Death’s Door By Jim Kangas

Looking through gins at the local liquor store

I found one from Wisconsin called Death’s Door.

From Door County. I’d read that its herbals are

juniper, coriander and fennel. Death’s Door

I thought a fine name and I love fennel, and since

I’ve been on a slippery slope to death’s door

what with afib and two badly leaking heart valves,

I thought I’d give it a try. Indeed, Death’s Door   

did not disappoint. With tonic and lime it tasted

like god nectar. My cousin P entered death’s door

after drinking too much of 100 proof something.      

Her marriage had slipped through death’s door,

I guess, from some unhappy strife unknown to me. 

We were very chummy as kids. Death’s door

was barely a blip on the horizon then. Now I feel

my toes at the worn doorsill of failing breath.   

Jim Kangas spent his early years growing roots in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and most of his life as a librarian. His work has appeared in Blue Unicorn, The Iconoclast, New York Quarterly, Rye Whiskey Review, Yemassee, et al. His chapbook, Breath of Eden (Sibling Rivalry Press), was published in 2019.

North of Oxford By Brenton Booth

An intellectual

is someone

that studies

to attain

knowledge.

A genius

is someone

that does

everything

they can

to avoid it.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.  

Last Drinks That Never Are By George Gad Economou

“you know, man,” I told Jim as I held

up the triple Jim Beam on the rocks he had just

handed me, “this is gonna be my last drink.”

“yeah, right,” he scoffed, “as if you’ll ever quit drinking.”

“not what I meant, man. this is the last drink of

the shell of a man I’ve become. when I have

the next drink, I’ll be a new person; I’ll have a drink

as someone with a purpose, with some

reason to get up in the morning, ignore the brutal

hangover, and just do something.”

“I think you’ve already had more than enough,” he

chided me. “perhaps,” I concurred. “and that’s the

beauty of it. this will be the last

drink of the night and of the man I’ve been

since Emily died. when I have

the next drink, whether it’ll be in

fifteen minutes or twelve hours,

I’ll be born anew.”

“drink up and go sleep whatever this is off. I’ll see you

tomorrow.”

I did. and he did see me

the next morning. the beauty of

grand drunk proclamations is that

you can do them every

single fucking night and they

always feel fresh until some

creeping memory escapes the abyss of blackout.

George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance writer, and has published three novels and two poetry collections, with the latest being his horror novel, The Lair of Sinful Angels (Translucent Eyes Press). His words have also appeared in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

A Thin Invisible Line By Bob Carlton

the brain wants

what the heart can’t have

especially here where

joy and misery are separated

by just a single

slug of tequila

by just a single

bad song on the sound system

by just a single

word dropped from a cruel height

straight as a shot

onto your head

Bob Carlton lives a life almost totally devoid of outward incident in Leander, Texas.

Dark Street By Trish Saunders

Where are you tonight, Sharon, Leslie, Jo? It’s Friday night, I remember you, 

so you exist, still in your mother’s Chevy

slowly rolling past the house of a boy 

we all like with dark eyes

and parents known

 to be seldom home. 

Sharon, stop the car under a big walnut tree 

on Sycamore Ave., pass a bottle 

of Jimmie (Beam) back to Jo; her father 

will never miss it, she thinks. 

I would rather smoke weed with Dark Eyes,

and I know he has some, 

but his house is silent, no mutt barks 

from the yard. And how long

will we sit there in darkness 

willing him to come outside

with his dangerous eyes, 

the moon so close 

you could climb a tree,  

break off a piece and throw it

Trish Saunders lives in the Pacific Northwest, her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Book of Matches, Chiron Review, Pacifica Poetry Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, Eunoia, The Galway Review, and Four Feathers Anthology. 

The Eyes Are Upon You By Scott Simmons

Dreams are where we hide from our demons.

And nightmares are where we see their truth.

Enjoy every taste of heaven you have in hell. 

As you walk in between worlds.

Tread down your path without fear. 

And eagerly suffer its consequences. 

For this is true living.

Scott Simmons is a poet, humorist, and a shitty artist from Houston Texas. He is also the editor of the Dope Fiend Daily and usually enjoys reading your submissions as little as possible.

