up its ass. 

HRG

VANCOUVER SPECIAL

By df Parizeau 

I had to get physical with him 
because he was so good with his mouth— 
like a Vancouver Special. 

I felt like I was hallucinating. 

It’s the kinda thing my mom would find sexy. 

TWO POEMS WHEN WE KNEW IT WAS OVER

By MacKenzie Moore 
 

I left, you left, we 

nudge the knob louder, you, my  

LA turnaround  ||||

Pushing down and out  

crumpled receipts, and the part  

where we named the dog 

HRG

CALL IT 

By Jessica Frelow 
 

cradle your breath in curves of my body 

drown me in the rap of your words 

mystify the passion trapped behind foul lips 

rattle open waists, in the will of your infatuation. 

It’s yours. 

LATE NIGHT CALL

By Jasmine Flowers 
 

I done told you. America’s made of blood.  

Let them make a hard-ass bed and lie in it. 

I know this: I love me, and God loves me.  

They can keep that hate right on outside. 

You can’t put your knees on God’s neck. 

HRG

AFTER THE END COMES THIS

By J. Bradley 
 

Rapunzel strokes what remains of her golden stair;  

the prince left a month after her diagnosis. 

Build a tower to live in, she says to her visiting granddaughter.  

Keep your hair short. Give no man the chance to disappoint you.  

two viruses too deadly

By Laura Owens

commuter fumes recede

to make way for those

meeting a premature end

at the hands of “our protectors”

at least the air is clean in heaven

HRG
HRG

WATERBOARDING IN THE WATER CLOSET

By Jay Miller 

we’ve been up 4 days straight now i can’t look you in the eye 

this squatter’s lifestyle and failed music scene 

ain’t cuttin’ it for me last week i found secret gospel 

and bled myself dry eating my heart out because 

god is dead i’m dead broke and poverty and godlessness is punk 


HRG

Hands 

By Sean Cho A.

Eleven is imaginary. 

See?

There’s no fun in logic.

WHEN WILL WE  

By Q.M. Hall

say fuck the American Dream and allow our hearts to break for our brothers and sisters 

around us ­ 

            their homes are burning. 

when will we weaken  

            our selfish, white walls 

and be held accountable for Destruction  

we continue to cause 

HRG

FATHERHOOD

By Eric Lochridge 

is performance art— 

bold actions, no explanations 

shoot a pheasant in the yard 

  say nothing 

finish breakfast 

(This poem was inspired by an anecdote in Episode 193 of The RobCast.)

ERIC LOCHRIDGE

May 28th, 2020 

By Wilson Koewing 

I fell asleep watching Minneapolis burn on my iPhone screen.  

Black smoke billowed from the Auto Zone; flames reached from rooftops like pleading hands. 

As I removed my contacts in a dream, my fingernails became sharp and scratched my eye. 

Puss oozed out and when I looked up into the mirror, my blue iris had turned pallid white. 

Despite the fear and pain I knew was coming, I repeated the process with the other eye.    

HRG


LISA LERMA WEBER

UPON REFLECTION

By Lisa Lerma Weber 

Sometimes I say fuck you to the girl in the mirror 

and sometimes she gives me the finger and  

sometimes we get drunk on vodka and tearfully beg  

forgiveness for the fucked up things we’ve done  

to each other in the name of love. 



HRG

TENDER OBJECTS 

By Olivia Braley 
 

in the kitchen i tenderize the steak mechanically / the mallet connects with the flesh in cruel smacks / the meat gives itself to the force of my blows / like i give myself to the man / flattened under the weight of him / there is the same violent sound / of hard on soft / the same methodic rhythm / of two bodies brutally colliding 

HRG

S.T. BRANT

FOUR QUESTIONS

By S.T. Brant 

Shall such immortal harmony in Being be silenced by a mortal rage? 

Shall it be untuned through false conduct? 

Shall the infinite within go fightless to a cage? 

How can any flesh make peace while a god dies inside its breast 

That challenges it to Life? 



Cimmone (no animals were harmed for the sake of this photo)

WHAT DO WE OWE YOU

By Justin Losey 

We don’t owe you our lives 

     Down to the last drop 

We don’t owe you our dimes 

     Fuck you and your shops 

We don’t owe you shit 


Mileva

WHAT STARS ARE MADE OF
By Mileva Anastasiadou 
 
That’s how life must be, she said, as they made love, up and down,  
back and forth, always, until the swing crumbles down and it all ends. 
That’s how they spent life, on a swing, up and down, back and forth, falling and rising,  
pulling and pushing, until they jumped high into the night sky and became stars, that is life, 
until it all ends, not with a fall, but with a blast, remnants of life orgasms hung bright in the sky. 


HRG

TOO SOON 

By Roger Li 
 

As his pancreas weeps, he smiles: 

for he had been a wheelchair pusher to his wife and 

had sold his house to pay off the debts of his greedy children and 

had dropped talk of seeing the world so that she could bear the pain of old age. 

He didn’t cry. He didn’t ask for help. His children cried. Only to fight over the measly inheritance. 


PINS IN AMERICA

By Kenleigh Gilbert 
 

I will stab pins into America 
in hopes it will not spread to the rest of the world 
Each marks the grave of a life lost 
They have lied to us about freedom 
It has never been free 

Kenleigh

https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/

Please share if you’re able.

This poem is dedicated to the BLM movement.

Many poems in this issue are dedicated to the current movements in our world today. Please be brave. Please use your voice. Please be strong.

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