‘Trick Or Treatment?’ & Collected Poems

Johnny Tang (b. 1985) is a fine art photographer specializing in a surreal and cinematic brand of imagery. Johnny began his creative career as a break dancer, before going on to receive his BFA in photography from Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD). Johnny’s recent exhibitions include: Any Shape or Form at Upstream Gallery, Counter Weight at Brooklyn Bridge Park, and Skeleton Crawl Pop-Up Gallery in East Williamsburg. When he is not being published by the likes of: Neocha, Daily Mail, VSCO, or Slant’d. Johnny also works commercially, having worked with clients such as Red Bull and Sony Music.

Trick Or Treatment?

Eye of newt

Toe of frog

Wool of bat

Tongue of dog

Dragging feet, shoulders slumped

I trudge through the apothecary

Clutching a chicken-scratched paper

With white-knuckled desperation.

Navigating the maze of syrups, pills, and potions

A carousel of herbs, salves, and elixirs

Failed attempts of yore

Spin my splitting head dizzy.

Must history insist on repeating itself?

I’ve long grown tired of this song and dance.

But the luxury of surrender is not for the ill fated

So I persist in pursuit of my great white whale.

I weave between the uniform rows of remedies

empty promises and warnings I cannot afford to heed.

Rigid arms full of alchemy, I approach the swindler’s till.

Joints crackling with each arduous shuffle.

I draw a weary smile from my depleted fuel reserve

Only to find apathy where his human face should be.

I offer my pocket for the picking, as is custom.

Homeward bound again, I depart with my bag of tricks.

Eye of newt

Toe of frog

Wool of bat

Tongue of dog

Cloudy With A Chance Of Pain

I remember the percussion on my nursery window.

Nature’s cradlesong coaxing me to forfeit,

My stubborn embargo on sleep.

I remember the umbrella adorned with princesses.

How I longed to see the first drizzle of fall and,

The covetous faces of my cohorts.

I remember how storms disrupted classroom tedium.

“The kids are in rare form today,” teachers said,

barking futile protests at our revelry.

I remember asking him to kiss me in the downfall.

The foreshadowing was lost on me back then,

A lovesick Pollyanna I recall with lenity.

I remember me before I was a paper marionette.

Before the atmosphere controlled my strings,

and a puddle could dissolve me.

I remember the girl I was before the feeding frenzy.

Before nimbostratus clouds were Megaladons,

their jaws extended to mangle my body.

I remember Thunder’s power ballads from before.

Before he stopped composing serenades for me,

replacing songs in my head with screams.

That familiar aroma wraps me in a quilt of nostalgia.

A perfume of celestial waters and terrestrial soil,

Now a bitter-sweet memory of when I loved rain.

Maladaptive

As of late, much of my time is spent 

Wanting

In a way that feels akin to 

Waiting

But not for some unrequited love—pining, 

Or for sunshine on a dreary day—longing, 

Not even for a warm embrace—yearning.

Day in and out, I sit in my bedroom utterly 

Wantful

But not upon a star—wishful, 

Or the eye of God—watchful, 

Not even from memory—wistful.

I want in the ways I did as a child:

My neighbor’s wind chimes, 

My best friend’s kaleidoscope, 

My music teacher’s bamboo rain stick.

No green envy, 

No spoiled silver spoon, 

No red hand to catch stealing.

My want resides in my innocence, 

Worships at the Cathedral of Destiny, 

Works overtime in my daydream factory.

I’m a student anticipating graduation, 

The owner of an arriving merchant ship, 

An expectant mother in her third trimester.

My kismet wanting waits at the ready, 

But for what I’ve forgotten.

I fear no degree or riches, not even a baby 

Will satiate this want of mine.

I fear ceaseless waiting.

So, perhaps I’ll retrace my steps back to 

The bamboo rain stick, 

The kaleidoscope, 

And wind chimes,

To rediscover vibrations, colors, and sounds 

Where my soul first saw its reflection.

Maybe what I want is a looking glass.

Whale Fall

There once was a lone

Blue Whale

separated from her pod,

roaming icy waters like a

satellite in space.

Sick and starving

she called out into the ether,

a swan song

for an audience of none.

Upon her final breath

her Titanic body fell silent

sinking slowly towards

the seafloor

where she would find

her final resting place.

But from her demise

came generations

of thriving creatures

who dwell in the barren

ocean depths.

Octopus, crabs, and eels

attended her grand feast.

Leftovers enriched the

surrounding sediment.

Colonies of invertebrates

settled in her bones.