His work has been featured in places such as The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, HST, Daune's Poetree, It Takes All Kinds, Off The Coast Magazine, The Black Shamrock, The Anti-Heroin chic, and Under The Bleachers

Ambition, or Lack Thereof By Leah Mueller

Downstate Illinois featured

fertile land, with dense rows

of sweet corn, stretching for miles.

In Summer, ’75,

high-school students 

earned $2.00 per hour

with a thirty-minute break.

Sadistic farmers hired us

to pull tassels and

fling the tufts on the ground.

Nine-hour shifts in the blistering sun.

We’d trudge forward, then turn around 

and repeat the process

all over again. 

The crew and I worked together,

grooving to my friend Linda’s

crackling transistor radio.

We danced through rows,

shaking our hips to 

“I’m Not in Love” 

and “The Hustle.”

Linda was a straight A student

who couldn’t wait to burst

free from downstate Illinois,

even if she had 

to claw her way out.

Last time I saw her,

three years post-graduation,

she lived with a collection of pet lizards, 

in a basement apartment

in Champaign-Urbana.

I was a hippie with a hundred-dollar car

and a thing for guitar players.

The two of us fell out of touch.

I pitied her boring life.

But now, fifty years later,

Linda has a PhD, and

I am still pulling tassels.

Leah Mueller's work is published or forthcoming in Rattle, Writers Resist, Beach Chair Press, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has received several nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. One of her short stories appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her fourteenth book, "A Pretty Good Disaster" is forthcoming from Alien Buddha Press in Summer, 2025. Website: http://www.leahmueller.org.

THE LINE By Dan Flore III

all these poets

trying to write

the hard line

 

the jackass line

 

the intellectual line

the drunk line

 

the taboo line

 

the holy line

 

the line that bends

(the mind)

 

and I’m just another one

in a long line

Dan Flore III’s writings have appeared in many publications. He is the author of several books, the latest being EVERYTHING MUST GO. (Cajun Mutt Press)

For Eighteen Minutes in 1979 By John Doyle

His face-free photograph

has no word, letter, nor number, 

here is time at its lousiest, mocking love and dreams

and shapes where Elysium's mustang never left its stable;

His voice a choking coal dust on black wilderness starstruck frenzy.

I just know he lived across main and 3rd 

in a two room pokey 

with his mom and her latest boyfriend.

He was my best friend for eighteen minutes in 1979

and I loved him like I was Jesus loving everything

except sin

and his pappy's cigarette ash 

getting in his eyes 

on designated Sundays.

Across the street Tavares thump their notions of love and peace

at a point in time where boys no longer sneak into other boy's houses

and become fleeting kin - for eternity;

Someone's switched off 

Don't Take Away the Music,

the carwash on the corner of main and 3rd

does its job efficiently, 

with meaning, 

making neither friend nor foe

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.

Morgan’s Dilemma by Jim Harrington

I entered Eddie’s Neighborhood Bar and Grill and noticed my friend Morgan in a hand waving discussion with a red-faced man in a tuxedo and string tie. As I approached, the man huffed past me and out the door.

I took my usual stool at the bar and nodded to the bartender. Morgan picked up his beer and joined me.

He pulled a crumpled paper out of his pocket. “Says here the guy that just left wants to declare war against the education system, limit fornication to Wednesdays and Fridays, and ban alcoholic beverages. Finally, to limit activities against his policies, he would require all residents to participate in a domestication orientation program.”

“Guy sounds like a whack-o,” I said.

“And his wife probably makes him sleep on the couch,” Morgan said with a smile and a wink.

“He didn’t appear to be too happy.”

“I told him to go jump in the swamp,” Morgan said and took a long swig of beer. “He might look pretty, but he ain’t no Boy Scout.” Morgan swiveled around to look at the guys playing pool. 

“Huh,” I replied.

 “I received this here letter a couple of days ago containing his plan and letting me know he’d be here today. I shoulda gone on vacation.”

“That bad?”

“He’s running for County Manager next year and wants me to campaign for him, him being some assistant-something-or-other-of-nothing-important and me being sheriff. Guess he thinks people might think better of him if he could throw a familiar name around.”

“You have lived here almost forever,” I said. “And since the sheriff is appointed by the County Manager. . . ”

Morgan raised his bottle, finished his beer, and oozed off his stool. 

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“It’s Friday,” Morgan replied with a big grin. “Martha’s waiting for me at home.”

Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Short-Story.me, Ariel Chart, CommuterLit, Fewer Than 500, and others. More of his works can be found at https://jpharrington.blogspot.com. His series of editor interviews can be found at https://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com.

Toxic Timecapsule Syndrome By John Patrick Robbins

I'm so sorry I cannot exist frozen in time as

 I am within your heart.

A dead insect underneath the glass.

My lines are endless, and to expand, one must abandon

everything to survive.

A creative mind is a virus spreading past the boundaries of insanity.

A reader is an onlooker and nothing more than a pretender

to that which they will never fully choose to be.

Alive in every sense of the word.

I'm so sorry I refuse to remain frozen in time.

Back pages are there for a reason: reminisce and sincerely.

Leave me the fuck alone.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has been published in.

Spill The Words Press, Fixator Press, Disturb The Universe, The Dope Fiend Daily, Fearless Poetry Zine, S.A.V.A. Press, Piker Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Horror Sleaze Trash.

His books Include Are We Dead Yet?, Midnight Masochism published by Black Circle Publishing.

And  Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens a split chap book with Kevin M Hidshman published by Whiskey City Press.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

I Meant “Emphatic” Not “Empathic” By Kevin M. Hibshman

I get it now.

Drunk relatives scattered around the house, snoring loudly.

How we gather like an infected tribe.

It's a holiday, banal and prescribed.

I will do my best to be there soon, when I can escape my silly life.

I can read a room.

I can see behind your eyes slightly.

You feel everything as you are in tune with the skein of vibrations infiltrating the gloom.

A friend of the family may drop by in time to festoon a garland, a chain, complete with a noose for good measure.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press.

His current book is Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens also from Whiskey City Press and currently available through Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0DKHRDQD5/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Have a Safe Flight By Ken Gierke

Broadway, the brewpub

where the stout goes down

smooth, like the flight,

make that flights,

in the stories told

by the man three seats over,

his son with his turboprop

going here, there,

giving an old man

the vicarious pleasure

of expendable wealth

as he drinks the same beer

as me and buys the cheapest

item on the lunch menu,

satisfied to have that

in his life.

Ken Gierke is retired and lives in Missouri. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming both in print and online in such places as The Rye Whiskey Review, Poetry Breakfast, Amethyst Review, Silver Birch Press, Rusty Truck, Trailer Park Quarterly, The Gasconade Review, and River Dog Zine. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his poetry collections, Glass Awash in 2022, Heron Spirit in 2024, and Random Riffs in 2025, have been published by Spartan Press. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/

Neon Wreckage By Heather Kays

The first sip is always the best.

Cold beer kissing the back of my throat,

whiskey following close behind,

a slow burn that reminds me I’m still here.

Neon flickers against the bar top,

stray voltage buzzing in the air,

signs promising Open Late

As if the night doesn’t already have its hands on me.

As if I don’t already taste the regret between sips.

As if last call isn’t just another kind of beginning.

I’ve seen this wreckage before.

Dead reckoning through the static,

drowning in jukebox confessions,

sharing war stories with strangers

who’ve all made the same bad choices,

just with different names.

It’s easy to lose yourself here.

Easier to let go.

To be alone, together.

To talk if you want,

or disappear into the music.

To dance if you feel like it,

or just melt into the barstool

until the room tilts just right.

I don’t live here anymore.

Don’t chase the sunrise with shaky hands

or count my regrets in empty glasses.

But sometimes, I come back.

Let loose.

Blow off the dust.

Drink just enough to feel the fire,

to remember the wreckage,

and to leave before I become it again.

Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.

The Summer of 6 By Rita S. Spalding

at six years old they bought him cigarettes

no filters and tired camel on each pack

it was a short one mile for the camel

half a mile to the mom and pops for them 

collected pop bottles along the way

penny refunds bought them paraffin lips

tiny bare feet they were always barefoot

shoes were not an option on their dirt road

dog whiskey chased his blues

Rita S. Spalding studied in London and graduated summa cum laude from Murray State University in December 2024. She is recipient of the 2025 Murray State Outstanding Senior in Sociology Award. She has been published in 18 Calliope anthologies, National Library of Poetry, AX-POW Magazine, The Heartland Review, Kentucky Monthly Magazine, Keeping the Flame Alive, Fallen, Rebirth, The Rye Whiskey Review, Walden’s Poetry and Reviews, Poet-Tree Magazine and Kentucky Humanities. Her first book, Abstract Ribbons, was published in 1992 and her two most recent books, published in 2025, are What is Beauty, and The Eighth.

