Charge of the Trumpets

Issue 2.1

by Bob Thimmesh

(For Wm. Tell)

Morning’s muted
strings salute the sun as woodwinds
churn seas
with the fury
of the forsaken; chords
pirouette through
the maelstrom
until the quiet
of anticipation has absorbed a swirl

punctuated
by the trumpets
of impending heroism—-
a program

that evokes
emotions washed by the day of the ordinary.

Insults and injustice

have landscaped an imagination
that waits for liberation, as the masked

vagabond answers

the throbbing call
of trumpets theatrical—-

brave notes
beyond my pale

that burrow deep
in the nerve-holes of my memory;

trumpets flush
the infectious
notes from their
holed repose,

to once again fever my imagination

to thrill the ideal
to follow the just.

My nerves, satiated
with life’s inevitability,
now revive
on a whiff of hope—-

to cheer

the masked man’s pursuit
of honor and the just,

to listen

for the trumpet of righteousness.


Bob Thimmesh is a retired businessman who enjoys spending most of his time writing poetry and fiction. He is currently working on his memoir and lives in central Minnesota.

Radio Theater

Issue 2.1

by Bob Thimmesh

It is afternoon drive-time
for the radio-adventure crowd

raised on Wheaties
and the Lone Ranger.
She spins

Rossini’s Overture and retrieves
my cheer for the masked one’s justice

with silver horse
and silver bullet;

My pulse quickens into the clover-leaf’s

loops; where are
the oppressed sod-busters?
Does a widow need help
against her land-grabbing
neighbor?

My adrenaline flows
around the detour barricade
as dirt-coated pylons fly past;

now she launches
Flight of the Valkyries,

injecting lava in my blood; my car
bursts ahead

splitting cops
and eighteen-wheelers

and pulls alongside a speeding

silver bullet

riding the charge of the Valkyries.


Bob Thimmesh is a retired businessman who enjoys spending most of his time writing poetry and fiction. He is currently working on his memoir and lives in central Minnesota.

Poetry: My Consciousness

Issue 2.1

by Lea Moore

I am a smoothie.
I want my fish to die.
The metal feels smooth under my fingertips.
The light makes the green fern almost translucent.
The spices invade my nose from two stories down.
The blueberry skin lingers in the cracks of my mouth.
There is a hidden banging as he strikes the keys.
The. Clock. Moves. So. Slow.
The chocolate-butter aroma warms my face.
Scot wants to be like New York City.
The light solidifies the green fern.
The leaves squat in the ceramic pot the color or every Cape Cod guest bedroom with the sandy,
white sea shells in the clear candy jar.
‘Badonk-a-donk’ wakes me up with a smile.
If he told his story, she would be an alien.
That indicates there is a very strong relationship here.

I zoned out.

They were as chatty as turtles.
He plunged into the sink and swam with the eels.
Lea is confused.
He will scoot in and she will scoot to the side so he will scoot to the side.
I scalped her book.
Shut up! I’m trying to observe this painting!
J’ai faim. (aka I have hunger.)
My zumba instruction video was having a fantastical time.

Just like how bananas, lemon juice, blueberries, and coconut water
(oh and with a hint of cayenne of course)
can sing sweet music in my mouth,
my thoughts love to party in my brain.


Lea Moore is a high school senior. We are proud to be her first publication.

Poetry: How to Fix a Monet After Someone Punches It

Issue 1.2

by Howie Good

You can see Syria from here,
fish in a dead landscape,
starry nights and astronauts,
the soft edges of time.

What year is it?
Don’t you think it’s time for love?
Everything else has failed.

Fuck it, I’m high.
Let’s walk to the middle of the ocean.

White roses sing and sing.

Assembled from titles of artworks by Alma Thomas, Hema Upadyay, Mark Bradford, and Kung Me.


Howie Good co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. His most recent collection of poetry is A Ghost Sings, A Door Opens (2016) from Another New Calligraphy.

Poetry: Escape Artist

Issue 1.2

by Howie Good

I liked to walk around with a friend and a granola bar, especially when I was wasted, my mind free of the tedium of this size 71/2 head. Understand? Ambulances roamed the roads in anticipation of frequent car accidents. Canaries were there, and there were lemon trees, and they brought smallpox and hundreds of words, none of which rhymed. The sky got so dark sometimes that shadows from all over the world seemed to appear out of nowhere and then leave me with eyes engorged with blood. Today yet another woman said the darkness reached up her skirt. Point me to the doorway to the river. I just want to sit and play guitar to the goldfish.


Howie Good co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. His most recent collection of poetry is A Ghost Sings, A Door Opens (2016) from Another New Calligraphy.