note from editor:

"saw the phantom kangaroo thing when i was a kid. moved faster than my eyes could follow, stopped directly in front of me in the middle of a field then zipped off in a /blur, but was obviously something paranormal likes to cloak itself as a kangaroo. try telling this shit to people they think ur crazy. well ive told ya what i saw take it as you will." - anonymous post on 4chan

"a tempest" by ron koppelberger

Witnessing something paranormal and finding a new favorite poem are one in the same. Often times it can't be translated, or no one believes me, so I just sit and brew with wonderment. For a moment, I'll be enlightened to some secret of the universe and all the cells in my body will align with planets and stars, and I will understand myself wholly and completely, as a human being and as other things I could be. And then it fades. And I continue to be bits of neurosis, of habits, of fears, and all I felt for that short time no longer influences my choices. 

I was tired of this happening, so I wanted to gather poems of paranormal qualities all in one place, for proof that these things exist. Hopefully it will awaken something in you, and you will believe that you are meant to be in this moment, reading these poems, and it'll confirm your existence, and when you tell someone that you caught a glimpse of your purpose, hopefully, they'll believe you. 

Claudia, November 2010

Revenge of the Pumpkins

by Bill Gainer


It rolled from the porch
and laid there like a rotting corpse.
Flies and gnats
flew from its mouth,
it turned soft,
took on an odd odor.
The dog rolled in it
and was banished from the house
until after
the first big rain.
The lawn died
where it fell.
Two full seasons later
and still
nothing grows there.


scopers

 

by Alex Brown 

 

They watch from within the walls

 

whisper secrets in frequencies a human ear cannot decipher

their station formed, the mad ones have tuned in.

 

He breathed into their bones and twisted eardrums about

signals freshly intercepted, feeding them what to do

in the term informing about the zoo.

 

They watch from the running gaps between stars

 

the planets are protons

I, in death, become a wave of thought.

 

since the children

by David McLean

 

since the children have been loving absences

and things not moving, working seven to eleven

at murdering themselves more or less

competently, more or less because

there is no such thing as infantile,

or any other kind of, sexuality

 

predefined; since then there has been a slow rolling blues

playing inside them like spiders on acid with heroin

eyes, though they might not know what the blues is

though they might never have listened to it,

since the children have been living

suicide in slow motion,

 

the skull in them has been singing,

but no body will ever listen -

after all, they are just children,

new things are always living

 

Satanic Relics

by William Doreski

 

An appendix to my Field Guide

to Evil offers instructions

for devising Satanic relics.

 

The bones of an infant’s arm

upholstered with dried seaweed

and boxed in carefully carpentered

 

hickory or ash, for instance.

One is not encouraged to murder

a child but find one killed by bombing

 

or other act of war, then purchase

the sad little corpse from parents

whose grief seems authentic but

 

subject to the flux of currency.

Another example needs stones

washed down the River Jordan

 

all the way to the Dead Sea. Fill

a skull with these stones so tightly

it doesn’t rattle; seal the eyes

 

and neck-hole; cement the jaw shut;

then gild the assemblage and pose it

on your mantle where dinner guests

 

will find it charming. Still another

requires the ashes of a blood

relative dead of natural causes.

 

Mix the ashes with clay and throw

a pot on a hand-cranked wheel;

glaze and bake; use the pot to store

 

pebbles from Mecca, Medina,

Nazareth and Jerusalem.

Of course such relics can’t function

 

in our nuclear world; but I hope

that hearing about them relieves you

of otherwise obtuse gloom.

On a clear night you can see for never

by Harry Calhoun


Light being what it is, immutable, and we know
how long it takes us to notice anything
changing, and we should know how long
it usually takes for anything to change.

So we should be amazed to see
something that no longer exists?
We're not talking dinosaurs here,
or ghosts, or gasoline at nineteen point nine

a gallon. Look up at that canopy
the pine trees in your back yard hold up tonight
and see Lord knows how many stars
gone nova and not really there

any more. And others whose demise
is light years in the future, like an aneurysm
bubbling somewhere in your brain,
cozy as comfort but a universe away.

Keep looking at all those stars
as if they are all still here
not fading slowly into


something else


The Farsighted Bandit


When it came
to love,
he was
a prowler,

 

a nocturnal
smuggler,

 

he hunted
her in the
darkness,
swooping down
mid-air,

 

you could hear
her screeching
through the
thin walls,

 

in the mornings
he walked her
to the train station,

 

one hand on
the back of her
neck,
the other
stretching
out his talons

 

 

My hands were cold the day I learned how to tell time.

by Laura Hardy

 

The guests were tall like church pews. Devouring stale crackers, giving their bad breathed goodbyes. The iridescent pearls at my mother’s collarbone bit at my flesh. I studied the splintering prayer bench far from my dangling feet. The Autumn air had stolen the moisture from our skin. Cracks in my fingers became salted cracks in the concrete. My eyes traced them to the water’s edge. Gold and blackened leaves waltzed over the plastic blue cover. Below the surface a shadow of the dead rippled my skin. Fear itself whimpered explicitly from the balding trees that grains of sand were pounding at the bottom of my own hourglass. I ran back inside as wind chimes played their funeral march.