Her fallen flesh

nourished an entire ecosystem;

a legacy transcendent,

a purpose resurrected.

Strong Meat

The most tender parts of me

lay upon a butcher’s block,

sprawled across the rings

of an old tree round.

We have this in common,

the tree and I—

chopped down from where

we once stood tall.

Shall I, too, be reborn

into something useful?

Maybe my good bits will be

Frankenstein-ed together,

reimagined and made anew.

But then, what is to become

of my discarded offal?

It’s probably for the best;

trim the fat and toss the scraps

so that I may be beautifully plated

and palatable.

But I’m starting to think

it would be far less painful

to be put out to pasture.

Alexandra Nimmo is an actress (GTA Online) and self-taught emerging poet from Nashville, TN. Her debut publication was recently featured in The Rising Phoenix Review and Alexandra is currently working on a full-length poetry collection about her chronic illness journey. https://linktr.ee/lexinimmo

‘The Day I Found My Name’ & ‘Mountaintop Optometrist’

Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist.

The Day I Found My Name

I remember the day I found my name:
I had been nameless as a raindrop,
but one day I was walking along the winter street
scattered with dusty snow
that blew about in the razor breeze,
the concrete sidewalk was flanked by hard icy snow on either side
and the sky was crispy blue like spearmint
the sun was weakened but shining
my corduroy jacket and black winter hat were on
(among other clothes)
and my hands in pockets like two wood stoves
when my foot kicked something unexpected,
I curiously looked down and there was my name on the ground
I crouched down, reached one hand through the cold air to grab it and picked it up,
put it in my pocket and it was mine,
that’s the day I found my name.

Mountaintop Optometrist

An hour and a half from the trailhead
we four were sweaty and panting
among the calm and collected tourists
who had driven to the top
(cheaters, we wanted to scream, but didn’t),
she needed a quarter for the binoculars and I
(luckily)
had one that had been sitting in my bag
eager for this moment,
her hand brushed mine
(of course)
as she grabbed it from me,
the clouds were indiscernible
and she wanted to watch them
but we four could find nothing in them,
so she looked through the binoculars
and invited me to do the same,
we shared looking back and forth
at things amplified
from the mountaintop,
she looked through
while I adjusted the focus
(my arm close to her being)
and I quipped about the eye-doctors
(better one or two?)
and she laughed
which was my goal
and I felt glad,
then the time clicked and our eyes were blinded
and the clouds were still indiscernible
and she still didn’t love me.

Jacque Margaux is a sad Franco-American poet who writes to cheer himself up. His poem, girl writer en café, was published on Words Faire.

‘Melquíades’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Melquíades

In childhood, midsummer’s midnight heat always welcomed gypsy caravans traveling southward. When she was young, their arrival, not changing seasons, ushered new life, released old. Under Aurora Borealis, campfires sprang up nightly; dancers swayed by iridescent moonlight, casting shadows; jubilant voices rose skyward. One enchanted year, an ageless, wizened man adorned the girl’s shoulders with a cloak—dyed crimson, emerald, azure, gold—inviting her to join this stately dance and ritual revelry. Swirling together, vibrant silhouettes melded into myriad flames of color. His cape long held magic from those beautiful, mysterious visitors, long after they departed, its splendor lingering.

Brandon W. Hawk is a Professor of English at Rhode Island College who writes about the Middle Ages, biblical apocrypha, and intersections with pop culture. He has published the books Preaching Apocrypha in Anglo-Saxon England (2018), The Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew and the Nativity of Mary (2019), and Apocrypha for Beginners: A Guide to Understanding and Exploring Scriptures Beyond the Bible (2021).

‘THREE INTRAVENOUS THERAPIES’, ‘MY THOUGHTS ON SLEEP MEDS’, ‘EMPTY YOUR MIND’, ‘FALLOUT’ & ‘DAZED’

Photographer - Beth Cole

THREE INTRAVENOUS THERAPIES

The nurse asked:

“Are you crying from the pain?” in distress,

I blurted out:

“NO!”

Public Service Announcement:

I’d rather be “fucking and flying”

instead of in the Emergency Room

waiting for the

cure of dehydration; an IV. Listened

to an elderly pair play the Alphabet Game;

their chosen theme the weather while

Lil Nas X was playing for all ears to hear,

in the hospital’s speaker. (Maybe who decided

this music was either bored or horny.) Those

two with gray hair got to the letter “G” and gave up.

“I’m not an athlete, but a poet”, I proudly

declared as a nurse was putting in the IV

equipment in my arm (at least she was amused)

even though I was wearing my trusty

blue basketball shorts—that I also wore to bed;

maybe I seemed like a walking contradiction.

