It’s not often an autumn sun
with cool morning air renders
my day glorious for a frisky gallop.
As we set out, she asks,
“how are you doing?”
I sigh inside, trying to remember.
“Have I told you I’m getting divorced?”
She has heard the gossip

spilt from bored lips

She offers commiserations.

Turns to me.
“Now you are free to be selfish,
to do whatever you want.
Best get a Tinder account”.
She describes in detail
about Plenty of Fish, Match.com,
Bumble and Hinge, which use
interests, not just photographs!
“Use Snapchat for boob pictures.”
The bewildered look on my face
prompts a “joking”
followed by “they can’t save them.”
We crease up, laughing.

I consider asking her advice
about flirting ‘hard-core’ online.
How not to feel like a dinosaur,
my dusty bones hung
from a ceiling by steel wires,
in the museum of Gen X
next to a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I’ve been oblivious to this shift
to a digital ‘fucking’ world.
To “Do my tits look big in this?”
The pick of the standing dicks.
A mutual masturbation society.
Twenty years in secluded bliss
of not knowing ‘cybering’ exists.
An online Virgin bloody Mary
waiting blue to be impregnated

by these the New World Gods.


It was not that you lacked

flowers more beautiful 

in your own back yard.

There were hummingbirds

that hovered at your window edge

living jewels of the air.

Poets of exceptional touch

that spun gold threaded

words into gleaming magic.

Artists that cut faces

from cold marble megaliths 

who smiled under sweat.

The whittled wooden horse

you carried inside a spare pocket 

was flawed from birth.

Summer Time

I sit between the eagle
and the raven of autumn.
Weeping, shaking,
fingers trembling
like spread wing-tips catching
thermal uplifts.
Cloud burst tears
fall on rocky ground
wash wasted thoughts
in guttered gravel ground.
High view perspective vertigo,
breathless at the fall
graceless grasping hold.
The raven says relax my grip.
Release copper leaves
in autumn wild winds.
But it is summer time.
I cannot squeeze the sun
to turn down the sound.

First Aid Kit

From the first time 

I absorbed your words, 

it was a clear compassion.

You stood, soul stripped naked

on a world stage to faceless crowds 

giving your confessional in a sea of sins.

Eyes cast down with a weight of lead lines

resigned to rage, canister contained. 

Counting down the days left

writing in spilt blood,

bruised blues soul

singing chords 

bled out.

Like a child

what gift could I bring?

To this crucifixion of self being,

to see your tainted crown of thorns

a sword impaled, weeping rich Tempranillo.

Spread eagle nailed in self-loathing, 

pain waves radiating outwards.

I’m made a Mary Magdalene. 

I wash your feet in tears

heart held in hands,

in understanding.

This first aid kit,

my offering.


Ambient Light

When God said –

Let there be light –

It was an all surrounding

Tour of wave and particle.

But He found

At night

Especially after the fall

Just Adam and Eve

They and their bodies

That sparking

That glowing after

Was just not enough

To show the glory of the world

Between sunset and rise

Ambient light not nearly enough.

It was all there was

Until that fit of pique 

Over the side of applesauce

For that night’s dinner

Can you believe this crap –

He said

And lightning was born.


The second release for National Poetry Month is a bit different for Dumpster Fire Press. FOR SVETLANNA is a collection of poetry compiled by Rita Marie Recine who was not intended to be the sole author and there’s a story there, just like there’s always a story.

FOR SVETLANA art by DIllinger

You DFP has always sort of prided itself as a home for counter-culture and being kind of edgy in an attempt to be a voice for the voiceless or at least get some seldom heard voices out there.

So, when Rita Marie Recine contacted me via email, I wasn’t certain this was right place for the manuscript but there was story that I’m not fully qualified to tell and she tells it way better than me and you’ll get that after you endure my absurd point of view.

Rita had a friend by the name of Svetlana. Both contending with MS. Both forming a bond in a hospital room and embarking on what would have been a shared volume of poetry. Unfortunately Svetlana passed away before it could be completed and Rita endured to see this completed and came across me.

Now I admit, I was hesitant at first…I mean who hasn’t read a DFP title with something a bit unsettling or low life but after a few exchanges and reflecting on certain aspects of my life. We embarked on this together.

I’ll be honest, I took care of my mother for several years before she died of Stage 4 Renal Failure, administering her dialysis, cooking her meals, helping her bathe while my dad would go off to work nights. We took different shifts to care for her. This situation brought back those memories which weren’t always great nor did help that Rita and Svetlana happened to be about the same age as my mother would’ve been had she lived a little longer.

That’s why has someone running around with the title “publisher” there has to be an avoidance of tunnel vision and that’s why has a human being, I’m not taking any money for the book.

All the proceeds will be donated to the MS Society.

As much as I don’t make money from publishing losing a few dollars that wouldn’t make much of a difference even in terms of paying people for royalties becomes blood money and Dumpster Fire Press is not going to profit from anything of that sort.

This isn’t about being a good person, it about doing what’s right because deep down I’m not a good person but I’ll do what’s right for maybe just maybe people do something questionable later on to make up for it.