 

 

The Teeth of Wraiths

by Felipe Rivera


Dedicated to the unknown, the absent, the untouchables,
Huddling, nurturing, crooning over simple shadows
A lingering scent of groping lust
Deaf parrots in cosmic solitude dressing and disrobing
And breaking cadavers in infinite jazz:
A severe gash outside our bodies
Scribbling with cut tongues, or fates
Tracing the tip of each delicate hair
A field of naked poppies, days before the solstice
A sperm-tinctured blanket mist and Mount Sutro
Indeterminate like time, or now, or dusk
Breaking wine glasses, screaming into black holes, or rum
Lips torn into existence

We are night or shade
Beautiful blind monsters smashing mirrors in reverse
Always absent and untouchable
Like two moons passing with no word
Now stuck to flesh made raw
On this furiously gentrified corridor
Where sighs sigh the shape of a jail cell
Of lavender, musk, or the Pacific

Have you been crushed, crumbled, returned to the earth
Medieval Madonnas levitating
Coated in rust where there is no rust
Always absent, unreachable like free wine, or infinite jazz
Lingering in scent, groping lust
Inside the folds of an old eye, a bruised dress
Our terrible duty is to see it to the end

Huddled and crooning over a simple light
To the singing children, the ill-fed and the well-fed heading for the abyss
To the unknown, the phantasms, a shadow or mirror, to the moments of silence
This is our dedication:

 

Bridesmaid, Radiology

by Taylor Graham


Fluorescent corridors, ghost-
girl in hospital gown,
braces on legs and ankles. Pale eyes
as if she got here
falling down stairs till there was nothing
left of bones.

You’re worried about your ankle,

and here’s a girl so sadly
beautiful, she begs for rhyme. Seizures,
she says. Like falling from a high-
rise helispot. She’ll miss
her best friend’s wedding. Seized
like trying for flight.
Bones too brittle-thin,
lovely as a bird shot down.

They’ll x-ray your ankle.

We’ll walk out in late spring
daylight, drive familiar streets,
the freeway, country roads haunted
by a ghost, back home.



For An Unborn Child

by Michael Grover


Last night a psychic touched me
Rested her head on my chest
Looked up at my surprise & said
Oh your ex had a miscarriage
That was the story that she gave me

I saw you only once in a dream
You were riding in the backseat
Beautiful bi-racial girl
Beautiful curly hair
Beautiful smile
Your mother in the passenger seat
I driving
It was a smooth riding luxury car
We were all happy
Life don't work out that way

Your name was to be Karenthia
From Jean Toomer's “Kane”
The most beautiful girl in town
The one the boys all chased around

Today you would have been eight
Going on nine
We would probably be living
In the ghetto of West Philadelphia
We would worry about you
Walking the streets every day

You died before you ever
Had a chance to live
She told me she had a miscarriage
It was really an abortion
She had to erase
Every trace of me

Today I place flowers on your grave
Somewhere in my head
Today I send this Poem like a prayer
That you were born in a better place
And you are living a happy healthy life
Things would not have been good here
I doubt that life would ever be as smooth
As it was in that dream

Last night a psychic touched me
As she rest her head on my chest
She reminded me of you
It's been years since I've thought of you
No wondering where you would have gone to school
If you would have been a decent person
I cried



Hallowe’en

by Maggie Armstrong

 

Happiness was never the intent of our lives. We had only wanted to smoke cigarettes, one after another after another, and not cringe at our self-mutilation. When I’d open our fresh pack of whatever was on special I always imagined my face cracked and puss filled, like I had already been burning in hell for a lifetime or three. Then when I’d put the fresh cigarette in between my rouged lips my face would go back to normal. No burns, just pink. I always felt like Freddy Krueger sitting next to you.

 

Arachnophobia was on the television set with a Jack-O-Lantern on top. Flickering in unison with each scream. I looked down at my puke green nail polish against the grape couch. The middle nail still black from the hammer incident two days before. I started having nightmares about you. We’d wander around an abandoned mall like in Dawn of the Dead only nobody was after us. We’d just hold hands and walk, excited about which store to loot first. Nordstrom? We could raid the Marc Jacobs collection. Cinnabon? No calories in the post-apocalyptic world. The high ceilings of the mall were draped in darkness. No electricity. We could barely see the signs outside the stores. And when we’d get there, there were no cinnamon buns fresh from the oven. Only boxes of weird ingredients with labels in Swedish or Aramaic. No Marc Jacobs sweaters, only poly-blend tube tops with bedazzled diamonds on the seams. I finally squeezed your hand in horror only to receive a fist full of bleeding spiders. You were never there.

