Both

“Stream” is a noun and a verb,meaning the act of flowing,while also the body that flows.The same is true of “flood,”except those are usually messier-just like how I can’t decideif this is more or less poetic. Richard LeDue (he/him) currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba. He is a Best of the Net nominee. His first chapbook

Addiction

I’m addicted to madness Only whenI want madnessI can escapefrom a stream ofcruelness of reality Waves of madnessare remedyto live normallyon this spears Yuu Ikeda is a Japan based poet.She loves writing, drawing,and reading mystery novels.She writes poetry on her website.https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/Her published poems can be foundin <Nymphs>,<Selcouth Station Press>,<Goat’s Milk Magazine>,<celestite poetry>,and more. You can

Obscured

snatched burnedbundled thrown away reduced to a trick of light in a picture frameacat lit by headlights eyes flashing runningaway mist coatedhands (you’re ocean spray) Cheryl Aguirre (they/them) is a queer biracial poet based in Austin, Texas. You can find their previously published work in Ghost City Press, decomp journal, South Broadway Press, Pine Hills Review, The Mantle, and HeroinChic. You can follow them at @drowsy_orchid on Instagram and @Wheat_Mistress on Twitter. 

Babbling Brook

And I talked, my tongue as fast as the waterslapping at my feet like tongues of wet dogs, licking and lickingspitting out phrases like currents sweeping away my thoughtsinto the sea. Katie Goldblatt (she/her/hers) has always had a passion and talent for writing. Whether poetry, prose, fiction, songwriting, dramatic writing, or any other genre, she

PLEASE FORM YOUR ANSWERS IN THE FORM OF A QUESTION

who is citizen sugarcanethe diabetic sweetheartan Oscar impostercrackhead method actorshirtless and tweaking outhigh AF on bath salts and strapped to the hood of Boss Hogg’s Cadillaccheck his airwayhe’s hornymight need CPR who ishellfire on the airwaves a shock-jock deejay talking smack talk sugar smacksin second-hand Ray-Bans  who isMister Transistor gave your sister wicked blisters treading heavy Doc Martensacross the Gadsden flag in these

Poem at Your Doorstep

When death is at a distance, life’s a bore.When death is at a distance, I’m a spore.When D is at a D door and road. When death is distant speaking ten-cent tongues.When death is at a distance, Fire! Run! Or in the rosy distance rosy-cheekedWhen country homeWhen the dead are a distant second When death is at a

Sky pirates

dreams of being thingsother than the things we are so that when asked‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎what you do‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

I Sent My Ghost to the Party

Body stayed home and read three pages of a book andsixteen Facebook memes,went to bed early.Ghost Me brought two bottles of wine,scattered joy like a new queen tossing coins to the crowd. She didn’t smile a half-baked smileor speak in a crosshair-thin voice,didn’t run out of words and spend forty-five minutes watching Dr. Pimple Popper while everyone

maraschino cherry juice

rose-tinted sunglasses sour the ocean water to strawberrylemonade, pink and perfect, sucked through a bendy strawbetween your rosy lips, precisely pressed and puckering,popping bubblegum against your blistered beehive tomb. the night’s salmon-stream sunset is scarlet-laced and cloudy,whipped cream and meringue dolloped atop shortcake skies.the grenadine oozes out of you like you’ve sliced skin,but when he