So enough of that, Rita and Svetlana need to have their say…


I let the song take a hold

Words are everywhere

Some we recollect others we cherish

Intoxicated by their intense meaning

But some we try to forget.

Words are the power of language

Put together they create a statement

Words are spoken revealing our true feelings

Shared with others using different mediums.

Words are also expressed by birds and animals

We might not understand them

They speak volumes

There is meaning with every sound heard.

A book has many pages filled with words

Soothing and yet at times hurtful

But for the most part they create joyful images in our mind

There is no end to the vocabulary to be learned.

-Rita Marie Recine

-Svetlana Konstantinov

Svetlana and I were both teenagers when we began our hands at script.

Unknowingly our paths would meet in the most awkward of places, a hospital room.

We bonded with our every words and step.

Revealing a mutual understanding of hope, fate and love I can say.

We laughed together, joked, and shed tears together.

I recall the first time we saw one another we knew we would be friends.

That friendship grew into a sisterhood. Not biological, but of the heart.

I was impressed how our lives had been so similar.

It seemed we were the same person in a different shell forming an endless bond, one day as we were both receiving our daily dose of medications, we decided to write a poetry book.

Our dream became a goal.

Sitting at her kitchen table drinking coffee or tea, we wrote, listened, read; always aiming for the highest mountain.

Life was an uphill battle during that time period

From stillness came the brilliance as the sun’s rays of the southern sun.

Candidly, we wrote what we spoke.

Our mission was to write a book together through our frailties and strengths

Sadly, on October 12, 2018 at the age of 49 my beloved sister of the heart passed away into the celestial skies where there is no pain.

Through illness, hospitalizations, and trepidations we became sisters. Providing mutual encouragement and positive reinforcement in gratefulness and recognition

Our endless phone calls I recall with fondness and sadness all at the same time. Today I still ponder

At the present time I am here to finish our feat.

As an homage to my friend and sister of the heart

In her honor, I write For Svetlana.

In a few words I would end my dedication by expressing a welcoming acknowledgment to Svetlana for being a part of my life.

Our friendship will never falter

Two kindred spirits who let their voices heard through verse and prose Love you, your sister of the heart, Rita Marie Recine

To you our readers we would like to offer our much appreciation and credit may you find beauty and emotion in every page turned.

We are pleased to share our genre of literature with the universe, our terra mater until the skies

I am certain wherever Svetlana is, she is smiling.

Rita Marie Recine

Two women. Two complete strangers who embarked on a single journey together under the direst of circumstances bring you a unified vision of beauty celebrating the joy of living and love. Rita Marie Recine and her friend Svetlana Kostantinov vowed to write a book poetry together to chronicle their journey through life and adversity. Sadly, Svetlana departed before it could be completed but Rita Marie continued and along with Dumpster Fire Press we are proud to present this heart touching collection of poetry.

Rita and Svetlana


Rita Marie Recine is first generation Canadian.  Of Italian origin growing up in Montreal Canada with a large family of

Today she resides with her family in Laval Quebec

She attended Dawson College in 1981 graduated from Concordia University with a Spanish major and Tourism   Degree in 1986

Her proses may be seen in anthologies, online magazines across the globe

From Canada, U.S.A., Europe and India

She began writing in her Italian community newspaper il Cittadino in the early 90’s

Writing   a poem for her Italian parents Yolanda Bracaglia Recine and the late Sante Recine, titled per papa (For Daddy and Mamma (Mother)

In 2017 She published Open book, Where the road to serendipity ends with Southern Owl Publications.   She writes in English, Italian, Spanish and French

Rita has been writing poetry since adolescence.

  She lives in Laval Quebec with her family.

Our poems are a reflection of our values, thoughts, emotions   and beliefs inspired by our ancestors and other trailblazers who have paved the road for us indie poets and more. We have used imagery and impressionism

 Our storytelling reveals two women with different backgrounds view the world and its surroundings in the same fashion

Svetlana Konstantinov, second generation Canadian. Her family originated from Russia

She worked at Concordia University as an undergraduate team assistance.

Her strength and resilience had been a great force to all who knew her.

Svetlana has published several of her poems in anthologies by The National Library of Poetry and The International Library of Poetry. She has received several Editor’s Choice Awards from 1996-2003.  As well, thirteen of her poems were put on tape and CD.  She was also elected into The International Poetry Hall of Fame in 1996.

Svetlana has been writing poetry for 25 years. Growing up in Montreal Quebec

Where her family still resides today.



An Artist

He wrote so playfully;

Living every breath.

Renouncing the bane behind;

He displayed all he can.

All he cared about deep inside.

He dared to muddle the meaning

For his own art;

The art which also belonged to others.

He is an artist of clumsy walks;

A first step of a long run.

A breathing and purposeful art

Survives the death of his meaning.

There are answers always

Questioning him.

There are questions always

Answering him.

He scribbled so fruitfully.

A device of worship he found so artistic

And future of brilliance in his craft.

A flavour of senses;

Drenching him in the

Purpose of his flair.