There was no clock on the wall, and

no one there, but only the intervals

on the bag to gauge the passing time

was that fluid going downwards.

MY THOUGHTS ON SLEEP MEDS

Take 1

These fragmented thoughts are cracked dead sand dollars washed up past the shoreline littering here and there whereas this destructive force beckoned me as that aged lighthouse was falling into the sea

b

r

i

c

k

by

b

r

i

c

k

I wanted to cut my left-forearm shallowly to see red emerge. A minute crimson tide, a strawberry stained white pillow case, but I didn’t believe in ghosts or the Holy Ghost. A fancy quilted paper towel would be needed to press down on this cut leaving bead-lets (then scars) like a crushed strawberry’s guts or a strawberry melting under the too hot sun. (Son, he said. He didn’t say daughter.) I wanted my nightmares to vanish like footprints in the sand at high tide, and instead to find peace when the self—can I even claim is mine? was in pieces.)

Take 2

Spectacular. Suffering. Fireworks. Red. Like how I envisioned streaks across my skin from my fingernails scratching the surface. It was 3:36 am. I checked my Iphone, I was crying for at least 10 minutes straight. Someone might have heard me even though I tried to cry silently—thought I heard someone shut their window. This was just not working.

However, the slight cool breeze for a moment briefly brought me back to the then now tickled my feet broke this too high body heat. A way out of the downwards spiral for a moment realizing: my mini air purifier was still going, my AirPods in my ears were still playing, my portable bedside lamp was plugged in signaled charging by that red light. Coincidentally, I also listened to a song that shuffled titled: “3 am”.

I wondered if I was in the perfect position that many would want to trade places with me. Inside the future felt bleak so I turned the other cheek, and presented one way to the world even though life isn’t a one way street.

Final Cut

I wished this wretched urge was out of my head every night

as to not to keep me up.

“EMPTY YOUR MIND”

as the body cried out for warmth as

murky memories clouded thoughts like

fog rolling in precipitation of sweat and

predicting the nights short comings; falls.

The animalistic urge to just do it, to see red

or burst with spasms of euphoria instead or

to be stuck and terrifyingly hope to fall asleep

due to meds but peace does not come nor arrive.

As fatigue is a dweller whereas energy has been

allusive as if some had shot the energizer bunny.

The power shuts off now and then here and the reason

is not clear, clearly my mind is full and my subconscious.

Nightmare emerge fierce as cheetahs, though I’m

not a cheater or cheat the system yet still this

mind withstands the test of time.

FALLOUT

Stars falling out of my eyes

don’t ask me why falling

shooting flames disintegrating

into remnants—little pile of

ashes on the white carpet.

DAZED

Sheer mechanical red light unusually bright

against the soft blue sky; I had to look up.

At the corner of Sunset Way, waiting to cross,

I cannot tell you why I decided to basically

walk in a straight line on weary legs for two

miles one way, and back. For all I know, in that

time that red could have spun out, and birthed

psychedelic roses outside the metallic edges

confines of the bulb; spinning like when you

look at the sun for too long (told you so).

Sophia Falco is an award-winning poet, and the author of four poetry books all published by UnCollected Press titles: If My Hands Were Birds: A Poem, Chronicles of Cosmic Chaos: In The Fourth Dimension, Farewell Clay Dove, & The Immortal Sunflower. She graduated magna cum laude along with the highest honors in the Literature Department at The University of California, Santa Cruz with her BA in intensive literature with a creative writing concentration in poetry. https://www.sophiafalco.com/

‘Two Different Peas in a Pod’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Two Different Peas in a Pod

It took me a while to recognize him, but I still asked the inspector to bring his ID and run his background. I was betting against fate, but fate is impervious to emotions. I requested the sub-inspector to place him in a different cell, away from the general crowd. As he washed the blood from his face, marked with fatigue from eight days of protest, I sent him water, band-aids, and a change of clothes. All my subordinates watched my actions, trying to decipher a concurrent meaning in any of them, their curiosity piqued by my seemingly contradictory instructions.

More than 20 years have passed since our last encounter. In these two decades, his inscrutable eyes, capable of concealing pain, have been the only image that my mind could conjure when I thought of him. Sometimes, it was a mere memory, and at other times, it bore the weight of my past. The unchangeable nature of history is what makes it so haunting.

While most holding inmates were moving and shouting slogans, Kabir was unmoved by any commotion or chaos. He sat on the floor; age had left a mark on his appearance. His smooth skin was now hard and punctured with various marks. He sat patiently, staring at the brick wall in front of him, and prayed in the most imperceptible motion. Even without knowing his language, I knew exactly the words he was using because he did the exact same thing when we last met.

