Note from the Editorial Desk

Friends and Family of Walking Is Still Honest Press,

Perhaps there is no more exciting time in life than during those special moments when one season shifts into the next. Such just so happens to be the case here at W.I.S.H. right now. After a wonderful 18 month stint serving as editor, the cycle is turning, and I’ll be stepping aside to let the process take its natural course.

I wanted to take this opportunity to thank all the great poets and artists who have contributed their work and participated in the interview series during my time steering the ship. Now I can happily announce that the wheel will be placed in the very capable hands of Amy Jacoby. I know she has some fresh new ideas that will be added to the mix here to help keep W.I.S.H. firing on all cylinders. Please continue sending your submissions her way.

Cheers to the continued success of this amazing site, and to much creative inspiration for all those who swing by to read future publications!


Scott Thomas Outlar

Black and White Street 10


Exotic Erotic

Three poems
by Saira Viola
Colonial Daddies #1
Where I was born is destroyed
The colonial daddies fat fisted me out of home and country
Where I ended up is ready to be torn down
Mr Swanky Wank wants more space to play with
He wants sponsored picnics in the park
A rebuilt skyline that maps the stars
Uniformed flower- lined streets and a
spray of Fair Trade coffee boutiques
Apartheid city : a broken leg that can’t be fixed
Salt licking- worm coloured meat
Cardboard boxes and crates for chairs
Sleep -deprived asthmatic air
Three to a bed -squashed arms
Yellowy yolk- pus blisters marmalade your palms
Swollen knees and sticky back- peel -on patches
fight fetid air mosquitoes
Glass domed nipples you cannot touch
Pig -swill and stolen bread for lunch
Corbusier style- chicken coops –
cage the working dead
the immigrants – the poor
junkies – booze -bums
psycho warriors -hookers
single moms – midnight train dreamers
and big- boss drug dealers
The system believes in that sweet nectar of greed –
But- I saw flames lick- spit the marrow off a toddler’s feet
Stop light : There’s a honey blonde in
a crepe de chine floating poppy dress
and a knife tongued real estate Adonis
They are grazing on artisanal truffles
Hunting for elephants and that magic
Fuck you Jackpot
as the curling smile of austerity
snakes onto one- eyed Pete
socking him breathless in the nuts
He wipes his cock clean
shakes off the dust and the lies
as two red suns wreath his dying eyes .
Pussy Riddim 
Retired porn stars  on foggy   afternoons   
       walking their pooches  
                   On Sunset 
 their pussies  on leashes—
            Exotic erotic
              They silk slit and streak 
                        through blue money streets 
Transient  bag madams sprawled 
       on steel  benches 
            Cat whistle 
         they hear  squad cars moo and 
            like virgin thoroughbreds  of the apocalypse   
                            in the palms of the gods   
The  final witching hour 
             when hot silver mammas 
 return to  the dark
             to their gilded cells 
                               in topless high rises 
   They puff on French cigarettes and taste artisanal cup cakes    
Ridding the elevator 
                              to watch 
            old X rated movies 
Alone in the night  under screw fixed stripped lights
Their sleeping breasts:  parasol mushrooms laid to rest 
Screwin’ The Pooch !
A step in a back room
A handshake behind closed doors
A half bitten apple
The black husk of a tooth
The putrid taste of deceit
A plain of scorpions on his tongue
A recurring nightmare
A Blood stained white sheet
Poison – petalled reasoning bound in green leather
A circle of angry voodoo feathers waiting to speak
Gelatinous begging to wooden faced clowns
A toilet slurp on virgin ground .

Saira Viola :  Acclaimed poet , fiction novelist song lyricist  and creator of sonic scatterscript. The legendary Benjamin Zephaniah praised her ‘beautiful twisted imagination’ ‘Polymathic genius,’ and counterculture hero  Heathcote Williams wrote
“…… Saira Viola, has devised some new designer drug that keeps you reading. The language is so powerfully hypnotic and occasionally so explosive you feel you need to pause to apply burn cream….”

Poetry (Flowers of War ) (Don’t Shoot The Messenger ) (Mini Rebel Book of Poems) (Fast Food and Gin on The Lawn ) Novels (Jukebox ) (Crack Apple and Pop)