When Poets talk about Jazz 

When poets talk about Jazz

It reminds me how blues sharpen the cry of a guitar.

Musical words spill all over

The soulful page of a poet.

Away from the pages of a poet 

Like an amused solo wanderer

A sign on the lonely crossroad

Stands as the music of a road;

Leading to the calling and thought-out destinations

Jazz again reaches for the words

Blues pause cutting the heart

A start ends peacefully

A cut for a cut again

A broken heart for the blues and Jazz

Jazz is imagination and flights of sensual fantasy

Blues seem like a knowledge forgotten and

Remembered in fragmented revelations still

Bearing the painful past

The best thing is you can wonder and wander

At the same time with these two.


Go gullibly after the symbol

Why are you

so proud

of the flag of your homeland? 

A flag that was not born

at its beginning if I am accurate

It preceded your birth


from 1897

and until your arrival

It seems to me that you are not the son

of the roots of Zionism

rooted in

ancient motives and values

inherent in religious tradition

and in the national ideologies that blossomed in Europe in the 19th century

And yet you have not

acquired at all your national property

a light


prayer shawl that corresponds with purity and heavenliness,

due to the color of heaven, and according to the belief as a parable of the resting place of your God

and my angels.

And because you don’t have

a prayer shawl at all, for that matter.


you must become wise in symbols

before rushing to define your religious


even this you didn’t know!

Aside from wearing a Star of David pendant

the width of

your entire hairy


I have not seen anything of the patriotism

that should be noted

for raising the two

equilateral triangles

with the structure of six triangles connected to the sides of the equilateral hexagon

that have been defined as a symbol that some believe

was engraved by

the defenders of King David’s warriors

The philosopher

from the 12th century BC

Yehuda ben Eliyahu Hadassi

in his book “Eshkol Hakofer,”

in chapter 42, denounces the actions of the people who turned the Star of David symbol into a ritual

like you.

However, I believe

that there is often a direct connection between

religious adherence and ritual, and thus in most cases the ritual expresses admiration for deity

but, it is possible to identify who has this devotion. 

But you?

What do you know about deity? and religious devotion? 

With great difficulty

your attempt

to express as a kosher Jew

has succeeded

When you serial rape

underage girls

with a Star of David pendant

around your neck,

you do it!


Dumpster Fire Press is proud to announce the first release for National Poetry Month…


Cover art by Dillinger

Spotlighting voices heard, seldom heard or never heard at all. First featured on the VOICES FROM THE FIRE series , we’ve got poets , writers and artist spanning from here, there and everywhere in-between…

of course the color version is a bit expensive and there is an e-book format and a black and white version available at a lower cost.

Links are provided on bottom of the page for that.

I need to give credit where credit is due though: a colossal thanks to Dillinger and R. Keith for all the visual work they’ve contributed and to James Maj for generosity via his entrancing paintings.

Also Beau Blue, thanks for the sweet logo

So, here’s some cool news regarding what happens to VOICES FROM THE FIRE in the future…to keep costs down I’d like to do 90-100 pages, I still love color and will always adore black and white as an alternative but DFP has never been about alienation and I don’t want cost preventing people from reading or at least putting something cool on top of their coffee table.

However, not sure how it goes with other anthologies as that is a beast of its own nature.

But future volumes will be cheaper and hopefully more frequent…

Also started work on Volume 2 in which an entire section will be dedicated to National Poetry Month, so maybe get excited for that as the number of our global contributor’s has expanded.

There will also be a table of contents, however bios will be absent as all voices are equal.

But like I told a lady at a department store I worked at who was upset at the lack of matching shades of gray towels available via immediate inventory

“Well ma’am…sometimes you just have to settle.” (don’t ever say that to anyone you’re dating)

In the meantime, enjoy settling…seeing as how we’re not dating


It’s been an honor hosting these voices:Carman Benoit, Roz Washington, James Maj, Harry McNabb, J.J. Campbell, Kristen Sanner, Samir Karimo, Marc Olmsted, R. Keith, Jared Morningstar, Amanda Morningstar, Damian Ward Hey, Dillinger, Jim Graves, Brian Rihllmann, Paul Tanner, S.A. Gerber, Beau Blue, Jack Henry, Milenko Županović, R.M. Engelhardt, L.B. Sedlacek, Richard Modiano, John Stickney, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Anthony Kane Edwards, Dan Holt, Efe Tusder, Luis Berriozabal, Michael Grover, Michael Lee Johnson

and Dumpster Fire Press cannot wait to add more to the fire.

stay surreal

VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Wolfgang Carstens

Message from the Editor

VOICES FROM THE FIRE will return on April 1st just in time for POETRY MONTH!

Heralding DFP’s Poetry Month Event focusing on Poets (we’ve got some stellar new poets and artists joining the fray) in VOICES…along with past titles, the launch of several poetry titles including the first volume of VOICES FROM THE FIRE !

Until then, I’ll be catching up on correspondences, committing edits like a mad man in an attempt to get ahead of this month to crash into the oncoming mayhem of May…

stay surreal