 

Lollipops, Tootsie pops, Almond Joys, and Dots. Your favorites. We’d only ever buy your favorites, and in bulk. At this time of year, when I close my eyes to smell the nutmeg and burning leaves, I always picture that day at the Nut tree. Our first pumpkin patch fair. I only see hay, big blocks of hay in the back and foreground and then someone hands me a pumpkin ice cream cone. I look down and see the tiny brown flecks in the flesh colored mound. I imagine the flecks are your freckles and the ice cream is your face. I bite down hard and let the cream drip down from both corners of my mouth. I look to mom, hoping to see her scream at my sister’s blood dripping from my mouth. She doesn’t see me when I stand next to you. You and your beautiful freckles as you suck on a bright red tootsie pop.

 

Lost you again. You crawled under the bathroom stall and locked it from the inside. You slid the hammer under the stall and told me to swing. If I got a thumb we’d try and find the toy store. You said you saw flashlights back in the abandoned Starbucks. You said the wick wasn’t strong enough. You said I should never let the candle go out, not even when we got the flashlight back. If we got separated we should meet at the Spirit Store. It was the easiest to find in the dark, the only store with electricity. You could hear Michael Myers' groans from anywhere in the mall.

 

Opera is my favorite horror movie because it is your favorite horror movie. My favorite part is when the killer tapes those knives to her victim’s eyelids so they can never shut them. You told me Dario Argento wrote it that way in order to suggest that we all crave an audience. Even psychopathic killers need validation. You handed me a knife once, out of boredom I suppose, and you told me to cut you. Just for fun. When I took it from you the blade was cold, but the handle was still warm. You told me everybody ought to have a few lacerations and scars, so we can tell the boys in bars something other than what retail outlets and strip malls we worked in. When you asked me to cut you, your gaze skewed slightly above my head. I turned around to see, and there was no one there. Only the oven door with your reflection in the window.

 

Werewolves of London by Warren Zevon blast out of the speakers behind me. Again. Whoever was throwing this party took the time to freeze little severed heads in ice and put one in each cocktail. I snuck off to the bathroom to add more of my own vodka from my pink flask to the blood red cocktail. I didn’t feel like sharing. I sipped the new mixture and turned the lights off. I’ve started chewing on my cheeks again. Slowly biting off bits of my own flesh and swallowing. The cranberry vodka stings the wounds, but I take a big gulp and swish it around to amplify it. The glow from my digital watch illuminates my face a tender green, scattering shadows across my face and hollows out my cheekbones. I take another sip and spit it all over the mirror. The amorphous blobs migrate down and over my eyes. I think to call on Bloody Mary. Bloody you, Mary. Would you recognize me now? Would you recognize me through my metamorphosis, into the Halloween version of me? The full moon version of me? The worst version of me?

 

Eleven thirty five AM is when they found you. You were completely naked except for your angel wings. The police never could figure out why they only took you. Both of us were standing on that street corner, admiring the scratching and howls of the fall foliage blowing across the blacktop, but they only wanted you. With your beautiful pumpkin freckles.

 

Eleven hours after you were taken is when they found you. I slept in my Frankenstein costume, weary of taking off the last thing you saw me in. You died remembering me as a green monster with bolts sticking out of my neck. I would always be a green monster in your eyes. You always made me feel green. Eleven Halloweens are all we ever had.

 

Nausea is all I feel now. Festering in me. I want to eat eleven times a day, to fill the void you left, only to vomit up and on my shoes so I can eat again. You left me with a scar I can talk about to strangers and strange men, but with no wound to heal. When I think of you in the oven’s reflection I am at ease. As much as I miss the smell of your skin and the way your hand felt in mine, I am grateful for your absence. I miss you more than words can share, but I love you better dead.

 

Swirl

by Howie Good

 

Your tongue, 
a swirling storm, 
finds me,
 
and, Bingo! 
the Ukrainian church
shouts,
 
flowers pop 
heart pills,
 
the fish can’t 
sleep because 
of the noise,
 
the leaves 
so green 
they’re almost 
black.

 

 

 

Sleeping with Demons

by Laura LeHew

 

I see the queen in her cups—

eight swords restricted

by a wolf moon.

 

I see Lust’s first blush

flesh on flesh on flesh

thrumming to be unbound.

 

I see the queen stand unbridled

a westerly wind

in opposition.

 

I see an innocent woman,

a man, a boy, from Tulsa,

destroyed.