Our school was situated in one of India's most holy cities, Banaras, held a dressing-up competition each year. Banaras had missed the boat on modernization. While the nearby cities were galloping towards development, Banaras remained orthodox in every possible way. The town was based on rituals that quietly permeated all the houses in different ways, each echoing its own history and belief. My house was no different, and just like Kabir’s, it was known for early morning loud prayers that now worked as an alarm clock for our neighbours.

My father never wanted me to miss this morning ceremony of prayers at our house; he ensured my presence by removing my name from the school bus and dropping me on his scooter every day. I would sandwich between my parents for 15 minutes, which I could survive most days, but today was a dressing competition, and I worked months saving all the money to get the required dress and makeup. I wanted to look my best, but it was impossible. At the gate, my mother kissed my head and adjusted my dress, but as soon as I saw some of my makeup printed on my father’s shirt, I knew I had lost the competition even before entering the school.

After the attendance, we were made to stand in line according to our roll numbers, and as fate would have it, Kabir was always in front of me. His surname and my first name coincided. This used to happen in India but doesn’t anymore. These little coincidences started our friendship, but the dread and pain of the early morning prayers that we both had to attend in our respective houses strengthened our bond.

We were all dressed as different gods. Most students were dressed as Krishna, while others were dressed as Shiva, Ram, Hanuman, Imam, Jesus, Buddha, or even a Maulvi. While most of us looked like caricatures of different gods, Kabir was a sight to behold. His portrayal was not just a skit but a transformation into a deity. No matter how much we focused on practicing our two-minute skit, at some point, everyone’s eyes would inspect Kabir. Some students even tried to destroy his makeup, but teachers kept showing up to take photos with him. His father was a painter, and he made sure he would look the part.

Without saving any money or working for it, Kabir won the first prize. While he smiled on the stage, some frowned at him, and with time, their frown turned into rage. I could see it; I was one of them, but my emotions were invisible. As soon as we approached recess, those other students asked me to bring Kabir to the back of the school. They said, We just want to play with him.” I knew that was a lie, but I wanted to see if his new fame would make him the favorite of our seniors. Most of them in that group were from the Ninth grade, just two grades above us, and were known for their mischief.

During recess, I told Kabir that his fame had brought us to the attention of our seniors, and they wanted us to join them for a game. He was hesitant, and with those imperceptible eyes, he asked, “Do you really want to play with them?”

I told him it was a privilege that one only got if one had a brother in that group. Playing with them and being seen with them would change our status quo amongst our classmates.

He wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but he held my hand and followed my lead. At that age and time, friendships were transient, and even though Kabir and I were not best friends, we were like two different peas in a similar pod. Like most kids, we were looking for attention, or at least I was.

My heart raced as soon as we stepped out of the school gate. I could see the seniors looking at us with a sinister smile. I could have stopped; I should have stopped. I could feel an increase in the weight of the hand I was dragging, but I kept walking. There was malice in my heart. I was hoping for something that would hurt his ego, but nothing could prepare me for what was to come next.

First, they made him enact the entire play he had acted on the stage. Then, they cheered, helping him ease his nerves, and soon, he started to enjoy his performance. And before he could end, I saw a leather ball racing towards him from the periphery of my eyes. It hit him in his stomach. The impact was so hard his entire body fell on the ground. While he coughed hard, gasping for breath, they all laughed at him; the group leader wrapped his hands around my neck and pulled me towards him. For a second, I feared for my life, but he made me sit next to him and said, “Enjoy the show.”

Two boys brought Kabir to his knees while one wrapped a cloth around his eyes. It was not the punching, but when they started abusing him, I learned that it was not his winning that caused them the pain; it was his being from another religion and playing their god that hurt their sentiment. But they did not look like someone who could be sentimental about anything; I think people use violence as a means to cover their inabilities.

Kabir’s family always attended my house for the festivals we celebrated, just as my family did for his. We never found any difference between us, but they did, and they kept punching and spitting at him until their leader shouted. Then he removed his hands from my shoulder and walked towards this frail and beaten body that was now spitting blood. He took a pencil from his box and laced it between Kabir’s fingers. While the others held his hand on the ground, the leader removed the blinds from his eyes. He wanted Kabir to experience pain even before he could inflict it. But those imperceptible eyes were capable of concealing pain. The only time his eyes squinted was when he looked at me.

