The Last Exotic Petting Zoo… by Jessica Tyner


The Last Exotic Petting Zoo

In the dripping cold of an Oregon January,
miasma of wet dog clung to us like a
discarded lover. You, sick
with a cough and a heavy head tucked
in the pages of a book. I drove
like hell down the coastal
back roads. No one holds tigers
and lions in the winter
but us.
The wanton mud swallowed our shoes,
sucked our feet in searching gulps
while the animals watched.
You held her,
Bristled paws like a kiwano,
as I cradled the bottle of milk
into her frantic mouth knowing you’ll never
think me as magnificent as you
do right now.
I gifted you a tiger cub, her claws etching
delicate scars into your forearms,
while the rain scoured us to the bone.


Copyright © 2012 by Jessica Tyner


Stars End… by Alex Damov


At the other end of light there is a star

On the other side of street there is a bar
Do I dare then to cross and tempt its door?

To find not there the one I so adored

Cash’s scarce, ‘don’t walk’ signal’s on
What is there to do, when all’s been done?
When all content of the universe

Worth not chaos in a barfly’s purse

Cold October, in a week it’s Halloween
Nights are spilling over as I’m growing thin
All that’s left to do now is to survive

Keep an eye on kids and love the wife

Here’s to profound mystery of father’s god
Whether ever you have wished for it or not
You’ll walk by way of the recurrent bar
And twist your cuff to hide residual scar


Copyright © 2012 by Alex Damov





The House Which Wasn’t Haunted… by Purple Mark Wirth


The House Which Wasn’t Haunted

With fears so vague and suspicions depending
upon small points, the very horror lies in

my situation: the House itself.

It is not that the House is haunted, which spoils the ghostliness of it,

but there is something strange about the House that I can feel.

It is in a village that has been abandoned
by the peasants for fear of Revenants

either of real or imagined pasts.

If I were of better means or had other options,
I would move away from the shadows that fall

almost imperceptibly awry,

too many shadows which have no source in anything visible, but as it is I am
forced to exist

with these uneasy intangibilities.

Were it Ghosts, I might have at least something
with which I could talk with, but they

are not even that concrete.

It is more like the House is at the center
of many worlds and their possibilities,

none of which have made up their minds

as to which will manifest and which will remain
unsatisfied in their hope of existence. It is

a difficult atmosphere to live within its walls.

I feel that I am only barely tolerated by these conditions as if they, not me
were in charge of

the House with its care and maintenance.

If I were not there, it might be that the House
would at least settle into one configuration or other, but for now it both is
and isn’t haunted.


Purple Mark aka Mark Wirth courts way too many Muses: Chocolate-Making, Costuming, Millinery, Photography, Painting, Drawing, Novel-Writing and Poetry. In College, he was the Art Director for the MSU Literary Annual for 2 years and an issue of Scimitar: Illustrations, Layout and some Poetry. In the Seattle area, he worked on Mythos in a like manner and provided additional photography as well as short stories.

Copyright © 2012 by Purple Mark Wirth





With My Initials… by B.Z. Niditch



With my initials
nailed by dark green
yet the poet
is not at home
but on a hammock
as a bed rock
writing between rose
garden walls
his hair windswept
after the rain
expecting a landscape
of current words
to overturn
all phantasms of language.


Copyright © 2012 by B.Z. Niditich