Red Meat

Three poems and paintings
by Red Focks
Ghoulish Crohn’s Disease innuendos.
Rancid Mayo Clinic Shrimp Gyros.
Korean shopkeepers on the roof, shooting.
Give Charlie Manson all the money!
All the money and some damn latitude!
Caged for 999.9 years. Cold wind blowing.
Potholes from landmines on Skid Row.
Highly opportunistic performance art arson.
Tell your doctor if you’ve been to certain areas where fungal infections are common.
Tell your doctor if you’ve banged anybody interesting as of late.]
Ask your public defender if peace can exist without justice.
Break windows and take whatever the fuck you want.
Early detection is the key.
Resistance is disobedience.
Peaceful protests infiltrated by sleeper cells.
Rodney King’s rhetorical wisecrack.
Can’t we all just get along?
Dennis Rodman
A gallon of Stolichnaya
That golden shower tape
As many penguins as we can round up
Probably some duct tape and WD40
Dried ice
Digital turntables
A blonde, republican news lady
God’s blessing and the devil’s forgiveness.
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 2
Does beauty
ever truly
Do (so called) infinite amounts have ends?
Can the sweetest dream of a lifetime be forgotten?
Does love die?
CAN love die?
Yes, you candy ass.
All the time. Time. Time.
The twat that murders everything. Everything
Everything dies.
This desert used to host a river.
There were mountains on the horizon.
I remember when you could drink some water
and not shit, bloody chunks of your colon.
Before water
was physically and “artistically”
owned by Nuka-Cola.
I was there for the fallout.
No stimpacks or shelter.
I remember when cannibalism
was underground.
I remember when every baby
wasn’t born with
two and three-quarter faces.
Before we gave the launch codes to a corporation.
Fukushima eat your heart out.
Fuck (that was dumb)
Da Da Vinci code yo!
Realty shows, whoa!
The serial number.
Carved into the foreheads
of Cardinalz and Bishopz.
Piss drunk party girlz and state comptrollerz.
In da club say “WOOO!”
Human resource manijaz and underage hipster sluts
huffing spray paint under the bleacherz.
Our little sisterz were so jelly of us.
Maybe it was love.
Maybe radiation poisoning.
A possible combination of things.
But over time
It made humans
utterly barbaric
Ann frankly blind.
Most of them disintegrated
into dust.
The final endangered spices.
They just flutter around
flexing at each other
all over
all like
“Hey Dick
why dontcha
quit eyeballing
all my oil”
and WAR never changes.
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 1
Microwave your cigarettes.
Sleep in a tanning bed.
God loves you;
but hates Purell.
God hates antibiotics.
God hates seatbelts.
The reddest piece of meat;
could be the deadest piece of meat.
If you cook it that way.
Death tastes sweet.
Fresh and bloody.
You’re mad.
Meathead. Cow.
Prepare for slaughter;
you beefcake.
Mexican tap water.
Ebola hallucinations.
DMT. Autoerotic asphyxiation.
Lick a Boston third rail.
Inhale a burning tire.
Punch yourself in the balls.
Just fall down some stairs once a month.
Thin em’ out.
Thin em’ out.
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 3
Red Focks is a 28-year-old writer/abstract artist/illustrator from New England. He is a co-founder of ‘Alien Buddha Press’, and is credited for working on over a dozen titles since the press was founded in late 2016. Red has 3 poetry books which he has authored himself (Punk’s Not Nice, Election Day, Apophenia). After years of exploration through The United States and his own psyche, Red currently lives in Phoenix Arizona with his girlfriend (poet/artist Ammi Romero) and their young family. Red Focks shows no signs of slowing down; and currently has several projects in production. He has been featured in the inaugural issue of “Nixemate Review “and by “Walking is Still Honest Press”.
Red Focks can be contacted through Alien Buddha Press at or directly at
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 4

Poet Interview #72: Red Focks

Scott Thomas Outlar: First off, Red, thanks for taking some of your time for an interview here at W.I.S.H. Your work does not exactly sugarcoat life, to say the least. What do you think the point of poetry and art is? Have you always been interested in exposing the underbelly of society?

Red Focks: In a world where the “sugar coated” alternative is what gets swallowed the most, I believe one purpose that art has is to be bitter, sour, or spicy. Another purpose that art and poetry have had for me is straight therapeutic value. Hitchhiking from coast to coast, meeting the biggest wingnuts walking the streets of America, getting arrested, thrown in the nut-house, getting stabbed, getting so high I forgot what up was; this has gotten me up to my neck in the underbelly of society. I enjoy exposing this walk of life, just as much as the higher-ups of society who engage in all the same activities, with their pinky fingers up.

STO: Your writing and paintings seem to be laced with signs, symbols, numbers, and allusions to seedy political realities. Are you drawn toward occult and conspiratorial knowledge? If so, where have those sorts of rabbit holes taken your consciousness?

RF: I am a self-proclaimed “conspiracy theorist”. I figure that most of these “theories” about the American government (9/11, The never-ending wars for profit, JFK, MLK, Cointelpro, Operation Mockingbird) are not theories at all in 2017. Facts have presented themselves- people feel more comfortable, not thinking too much about it. It’s brilliant, because the result is a bunch of tribes, divided by fears, location, and color, blaming each other over the pain and suffering caused by a handful of evil families.

The conspiracy theories which I have fun in the rabbit hole with, appeal to the absurdist in me. The Mandela Effect and the theories involving CERN and quantum physics, has had me convinced that life as we know it is a system of 1s and 0s in a computer. It’s also just funny to tell a group of strangers that Katy Perry is Jon Benet Ramsey, or HRC is a shapeshifting reptile. (and No, the earth is not flat)

The symbolism in the art (hidden or blatant) is also absurdism. Sometimes with an abstract piece, I will throw a bunch of 666’s or upside-down cross’ in, for shits-n-gigs. Then I’ll sell it to a nice, wholesome, Christian who doesn’t even see the blasphemy lost within the lines and splotches. Then I think about how crazy it would be, if this person was otherwise a perfect candidate to go to heaven; but because they idolized my sinful art, Jesus sends them to Hell.