The leader slowly pushed the heel of his shoes on his fingers, intertwined with a pencil. He closed his eyes and let out a huge cry; it was so loud that it startled the crowd. The leader quickly took off his foot and held his face. “Never take the name of our Gods from your dirty mouth.” And then they all ran back to the school. The cry was bound to get some attention. I walked towards him, his body sprawled on the ground, vibrating in pain, blood oozing from his face solidified as it mixed with the sand, but he kept repeating his prayer. I stood next to him for ten minutes, hoping to be caught by a teacher so they could force the truth out of me, but to my surprise, no one came. Ten more minutes passed, and another ten, and I just stood next to him like a tree as if providing shade. I had seen a lot of harsh punishment in school and students fighting, but I had never seen rage; I had never seen such despicable and contemptible behavior.

He finally asked for water, and I ran inside to get some. On my way out, I saw those seniors looking at me. The leader nodded, and I stopped immediately and walked back to my class with my bottle of water. The next day, I never saw Kabir or those seniors again.

As soon as I entered his cell, I feared being exposed. He kept looking at me intently and then at my name tag. His eyes inspected me and my behavior. My constables surrounded me, so I acted indifferent to our past and said, “ I have been told that you run a dispensary and are a respectable man. Why do you participate in such a protest with these people?”

“Because they are destroying our houses and place of worship.”

“No, no one’s destroying your house. They are only uprooting the ones that are built illegally.” I said and sat on the floor right next to him. Everyone was surprised by my actions. The constable ran and got an extra chair for Kabir, but we ignored it and continued our conversation.

“It took your department 20 years to find this legality, and no one complained when they paid their taxes, bribes, and electricity bills. No one had an issue until this election year?”

“You know how the system is. It takes its own time to correct itself.”

“Exactly, you know how the system is; it feeds on its own needs.”

“Stopping an officer from enforcing the law is a crime, and you and your people can be punished for it. You should take this matter to the court and not streets.”

“We are not stopping any officer for enforcing the law; we are stopping prejudice from becoming a law.”

He wasn’t moved by my care; I even offered him water this time, but he declined politely. I wanted to remove him from this situation, so I decided to increase the stakes for him and said: “This can lead to riots, Kabir, and like always, innocent lives will pay the price for it.”

“Innocence is corrupted when you suppress it, but you won’t understand it. You never had to grow up proving your love for this country. Being questioned on your looks or way of life.”

One of the constables shouted at him for answering back at me. I could see the disgust in his eyes; it was the same disgust I had seen in those seniors. I dismissed the constable and apologized on his behalf. I knew this was a battle both Hindus and Muslims lost the day partition was declared. It was as if the British had cut a single cloth and stitched buttons between them, leaving each side to decide to whom the cloth now belonged. I ordered the other constables to constantly attend to Kabir and ensure he was cared for. And just when I was leaving, Kabir said, “You seemed to be an educated and respected man yourself, yet during our entire conversation you kept saying your people, do they not belong to you?”

I shook Kabir's hand and left with a faint smile; I couldn't shake off the internal conflict that was now raging in me. My orders were clear: to charge all rioters and keep them inside the cell until their shops and prayer house were demolished. Now, it was up to me; I could either be a silent spectator or participate in the history of my town. I could either support the god-awful politicians or human innocence.

I released them all except Kabir. As much as I wanted them to fight for their rights, I wanted to save Kabir in case this led to any riots. While signing my new orders, my inspectors reminded me that this insubordination could lead to either an inquiry or suspension. But I had played this game long enough to manage the outcomes. Before my superiors could react, I requested the judge to pass an injunction. The injunction gave the government and the community time to fight for their rights and, more importantly, to have a say - the right to be heard, which, if not more, at times is as important as justice.

As soon as the judge listed the matter, the confrontation ended. The fight was now in court and not the streets. I ordered my inspector to release Kabir and stood at the gate to bid him farewell as he finally left the station. I am aware that unfortunately, one good deed cannot undo the burden of another sin. I extended my hand to shake his, under my breath my lips repeated my hearts apology. He looked at it intently for a minute. Then, he converted our handshake into a formal hug, whispering in my ears, “Thank you. It would be nice to have you home for dinner before you leave the city. My address is still the same.”

I don’t know if the walls have ears, but they do echo the whispers. The news of my transfer had reached his cell. But I wasn’t bothered by it because finally, the image of his inscrutable eyes was now replaced by the warmth of his hug, and as he exited the building, his forgiveness took the albatross that was hanging on my neck. Even though history cannot be changed, one can always add new chapters, and now, for once, I could sleep without being brewed in my own resentment.

Karanbir Singh