"G.o.d was not responsible," Rorschach mumbles, "the killer was," and G.o.d didn't mind if Rorschach killed the killer as well.

To come to the realization, as murderers do, that no one stops you from killing but yourself and some lucky breaks by the police is weighty stuff indeed.

Is there truly no G.o.d?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But if there is a G.o.d, He seems unlikely to interfere in the killing of one human being by another, this same G.o.d who lifts no finger to save a fish from a hawk, a mouse from an owl, or me moving in to kill you right now.

About Jean Jones.

Originally from Bandung, Indonesia, Jean Jones received a BA in English in 1986 from UNC-Wilmington, and an MFA in Creative Writing: Poetry in 1988 from Bowling Green State University in Bowling Green, Ohio. Jean currently teaches Basic Skills at Cape Fear Community College in Wilmington, North Carolina.

He has had two books of poetry published by St. Andrews Press from St. Andrews College, North Carolina; the most recent, Birds of Djakarta, was released in 2008. Together with his friend and fellow poet Scott Urban, Jean Jones has had a brand new book of poems published by a brand new Wilmington, North Carolina, publisher called "Shaking Outta My Heart Press." Jean's book from that publisher is t.i.tled Tornado.

Jean is also co-editor of the online poetry magazine Word Salad.

http://wordsaladpoetrymagazine.com/drupal7.

TWILIGHT WINE.

by Ron Koppelberger.

An arcane substance appreciated by the stone in b.l.o.o.d.y wombs Of birth, the cry of the child in Wolf's Bane and sharp edged Spears of moonlight applause, a cunning thirst enthralled by the wont Of an errant wolf, a tattered dilemma of knowing Revelation and wild haunts in gray gallop and Padding purchase, the gnarled oaken taboo Of wolves in abeyance unto the Magic prayers of those who imagine The gift of what's given throughout and the Bursting promise of a midnight run, a cascade in velvet smoke and Starving affections in rapt fl.u.s.ter, in blissful darkness and frayed Conditions of patience in chaste flourishes of remedy, for the cares of an ancient angst in spirit, a melody in twilight wine.

ABERRANT FEAST.

by Ron Koppelberger The strange gaudy orange twilight In evenings of snakeskin sheen and Lizard grace. The speckled chew in chaws And maws, in grinding ghosts And wise faerie flight. An aberrant feast, A cornucopia inside and out of stray Sated character and Vague, tingling horror.

IN COMPANY WITH GHOSTS.

by Ron Koppelberger Thorns and pa.s.sage unto the unspeakable breadths of eager Affair in dark reflections of ethereal ascendancy, the artifice In eloquent agreement with illusionary suns and dreams of reason, A footfall amongst the mora.s.s, between the theaters of delirium And sane horizons, by weary eyed ambiance, given trampled Petals in moss laden soils of desire, the infinite in ceaseless airs Of birth, by want and shadow upon shadow upon outlines in candent auras Of secret revelation, by the grim need for eternity and precious undoing's In indigo and pausing firelight, drawn unto the Edge of another drama, by torn twilight bidden distant at journeys end and near the faded enticements of yesteryear, a way to conclaves of shadow and Dusty tears of blood, valued upon the pilgrim in bonded company with ghosts and stray meandering dogs in conveyed hunger.

STARRY-EYED DREAMS.

by Ron Koppelberger The promise of ash and smoke, Charcoal a.s.say and cauldrons of Human stew. A hag in honor of the torment That Father Redemption predicts. The Convocation and the provocation In lead to the ravens of ancient feather.

The stories of transfer, likened to the Wine of witches and starry-eyed dreams.

About Ron Koppelberger.

Ron Koppelberger has published 217 poems and 52 short stories in a variety of periodicals. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts.

Ron has recently won the People's Choice Award for poetry in The Storyteller for a poem t.i.tled "Secret Sash." He is a member of The American Poets' Society, as well as The Isles Poetry a.s.sociation.

Ron has had poetry accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. He loves to write and is always seeking to offer an experience for his readers. http://www.wolffray.blogspot.com.

LIGHTHOUSE.

by Alec B. Kowalczyk.

In the solitude.

of an abandoned lighthouse an unsound homeless person.

finds a journal of an unstable man fearing for his sanity fearing the compromised structural integrity of the crumbling lighthouse he inhabits fearing the gales and diverse elements.

beating upon the standing straw-like shaft fearing the torsional stresses twisting the lighthouse barrel.

fearing the bending moments on this vertical edifice of masonry fearing the shearing strains slicing through the mortared joints fearing the overturning of the entire brick-laid structure fearing the underpinning of his very mind...

this man in the journal who also finds a journal of an unhinged man...

