Never forget that, no matter how bad today may have been, tomorrow is always a new set of opportunities. Every 24 hours is another chance to change your life, and yourself for the better, or worse. The choice is yours. However you approach it, tomorrow is always there for the taking. Unfolding like a piece of origami. Opening up, like a rose on a time delay film. Every minute of every day is a countdown to what could be the best day of our lives. Can’t you feel it ?
through ducts, expelled wet truths upon cheeks, tears
thin paper, freckled fists attempting to resist
the gravity of pain, its endless drips. Despair
you can’t restrain before the blonde internist,
who looks like your Barbie dolls — is that why
you confess it all — nights you cry yourself
to sleep, indignities you push inside
as deep as pastel kitchen knives, bookshelf
of broken hymen hymns scribbled, first, at five
about sad men who swallow you like pills,
self medicating like you never will.
Author’s Note: This is the story of me deciding to take help offered to me from my doctor for my anxiety/depression. It’s changed my life immensely. My abuser did not take medication that he required and it is one more way I’m proud to be different then him.
Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of seventeen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Crow Carriage (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), The Meadow (APEP Publications) and Golden Ticket from Roaring Junior Press. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com
with the blessing “That distinguishes between sacred and profane”
This is the most important day
to consume cigarettes, because the day when
from all his work is not an idea.
That every business is closed
in Jerusalem, even if they made
enough from tobacco
consumption during the week.
Really, there’s a woman for whom the cigarette is
and the way she counts
in cigarette butts
corrects her phobia
I need a cigarette that does not exceed 10 centimeters and is no more than 7 millimeters in diameter
The effect of the nicotine substance found in tobacco on the human brain
inspires in me at the same time
the quality of writing on the Sabbath.
It should be seriously considered
that there are withdrawal
symptoms arising from a lack of
nicotine in the brain that is prevented from me
to contain them
when a person does not consume cigarettes
on the Holy Sabbath.
Accordingly, the biblical saying will come here that
“the Sabbath may be broken when life is at stake”
Should I silence any thirst
and adhere with the Creator blessed without
any adherence to an object
for an entire day?
Generally the week enters on the Sabbath.
For me? On Sunday.
I offered congratulations from this morning to tomorrow
even though I was corrected regarding the date of birth.
How do I explain that a person
has no idea when
he will end his life this time around?
I write to my mother my love for her
in the most unexpected moments
how will I explain that perhaps it is the penultimate
greeting of a daughter to her mother before the present
the latter and not the resurrected midwife
from the year 80
the umbilical cord between me
and her placenta and not to give birth
to me again? but to kill.
I look at my father and cry for another
twenty years or so
that he will not be here
I was ahead of the artist to “grow and sanctify her great name”
in the Kaddish prayer in the twilight hour in Sacker Park.
I shed a tear.
If you live in consciousness as I wrote
“God does not pass over life from man, as he does not
pass over death.”
You are the most miserable person there is, with such insight
you do not enjoy a single piece of bread and no
You are dead.
A letter to myself
There’s a whole world
waiting for you
around the darker
corner of life
you are adept enough to sort clothes
of the same
ethnic group of
the black cloth
of your life.
If you hadn’t been a little better
than the decorations that would add
so as to decorate the rhetoric
of the black cloth of your life
I promise you that you would
a star fall in the dark!
You are willing to come
Where I kill myself
Every single day –
You can’t live in a place
Where the Transfer is
For you –
As much as you warned me
Where people don’t realize “
The difference between Poetry
I want to go back to
Europe – where people live
You say you like Jews
You thought I came from
Those countries – where it is forbidden
So I am going to the hospital
What the hospital asks
Is one less lady
My own “Thousand”
Carring your signture.
I wear them as an amulet–
Much like Umm Kulthum’s scarf amulet
The one she carried at every performance,
With a Thousand seeds of Parisian cocIne in it
I walk with them–
Like the thousand chemicals
In the poison that
Nietzsche carried permanently
In his pocket
But I don’t praise it–
So don’t ever try to train my brains
To be pleased
You know my heroes,
I was happy before I knew them
Before I barely knew
The difference between you and
I build tactics
While you sleep
On how to admit
To my crime
We make love
And my War
On a bed where
“The half of the wharf that is bleeding
Is the half where I always
I like your gestures but
I can’t take you
To portray Others
In my language
I can’t live like this
And you can’t either
There is no better
I failed to be
* A person in the process of conversion
A Letter From Israel
I miss you so much
I miss Oslo.
You come to visit me,
Like a platonic figure
For a woman who lost the
In a city with no drawing,
With a man stuck with a broken foot
To the celebration of the woman that I am
And the women here named the same
Perfume over ten years
While I named (at the same time)
The same pills.