 

The hanged man in anger.

The death.

 

I see the danger.

 

 

contributor bios

Alex Brown was raised in the southern U.S. but graduated from Utah Valley University with a BS in Behavioral Science. He now lives in Sweden where he is re-awakening his admiration of the written word. He uses writing as a way to make his ideas and the subconscious of his dreams become more accessible. You can follow him on his blog at http://peripheraldiving.wordpress.com. (He also confessed that he loved Animal Collective and all it's reincarnations. I'm pretty sure that would qualify Alex Brown as a hipster, but I don't want to get sued for libel.)

Bill Gainer has contributed to the literary scene as a writer, editor, promoter, publicist, publisher and poet.  He continues to read and work with a wide range of poets and writers, including readings on KUSF radio, S.F. with Punk-Rocker Patti Smith and performances with California Poet Laureate, Al Young. Gainer is nationally published and remains a sought after reader, preview him at billgainer.com

David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in a large lake called Mälaren, very near to Stockholm, with woman, cats, and a couple of large black and tan dogs. He is an atheist, an anarchist and generally disgusting. He has a BA in History from Balliol, Oxford, and an MA in philosophy, taken much later and much more seriously studied for, from Stockholm. Up to date details of well over a thousand poems in various zines over the last three years or so and several available books and chapbooks, including three print full lengths, a few print chapbooks, and a free electronic chapbook, are at his blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com.

Felipe Rivera is co-founder and editor for the La Ventana political journal and its literary supplement, El analfabeto. He has been published in Cipactli, the San Francisco State University Latino art and literature journal, the oldest and longest-lasting of its kind in the United States. 

Harry Calhoun’s articles, literary essays and poems have appeared in magazines including Writer’s Digest and The National Enquirer. Check out his online chapbook Dogwalking Poems and his trade paperback, I knew Bukowski like you knew a rare leaf. This year, his poems were published in the book The Black Dog and the Road and his chapbooks, Something Real and Near daybreak, with a nod to Frost. He’s had recent publications in Chiron Review, Orange Room Review  The Centrifugal Eye, and many others. He edits Pig in a Poke magazine. Find out more at http://harrycalhoun.net. Oh, and another chapbook, Retreating Aggressively into the Dark, will appear on Big Table Press within the next month.

Howie Good is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011), as well as 22 print and digital poetry chapbooks.

Laura Hardy keeps a blunt hammer under her mattress in fear of midnight prowlers. 

Laura LeHew loves zombie movies, Dexter, and Anne Carson [in a purely platonic-poetic way] she is hoping for a non-CGI comeback of Werewolves; she has one husband [whom she met at a science fiction convention], eight cats [Nikita (la Femme), Tessa, Mr. Socks, Baby, Dorian (yes he is grey), and the Army of Darkness (Raven, Shadow and Smoke)]; she never sleeps. She is also the Editor of www.utteredchaos.org

Maggie Armstrong has been a Siamese twin, a murderer, a cuckold, and a loaf of bread. She has been all of these things and none of these things. She is a liar. She is a zombie. She is uncomfortable with the concept of tuna fish from a can. She cannot tell time or blow up a balloon. She does not want to go to bed. Ever. She wants to sleep forever. She is you and you are she. 

Melanie Browne likes to eat crispy creme donuts while watching the third class steerage dance scene from the movie Titanic over and over again. She also has an online literary journal that you should check out: http://theliteraryburlesque.com/.

Michael Grover is a poet, originally from Florida, who has lived in L.A. and Philadelphia. He now lives in Toledo, Ohio in a notoriously haunted building where he writes, publishes, and prints chapbooks. Michael is the head poetry editor at www.redfez.net.

Ron Koppelberger is new to the field of art but began drawing about 12 years ago. He has over seven hundred pieces of art now. He loves to create and nothing thrills him more than seeing his work in print. He has published 48 pieces at several magazines and web sites. He has published in Dark Gothic Resurrected, Blood Moon Rising, Fan Art Central, Death Head Grin, O Sweet Flowery Roses, Seinundwerden, The Poet’s Haven ,The Stray Branch and Ghost Kangaroo. Ron says, “The creative process is a thrill for me as is influencing the viewer in a positive way, in a thought provoking way. One of my primary goals involves touching the viewer and giving them a gift, the gift of a long forgotten memory or perhaps a special insight that may not have been apparent.” If you’d like to view some of his artwork he has it posted on Facebook. Just type in will806095@bellsouth.net.

Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in El Dorado County, CA. Her poems have appeared in The Iowa Review, New York Quarterly, Poetry International, Southern Humanities Review and elsewhere.

William Doreski's work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently Waiting for the Angel (Pygmy Forest Press, 2009).