CALIGINOUS.

by Alec B. Kowalczyk Hotel/predawn hours...

looking down from the fourth floor a doorway illuminated below one minor beacon in the urban gloom a dark wreath on the angled door and its shadow a distorted lozenge on the fractured tiles of the walk a wind rocks the tiny bell of a neighboring church and the tone is like a toll VISCERAL.

by Alec B. Kowalczyk The pair of lions' heads in stone flanking the courthouse steps the dynamic tension in their jaws ready to spring-shut at any moment as any pa.s.sing child knows instinctively as any sleeping adult knows intuitively the unimaginable made imaginable to have a hand caught in the vice-grip of those incisive locked jaws.

MID-CITY AMUs.e.m.e.nTS.

by Alec B. Kowalczyk A rolling tumbleweed bisects a circular patch of stone shards that once supported a merry-go-round ...forging a beeline past the boarded-up rink where a lone roller skate rusted at the end of a disintegrating lace ...dead-on toward an overgrown grove of trees gone wild...

the wreckage of a tangled timber rollercoaster charged sub aural screams from cars that jumped the track left hanging in the air.

About Alec B. Kowalczyk.

Alec B. Kowalczyk is a native of South Troy, New York, a civil engineer by day, with an interest in the mechanics of poetry. The kind of world he would like to inhabit would be slightly off-kilter...as in The Hour After Westerly by Robert Myron Coates.

His work has been published in 69 Flavors of Paranoia, Semaph.o.r.e Magazine, Pif Magazine, ChiZine, Yellow Mama and others, winning a Dark Animus Award for poetry. Snark Publishing released his chapbook t.i.tled Shadow and Substance.

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000799343969.

AN ALIEN POEM.

by Joe R. Lansdale.

You may think this is just a poem.

You'd be wrong.

It's a form of alien mind control.

We are the aliens.

This is our poem.

We write them because if you read them we got you.

You are now one of us.

We are taking over the world.

Problem.

It would take centuries for enough people to read poems and become one of us.

Even poets don't read poetry.

h.e.l.l, can you blame them?

So, we're thinking of switching, to encoding our thoughts in p.o.r.nographic websites instead of poems, or into car commercials.

We would get more people to become aliens that way.

Whatever we decide to do in the future, this is the end of this poem, and-.

-HA!

We still got you sucker.

You should have stuck to video games.

DEATH BEFORE BED.

by Joe R. Lansdale In dark cloak and bunny slippers I ride the country wild.

With scythe and croaker sack I gather them up, those shadows strong or mild.

I put them away, and kick them some, to quiet them down of course.

And then I carry them quick to home, on my wicked little horse.

Carry them fast, like a tornado wind where a hole in the earth awaits.

I toss them down, I push them down, I kick them in the a.s.s.

Down there in the pit, where the flames lick up, I leave them and laugh.

APACHE WITCH.

by Joe R. Lansdale In the wild country where the West wind blows, the demon of the desert comes and goes.

Dark like a shadow, a mouth full of blood, there's nothing out there but it and the dead.

Lives in a cave near a dark red b.u.t.te, hides there by magic, in an old cavalry boot.

Released by a spell from an Apache witch, it twists and it turns and howls like a b.i.t.c.h.

Lizards and coyotes, buzzards and men, it kills and kills, again and again.

But kill it must, and each night it comes, until a cowpoke arrives with a lamp and a gun.

The lamp is lit with oil from a dog, and around the cowpoke's neck, on a string of braided gut is a dried up frog and a hickory nut.

The rifle is packed with bullets of silver and lead, little charms buried deep in the ammo heads.

An Apache woman, the witches daughter, the cowpoke's wife, made it to save her husband's life.

So Apache magic meets head on.

The demon whirls with a desert song.

The cowboy fires his gun and throws his lamp.

The demon roars and the night turns damp.

Out of a cloud against a moonlit sky, comes a rain of black lumps like a cobbler pie.

It blows and it whirls and it twists and it turns, and when it hits the demon it smokes and it burns.

The cowpoke's magic makes the demon cry.

It even melts the d.a.m.n thing's eyes.

The rain on the cowpoke is heavy and wet, but for the demon it's the worse thing yet.

The demon becomes a twirl of smoke, and the cowpoke laughs like it's all a joke.

On his way home he yells and he cries, for the demon was made of his poor child's sighs.

The baby's breath stolen by a cat that was black as the pit and little pig fat.

The Apache witch sucked the baby's soul, because his daughter made the child in a soldiers bed roll.