This is my accompaniment
I can not beautify
As you can’t either.
So I’m eating you
A little too much – sometimes with
With my clouded eyebrows
And a cigarette in
You wear the Kippa that I bought you
With Norwegian letters
Spelling your name
There is no better tribute here
By the force of my doom
By the force of my doom
The blood of disgrace
Is in menstruation.
And not upon
And not as
A wife to bear it
Tali Cohen Shabtai, is a poet, she was born in Jerusalem, Israel. She began writing poetry at the age of six, she had been an excellent student of literature. She began her writings by publishing her impressions in the school’s newspaper. First of all she published her poetry in a prestigious literary magazine of Israel ‘Moznayim’ when she was fifteen years old. Tali has written three poetry books: “Purple Diluted in a Black’s Thick”, (bilingual 2007), “Protest” (bilingual 2012) and “Nine Years From You” (2018). Tali’s poems expresses spiritual and physical exile. She is studying her exile and freedom paradox, her cosmopolitan vision is very obvious in her writings. She lived some years in Oslo Norway and in the U.S.A. She is very prominent as a poet with a special lyric, “she doesn’t give herself easily, but subject to her own rules”.Tali studied at the “David Yellin College of Education” for a bachelor’s degree. She is a member of the Hebrew Writers Association and the Israeli Writers Association in the state of Israel.I n 2014, Cohen Shabtai also participated in a Norwegian documentary about poets’ lives called “The Last Bohemian”- “Den Siste Bohemien”,and screened in the cinema in Scandinavia. By 2020, her fourth book of poetry will be published which will also be published in Norway. Her literary works have been translated into many languages as well.
Diction—try out this word at a party. Electrify the
Ladies. Wink wink. Guys, Irish painter Francis
Bacon revered venerable masters so mightily he
Snatched their frameworks & muddied ’em.
Chicano poetry necessitates destructive flair.
I’m truly scared to detonate how I really want to.
Scared I’ll explode in a million directions &
The shards will hint of Mexican dark chocolate.
If you make a show of reciting poems to every
Mirror, you’re ripe for the big leagues. Right as a
Bent [insert noun]. I hate punk rock, therefore am punk.
Bio :Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections, WARBLES and DREAMT, or The Lingering Phantoms of Equinox, both from Hekate Publishing. His poems, short fiction and op-eds have appeared in various print and electronic publications. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University.
BIO: David Cranmer is the editor of the BEAT to a PULP webzine and whose own body of work has appeared in such diverse publications as The Five-Two: Crime Poetry Weekly, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, LitReactor, Macmillan’s Criminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. Under the pen name Edward A. Grainger he created the Cash Laramie western series. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter.
I remember, as a child thinking of the future. Of the year 2000. Even then I knew that it wasn’t going to be like the T.V. programme, Space 1999, I wasn’t expecting an atomic jet pack. Still, I thought, ” In the year 2000, I’ll be 28 years old. My life will be settled, I will have a wife, kids a calm life and a good career.” Here I am, aged 48, and my life is a howling chaos. I don’t have a wife, or any kids, and a calm, settled life ? You must be fucking joking! As for a career ? I must have had at least 50 jobs and nearly every one I’ve hated. The few I’ve liked, and the rest, have all ended pretty much the same way. Redundancy, recession, or just being fired. But usually, redundancy. There’s nothing that destroys your pride like being told that you’re redundant, in the real meaning of the word ;
Out of date,
Of no use to anyone.
Yet the people of my generation have had to get used to being called it again, again and again. Yet we get up, brush ourselves off and on we go. Applying for any job that you can get your hands on. Minimum wage, no brain jobs, I even got turned down by fucking McDonald’s !
Am I bitter ? You bet I fucking am ! Once upon a time I had a trade, I was a precision engineer. Then they closed all of the factories, moved the jobs to Indonesia,
or maybe Malaysia and all of the workers were left high and dry. I had worked hard, gone
to college at night,
after a full day at work, but
suddenly there was no
need for my skills anymore,
my qualifications were useless.
It’s the way that capitalism
Then you were something,
because we needed you, now you’re just redundant.
This is the story of my life, my city, my county. We were known as the potteries, now we are nothing.
It’s strange when you think of the Earth under your feet. Not only the fact that you are on a piece of rock, rotating through the nothingness of space at roughly 65,000 miles per hour, but this actual earth and how many feet must have trodden on it before you were even born. Not just the farmers and factory workers of the last few generations, but the serfs, and peasants of the 18th, 19th, or whatever century. Before, even that, I wonder what was happening here in the Civil War, or going back even further, did the Vikings reach this part of England ? Was this ground ever trod by a Celtic berserker ? Or has it just been drunken Stoke City fans ?