Rita was formerly director of Women Who Write, where in 2006 she helped to establish the annual Kentucky Women's Book Festival, and had the pleasure of meeting writer and activist bell hooks. She also served as panelist for the Dorothy Clay Norton Fellowships at the Mary Anderson Center, and was on the committee to nominate Maureen Morehead as the 2011-12 Kentucky poet laureate. 

They can’t kill us. We’re like cockroaches By Alex Stolis

Tony-boy said, after his kidney transplant.

I’d finished seven weeks of radiation; 

sixty-years of sobriety between us,

uncountable near misses, bullseyes,

a few decades worth of blackouts.

Last call bar fights at The Cove,

plate glass shrapnel flying outside

The Lamplighter, Tommy pulled

us apart when sirens started to wail.

We ricocheted across the Oliver Bridge

to the after-after party at the Ace High, 

black-eyed and bloodied, windows down

stereo blasting The Clash, I Fought the Law; 

another last second Houdinied escape.

Alex Stolis is the author of the poetry collections Pop. 1280 (Cyberwit, 2021) and John Berryman Died Here (Cyberwit, 2020), as well as the chapbooks Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife (Louisiana Literature Press, 2024), RIP Winston Smith (Alien Buddha Press, 2024), and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres (Bottlecap Press, 2024). His poems have appeared in One Art, San Pedro Review, Unleashed Lit, Louisiana Literature Review, and other journals. Stolis lives in upstate New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra.

Singing the Blues By Keith Pearson

Yes. Those are memories

Floating in the bottom

Of you glass.

Please. Wipe the snot

Out of your beard.

How many times do

I have to ask you

To stop.

Your crying disturbs

The regulars.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

“An Unopened Bottle of Rye” By Richard LeDue

Too many slurp down their own nothingness,

as if noise is superior to silence

and their words dead from a drought

are a better love poem

than yelling at each other

about spilling beer on the floor

or dirty dishes in the sink,

while I stare at the cupboard,

where I left an unopened bottle of rye

for the last nine months,

like I was a widow

ready to talk to a gravestone,

but knowing before I did anything,

that this poem wasn’t going to fix much,

except to make a few minutes

a little less thirsty. 

Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print and is the author of numerous books of poetry. His latest full length book, “Another Another,” was released from Alien Buddha Press in May 2025.

They Call Me Dr. Beer By Tony Brewer

Universities in autumn

are terrifying spaces

Walls unscrawled upon

life incomplete closing in

Historicity of grain

brewed into God’s love

is serious business

The thing left undone

in that big ol’ brain

Bounded by colonized color

let loose like a prohibited keg

All this stress for drink

& something to eat

though that makes a people

material culture contained

by the overworked mind

sodden – desperate like thirst

But the care of a friend

grounds a body to a life

Makes a scholar stop

remember why she is here:

it’s the person not the letters

we break bread with

The shared plate

The one who cooks &

the other who cares

about this mess

Tony Brewer is a poet and audio artist from Bloomington, Indiana. He co-produces the Writers Guild Spoken Word Series and the Urban Deer Performance Series. His books include Good Job, Lightning (Stubborn Mule Press) and Water Witch (Pure Sleeze Press). More at linktr.ee/TonyBrewer

A NEW YEAR’S BLESSING By Richard Collins

 New Orleans

All my friends live in houses facing graveyards

I don’t know why but it’s true

On warm December nights their backyard bonfires

burn the bones of spent desires

Their gifts of bourbon, warm cider and myrrh

eclipse the diamonds in their eyes

The presence of the pulse of misfired loves

sprout daughters of dandelion wine

Flares of heat, intoxicating smoke of

burnt mistletoe, holly, divinity

Empty bottles, misplaced beams, glinting

glances that undo me

What’s that there in your packed bags, ready for 

the change to come, satori?

Tomorrow you’ll go back to the self he gave you

and I to my cold mountain. 

Richard Collins is the abbot at the New Orleans Zen Temple and lives in Sewanee, Tennessee, where he directs Stone Nest Dojo. His recent work has appeared in Five Fleas, Syzygy Poetry Review, Amethyst Review, and The Braided Way. His book Stone Nest Poems is forthcoming from Shanti Arts.