John Kaniecki… I Was A Navajo


I was a Navajo

A million years ago
I herded sheep
And got little sleep

I knew the name of each member of the starry host

I was a Navajo
And walked Mother Earth below
I knew secrets deep
Treasures to keep

Now I walk the scarred surface an anguished ghost

I weep I wail
My courage does fail
When I see greed and lust for power and control
An endless drive with an ambiguous goal
Never to achieve never to receive
The simple blessing to those who believe

In Love

In one night of my life there was more joy

Then in all the angry years of those who destroy

I was a Navajo
And you will never know
The beauty of the night
And what is right


My name is John Kaniecki and I write poetry for the enjoyment of the art. I believe that a poet must first establish that they can write in rhyme and rhythm and only then move to the more advanced free verse. I have been published by Struggle Magazine, The Blue Collar Review, Burning Books, Jerry Jazz, IWW Newspaper, Protest Poems, Flute, Black Magnolia, Left Curve, She Mom, Whisper, Vox Poetica and others. Though political or moral in nature I write in various forms.

Copyright © 2014 by John Kaniecki





Andy Wilson… Fish Farts


Fish Farts

She wanted to know. If I knew.
That my fart was going to smell as bad as it did.

Before I unleashed it.

I was picking at my toenails, trying to piece away the parts that were too long.

“Yeah, I did. I can usually tell how bad it will smell,

by how warm and heavy it is in my lower abdomen.”

She asked between wheezes.

Why, then, didn’t I even try to hold it in.

Because I am my father’s son.

And I was born from my mother.

You see, my dad was a captain.
strangled fish in nets and yanked them out of The Bering Sea.
6 months out of the year.
When he came home, he’d lay on the couch.
He never used toenail clippers, and I was amazed.
At how he could reach down, and rip off his toenails with just two fingers.
A manly man. who’d fart loudly.
And laugh about it from under his mustache.

Proudly unashamed.

His farts were obvious and harmless.
The family giggled at his horn butt.

Then turn back to the horror flick on T.V.

Then a creeping nightmare scent
would sneak under our noses.
We didn’t have to ask.
We already knew.
Because if you could put smells in the movies.
My mom’s farts would be the cloverfield monster.
A lovecraftian great old one.

Adapted for the screen.

And with ethereal nebulous tendrils it’d strangle brainstems.
Our minds would become desperate

for clean air. Gasping for sanity.

Mom would sit there.

A woman, silent. smiling in absolute victory.

That’s when I learned two things.

One, victory is signaled, not by ally horns.

But your enemies asphyxiated tears.

Two, the only person who farts as bad as me.

Is my mom.

Sometimes I know a fart’s going to be really bad.
By the way it thrashes in my belly.
Like fish. Made out of hot butter mixed with spoiled eggs.

Who knows fresh air will make him die.

And that’s why you see me. Here.
Unleashing Stomach Death.

Picking at my toenails.

Because I am just the reemergence of a pattern.

A salmon returning to spawn.

I brought back a belly of nets, full strangled farts captured.

And that’s why I didn’t even try. To hold it in.
And that’s why I’m here.
Proudly unashamed.

And smiling in absolute victory.

My mom and dad showed me how.


Andy Wilson is a northwest native, poet, performer, writer, e-sports enthusiast, and modern day Ad-Man. He’s the author of: How Ugly Ads Make Millions, Advertising Made Easy. Performs frequently in Everett, but sometimes in Bellingham and Seattle too. Follow on Twitter: @AndyWilson22.

Copyright © 2014 by Andy Wilson





Jeannine Gailey… Lucky Bone


Lucky Bone

I have an extra bone
near my Achilles tendon –
a gift, a trick of genetics.
Os Trigonum, described as an extra accessory
like a handbag or a spare pair of slippers.
Like the lucky rabbit whose foot was removed
or the tiger whose bone hangs around your neck
I do not curse that which keeps me
from perfect pointe work in ballet,
a career as a star soccer player.
I only pray it brings someone better luck
when they pick up my skeleton,
hold the little oddity
in their hands, marvel at the strangeness of the body,
our little hidden treasures.


Jeannine Hall Gailey recently served as the Poet Laureate of Redmond, Washington and is the author of three books of poetry, Becoming the Villainess, She Returns to the Floating World, and Unexplained Fevers. Her web site is

Copyright © 2014 by Jeannine Gailey






Alfonso Colasuonno… 4:30 AM


4:30 AM

I’ve been called old before my time
For rising before that damned yellow speck does
Rising when the best of us finally fall asleep

And being asleep when the best of us are at their best

Still, I cherish those early mornings
Before that damned yellow speck gets up there amidst the blue
I absorb a little placidity
When the birds come forth from their nests
And all I hear besides their mating chirps
Is the match that I strike

As I light my first cigarette of the day

A man can really get to appreciate solitude
With just a Marlboro Red
And a tallboy in a paper bag
On his front porch
At 4:30 in the morning
After seven good hours of sleep
But still two and a half

Before the kiss, morning sex, shower, shave, coffee, scrambled eggs and turkey sausage, and drive to work routine

Many tell me I should sleep more
I’ve followed their advice – for a time
But I missed that brief half hour
When all is silent
When the night owls are in bed
And the early risers are in bed
And I am alone
With just a Marlboro Red
And a tallboy in a paper bag

Before the kiss, morning sex, shower, shave, coffee, scrambled eggs and turkey sausage, and drive to work routine

Many tell me I should stay up later
I’ve followed their advice – for a time
But everyone drinks in the evenings

Only true stalwarts drink in the morning

4:30 a.m. is the only time
When I can relate to the world
On the verge of something new
The old having passed away
And always, just a cigarette
Keeping me company


Alfonso Colasuonno is a 29-year-old poet and short fiction writer based in Pennsylvania. He graduated from Beloit College with a BA in Creative Writing. His work has been featured or is forthcoming in Gutter Eloquence, Citizens for Decent Literature, Yellow Mama, Horror Sleaze Trash, Pink Litter, Dead Snakes, and Bone Orchard Poetry.

Copyright © 2014 by Alfonso Colasuonno





Brandon Pitts… Magdalene (for Rebbeca Brooksher)



              for Rebecca Brooksher


in a stone garden I have sat


I had visions of you as a child
              a dark madonna, sans the suckling babe


you would answer the calls of the priests each Wednesday
              in the evening . . . their time


then I travelled
              from the high country to the sea


to teach them religion
              and you no longer had to suffer their ways


now . . . your body will feel the touch
              of one who is rightly guided


and you will know that love comes
              from some other place


for deep down inside
              when that daemon of self destruction


lies dormant and asleep
              you will hear whisper of your worth


then I will call you Magdalene
              and together . . . we will be


Prolific novelist, poet, lyricist, and playwright,Brandon Pitts is the author of the poetry collection, Pressure to Sing (IOWI), the play, Killcreek (IOWI – 2013 Toronto Fringe), and the novel, Puzzle of Murders (Bookland Press). In 2011, he was selected for inclusion in the prestigious Diaspora Dialogues as an Emerging Voice and has been widely anthologized.

Copyright © 2014 by Brandon Pitts