Sonambulist Poet… by B.Z. NIDITCH



Into the lamplight
reading Flaubert
embarrassingly so
as the hours dance
along my day bed
with the same chapter
and my weary French
needs a dictionary,
as the cat next door
stares at the water lily
under the still life
of a Cezanne print,
and almonds fall
from the card table
full of solitaire,
it starts to rain
the windows hear
taps on the roof
and breathless showers
from unarmed trees
on an insomniac night.


B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.

His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.

He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Copyright © 2012 by B.Z. NIDITCH


Bud Robert Berkich… Deleted 2


Deleted, 2

Body too sexy for The Body. Second skin snake skin pants. Red platforms, six inches. Snake skin bra top deep cut, canyon cleavage clearly visible. Pierced navel, jewel string dangling down. Jet-black eye shadow. Jet-black lipstick. Jet-black fingernails, long. Go back. Pants. Low-riding. Thong strings peeking out, pink. Back-lengthed tattoo at base of back, hovering over buttocks, scrolling. Black. Buttocks deep-cleaved (bass clef– boom! boom!) with six inches elevated, even more so– straining.

Great look. Thanks. Who died? A nod to The Body. All of them, from the neck up. From the waist down. In mourning? No. In mocking. Found ridiculous? No. Pathetic. As in psycho.

Just look. And think I’m nuts. I offend. what do they do to me? Make me want to puke.


Bud Robert Berkich was born in Somerville, NJ and raised in Bound Brook, NJ. He has been writing creatively since the age of eight, and has been published in The Idiom, Subliminal Interiors, Quantum Poetry Magazine and The Analectic. A one-act play entitled End Street was published in The Rockhurst Review. Bud is the co-founder and director of The Bridgewater Poetry Group, Bridgewater, NJ. He currently resides in Manville, NJ.

Copyright © 2012 by Bud Robert Berkich






Unconditional Surrender… by Alex Damov

Unconditional surrender to geometry of calendar

Sentimental as derailed steam engine
You were once bribed into greatness
Now payback’s served – as customary – raw
Labyrinth of exploded coal mine echoes
Moans of deranged fool
Mental processing of oven baked goose
Old you now; told you so
Above the water just raises its head
What is it? Sea lion; hope of death
Roll up that news paper and tap
The face of a candidate for the party
You used to love on your knee trying
To keep up with the rhythms of ‘tide’s coming in’
Jazz reputation is a perishable product
And it goes down as trans-Atlantic linear
Although friends and family are to be thanked
For being rather Ciceronian when it
Came to exacting their revenge
Tried to laugh it off: what will the
Gentleman be having – a scandal on the rocks
Deprived of leisure and prestige
No ambassadorship to Vienna or Paris
You’re ferried to the Would Be island
Severe hedonist of winters past
Reduced to combing the beach for
Dreams and un-kosher clams alas
Emptiness expands over detected lack
Of self-interest unspeakable vice in the
Circles into which you fortunately no longer
Have access cities and centuries will be
Remembered last names and features
Of faces are conveniently interchangeable


Alex Damov is a poet from Woodinville, Washington. His work has been published in Hennen’s Observer, Eudaimonia Review, Earl Grey’s Overeasy, and in other places.

Copyright © 2012 by Alex Damov


Kneel And Pray… by Carly Grove


Kneel And Pray

Heels clicking, hips swishing
we walk
fluorescent lights flicker reflecting in shiny linoleum floors
teachers stand stiffly by doors,
searching for something,
in the throbbing mass that stands, walks, slides, dances
to their next class,
for another 45 minutes
of the counting down clock
couples coyly kiss in stairwells,
avoiding prying eyes of the
lonely, lustful, jealous teachers,
this moment is theirs.
We find havens where we can,
hole ourselves away from that hideous
warehouse of flesh and metal surrounding us
hoping for heartache,
hoping for pain,
hoping for a break from that
tedious monotony that follows us like some slinking snake
threatening asphyxiation at
listlessly, we carry on
faking laughter, faking tears
we play the pretend game of the high school soap opera,
fighting with our own ever-present emptiness
like some great ocean storm that
circles the slick decks of our consciousness.
Lost and stupid
we kneel and pray for relief.


Carly Gove is a fourteen year old who someday will become a poet laureate.

Copyright © 2012 by Carly Grove