STO: What’s your opinion on the current climate of society at this point? Where in the hell is all this modern madness leading humanity?

RF: War. New wars, with more exotic enemies with elaborate motives. A lot of citizens really are sick of it, and the effect it has on society; but blame either Trump or Obama for it, thus dividing us further.

I hope that one day (even if it’s thousands of years from now) all of civilization can coexist the way it should. We could achieve so much, and go so far if the divide wasn’t there.

STO: You, along with Jay Miner, recently started up your own publishing house, Alien Buddha Press. What made you decide to get involved with publishing books? What inspired the dope name for the press?

RF: The name came from Jay Miner, and a series of haikus and one liners that he would write, and post in online poetry groups. We are a part of a network of extremely talented artists and writers, who we felt were a relatively untapped honey hole of talent. Jay and I both had the idea for such an endeavor, and it’s gotten off to a great start.

STO: What is your overall vision for ABP?

RF: To produce quality content, which improves on the zeitgeist, and disregards the status quo.

I had a blast working on your book, “Poison in Paradise”. From an illustrator’s standpoint it was the perfect project to display some choice photog I’d been saving. It’s a wonderful collection of poems about adversity and the human spirit.

Then there’s “Surfing the Appellation Vortex” by Mark Hartenbach, “The Headpoke” by Paul Brookes, “Screamo Lullabies” by Robert J.W., “MY NAME IS GIORNA ALZAVOLA” (self-titled), “LOKO”motion of Life by Adam Levon Brown and “Irritable Brain Syndrome” by Willie Smith. These books are available on Any of which is a real gem for anybody who likes to read poetry; and I am proud of every title.

STO: Can you talk a bit about some of your own books that have been published at this point? What type of material and themes do they delve into, and where can they be purchased by those who are interested in picking up copies?

RF: My first attempt was a short little poetry book called “Punk’s Not Nice”. It is a collection of 40 poems that I wrote in the winter of 2015-16. (Production wise, it reads like my first attempt). My second title is “Election Day” which was released at the end of the last election. It is 2 years’ worth of poetry, with little blurbs and jokes in-between to make it about the election. Aside from the page where I boldly claim that Hillary was going to win, I am happy with how it turned out. My most recent title is, and the first released through ABP is “Apophenia”. This is a poetry AND art book. It includes over 60 color prints. These are all available on Amazon as well.

STO: As 2017 continues rolling along, what are your expectations for the latter half of the year? Are there any new projects coming up that you’re particularly excited about?

RF: Two projects that I would like to note are “American Antihero”, a graphic novel we wish to continue expanding upon; and the first anthology book, which feature the work of ABP and its collaborators.

SO: Thanks again for your time, Red. If there’s anything else that you’d like to mention that my questions didn’t hit on, please feel free to share it here. The floor belongs to you.

RF: Alien Buddha is accepting submissions for publication at Thank you, Scott and Walking is Still Honest Press, for featuring me here. Peace. Pot. Microdot.

Revelations Through Reciprocation

Three poems
by James Dennis Casey IV
Something Stirs
A metamorphosis
Of spirit
To purge the soul
Under candle lit skies
Seemingly infinite
Amongst crystal dusted majesty
Something stirs
Underlying currents
Exposes Truth
She licks the plaque
From a dead man’s teeth
Rich and curious the taste
She feels his suffering
Takes his pain
In exchange for answers
Gentle and undeceiving
His lingering soul
Whispers of things
Unknown to the living
The suckling of beasts
Footprints of gods
The perishing sun
Flesh houses
Good and evil
As one
This kiss
So putrid
Exposes truth
Coffee and nicotine
Booze and narcotics
It is all relative
To each their own
Vices like crosses
To bear
Television lies
Ambient background noise
To break the monotony
Of silence
Another cup of Mellow Joy
Another cigarette
Another drink
Another joint
Tired of the noise
On to music testimonials
Soothing to the soul
Ones and zeros
My mind at battle
Sword on sword again
Thoughts like arrows
Cut the air
Many a man fell
Lost like memories
A clever tactic
Far away now
Flying high
Half of life a dream
Let consumption
Gnaw me inside
Numbing my woes
With crosses
A self proclaimed “Madman Philosopher,” James D. Casey IV is a published author of three volumes of poetry. Mr. Casey’s writings have been published in print and online several times as well. His work has been featured in places like Triadæ Magazine, Pink Litter, In Between Hangovers, Indiana Voice Journal, Poetry Breakfast, Beatnik Cowboy, Scarlet Leaf Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Whispers, Your One Phone Call, I am not a Silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, PoeTree, Story Mirror, Stanzaic Stylings, Spillwords, Micropoetry, Leaves of Ink, Poetry Life & Times, and Realistic Poetry International.