Pumpkin Spice Spider by Shannon O’Connor

The group of poets stumbled into the bar after the poetry reading, thirsty for drinks, since reading aloud makes a poet want alcohol. Beer is preferable, or sometimes whiskey, or wine, if one believes they have class.

The noisy bar irritated the group, because they wanted to debate the finer points of Plath and Poe, they decided to take up space on the patio, and ordered from the bar, so they would not have to wait. They went in twos, and carried their drinks outside to avoid the sports brawl inside.

“What do you think of the state of the world today?” they asked each other.

They all groaned.

The poets were losing money, nobody wanted to spend on poetry anymore, grants were not given, none had won any awards, and they barely had enough money for drinks, but drink they needed, because it was a poet’s duty to drown away problems with Pumpkin Spice beer or Guinness or Miller Lite.

Stephanie, a funny poet, noticed a small white spider on the table.

“Is that spider trying to drink the sugar off the glass of my pumpkin spice beer?” she asked to nobody in particular.

The tiny spider crawled up her beer.

“Don’t kill it,” Miguel said. “It’s a life, and it should be honored.”

“But I don’t want it in my beer,” she said.

“Brush it off,” he said.

Stephanie swiped it with her hand.

“What has everything come to when spiders are trying to steal our beer?” 

“it’s a tragic day, indeed,” he said.

Stephanie sipped her beer, and held her glass, so the spider would not crawl inside.

“Everyone wants to drown their sorrow, even the spiders,” Miguel said. “That’s the state of the world today.”

The poets commiserated, and talked about how the leaders were like spiders, trying to steal all the best things they had.

The group agreed to meet the next month in the bar after the poetry reading, when it would be deeper into the fall, and the leaves would be almost gone from the trees.

At the end of October, after the poetry reading, Stephanie went to the bar to order pumpkin spice beer, and the bartender said, “We don’t have any more pumpkin spice.”

“Why not, is the season over already?”

“We didn’t run out, the spiders drank the beer,” he said. “Somehow, they got a taste of it on a glass covered in sugar, and they came into the bar, and went into the taps, and drank all of it, every drop gone.”

“But was it my fault?” Stephanie moaned. “I tried to keep the spider away from my beer.”

“You might have tried, but once they get a taste of something delicious, they want more and more and more until every last drop has been drunk, to be sure, those spiders are thirsty, especially for pumpkin spice.”

“But what else do you have that’s like pumpkin spice?”

“We have Octoberfest and Guinness, but if you crave pumpkin, I can make you a pumpkin spice martini.”

“I don’t want a martini; I’ll have the Octoberfest. But it’s a nightmare! It’s October, and it’s still pumpkin season! Those freakin’ spiders! Why do they have to be so evil?”

“It’s the nature of spiders to be evil,” the bartender said. “You should never give them anything good because they’ll devour it until it’s gone. They’re usually patient, spinning their webs, waiting for their prey, but not when it comes to pumpkin spice. It’s the sugar in the beer that fuels their desire.”

“This is a Halloween tale to end them all,” Stephanie said. “The pumpkin spice spider.”

She took her Octoberfest, and went back to her seat to join the other poets. They talked about the spiders taking over the world, and the death of poetry and beauty and imagination and all the things in life that make it wonderful, except beer, because poets need something to ease their pain, and something to look forward to at the end of the day.

Shannon O'Connor holds an MFA from Bennington College. She has been published previously in The Rye Whiskey Review, as well as Oddball Magazine, Wordgathering, The Alien Buddha Press, and others. She is the chairperson of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. She adores Halloween, and spends October thinking of ghost stories to write and reading vampire novels. She lives in the Boston area.

Not Arguing With The Bar Tender Over Half A Miller Lite Draft By Don Monaghan

—for MK

My glass is half full she says      

as matter-of-factly as she 

is lovely — a ginger flashing a smile

and waistline that elicits starry-eyed 

expressions from her patrons     

I say my glass is what it is

—which once meant a fickle whore 

the fingered reflection of this observer's

mood on any particular day—

But today I say it's best

if we don't find miracles  

nor the lowest wretches 

in the fluid level of a frosty utensil  

Instead let's air some light laundry 

listen to familiar music 

to my head or your heart 

ignore our new acquaintance on the end 

who's certain his experience

is the yellow brick road 

you me and Fido can follow

past every set of glazed lifeless 

eyes along the wayside

She's not remotely impressed

perhaps even peeved 

at my misperceived...What? Neutrality?

I see she's dead sure I'm telling 

the wrong story so I don't

speak of wending the intricacies  

of an irreparable love 

or the feeling of walking in and finding 

the woman I married naked  

hair still wet from the shower

nor the funeral I've just come from

or how glorious the motorcycle

ride here was afterwards

Instead I say By God you know what?

Mine Too! Half Full It Is!

Only because right now her smile  

will find my smile and because at 54 

I've finally come to accept the bringing in 

and the washing away much like 

believing in loss is a way of knowing 

and allowing simple pleasures 

is a way of forgetting 

Don Monaghan has been published in The Boston Literary Magazine and The Ravens Perch. He resides in Upstate NY.

Without Foundations By Jonathan Butcher

A door handle rattle, 

that chimes louder 

than that splinted

grandfather clock; 

it's twisted pendulum 

slightly knocking 

the left side, 

but never seems 

to leave a dent. 

The door hinges remain

in place, regurgitate 

their screws, 

that now embed into

these floorboards,

a haze of dust and brass

the walls with crumbled

plaster, it's flakes

form into dunes.

A fragmented recollection,

of a time that was never 

in one piece, an outside 

path, it's concrete uneven,

yet still lead me out 

to that street, that never

stayed as narrow as we 

would have liked. 

Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, The Abyss, Cajun Mutt Press and others. His fourth chapbook, 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press. 

He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press. 

Death of the Soul By George Gad Economou

with a fifth of bourbon in my bloodstream I

fire up a cigarette and listen to old songs that

bring up the days after Christine left for

Copenhagen, unable anymore to survive in

the crazy rhythms of my drug-addled life.

she found me dead with the needle in my arm, brought

me back to life and nursed me through cold

turkey. then, she got accepted to the university and

left as I was drinking my liver away on some Greek island

with people I barely remember. I came home to

an empty apartment, everything belonging to

her was gone except for a shot of Narcan and

a note next to it: don’t die, please.

I wanted to shoot; I even went ahead and got an 8ball.

it sat there on my coffee table for two weeks.

I’d have staring contests with it while guzzling Four Roses

out of the bottle. eventually, I

smoked it. didn’t shoot. haven’t shot since the day she

found me dead.

but the glass pipes and the aluminum foil pipes

were a constant as I tried to juggle reality and fiction,

as I drank myself into stupors in bars while

believing I was having an academic future.

death avoids me like I’m a tequila-reeking plague and I

drain fifths of bourbon and rye while staying

away from glass pipes, struggling to recapture the magic of

lost years I can’t remember.

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.

The Creek (2) By Keith Pearson

He follows the creek once again

bones clicking like stone against stone

the air damp with rot and pine.

He knows this water or thinks he does.

It used to shimmer with trout

when he was a boy and spent days here.

The light begins to grow thin as

the birches turn silver and strange.

He talks aloud to keep himself company

talking to the ghosts of deer or

with the wind moving through the trees.

The creek whispers only in riddles

a language he once knew.

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

WRITING WITH WINE Excerpt By Tim G. Young

Sliding my fingers through my hair reminds me of the way the wine slips down my throat. Slippery. Very slippery. I do not want to think that my fingers are sliding because my hair is a greasy mess, but it is. It falls onto my face, and then I get a whiff of it, or I feel it more than I want to. It's simply another distraction. Something else driving me mad in its attempts to take my mind off my writing. I've already disposed of my television, and my ancient radio is on its last legs. I'm waiting for the static to move in permanently and command the broadcast waves so that the next time I am tempted to turn that thing on, all I'm going to hear is white noise, the static of my life that not even I would want to listen to. Forget it. I can not be bothered by the likes of modern mass communications sucking the essence of life through my brain and clogging my nostrils so that I can barely breathe. Damn, I joke with myself, who was the fucking idiot who bought this cheap bottle of red wine?  What fool wouldn't have the sense to notice that this particular bottle is nothing but red vinegar trapped in a bottle created to contain wine!  I am so angry. But I can not throw the shit away. If I did that, then I wouldn't have anything to drink and worse, nothing to help advance the growing anger in my dilapidated brain that somehow continues to punch the keys on my lousy typewriter. I could have at least broken down my rules for once and bought a goddamn electric typewriter. But no. I'd rather not do anything like that. I'd rather punish myself as frequently and as abusively as I possibly can. And with that comes the knowledge that this brand new story I have been working on for the past two weeks is gonna be another throwaway! And I have invested myself in this story. I have gone to the library and read several self-help books on the wonders of being good to one's self and now I can see plainly that there is not a drop of 'good' in this character. He's the next thing to a scum bag. He only arrives late or never even appears for whatever social function he might be involved with, and if he does, he invents lies and excuses that are obvious to the people he was supposed to interact with. Then, once he sees that nobody is buying his line, he will begin to roar a string of obscenities at them and storm out of the room, slamming the door, shattering the glass in the door. And, yes, I have the power to insist that there is a huge panel of glass in every door that Mr. Madman slams as he makes his hasty, obscenity-filled exit. 

Suddenly I push my ass to the very back of my chair and attempt to straighten out this horrible back of mine. As I moan and grab my glass of red vinegar, I see that the page of crisp white paper in my typewriter carriage is blank. My fingers have not been punching any keys at all. I see all I have been punching is myself in the head with all these random throwaway thoughts, and that I am probably my own greatest distraction. Goddamn it, where is the television?!  I could watch a ball game and get this much work finished. Shit. I realize I have to take a breath. My vision seems to be clouding over, and I can barely feel my heart beating. I must be slipping into a coma. If I do that, then who will be able to dial 911?  My strength will have leaked onto the floor like a puddle of this ghastly so-called red wine. I pour the remaining few ounces of it onto the floor. Next, with whatever strength remaining, I pull myself out of my chair. My foot will, without a doubt, step immediately into the puddle of horrid grape juice, causing my head to smash on the floor. Then a trickle of blood will race down from my lips to my chin, only to eventually mingle with the fucking cheap wine, which, if I ever recover consciousness, will lap up like the thirsty dog I am.

I stop. I look down and see there is actually a small stack of papers by my trusty typewriter. I look again and see that indeed there are words and punctuation typed all over those few pages, and that with another glance, I can determine that there is a logic built into the way the words are strung together. I almost allow myself to smile, but I keep those muscles in check because the 'story', if one can call it that, is still in its infancy. The gestation period is not truly at an end. More birthing is necessary, and growth. I stop and am pleased for once that I chose an almost undrinkable bottle of wine. I put that detestable liquid next to the drainboard in the kitchen and find I do have more wine. I must have been crazy thinking I had run out.  This time I chose a Chardonnay. No more red for today. I keep my wine on the windowsill in the kitchen.. It's not really a kitchen. It does pretend to be one, what with the gas-burning stove and the refrigerator standing buddy, buddy next to each other, but that kind of friendship is flimsy at best. They have no true connection, and they know it. Hot and cold is how it is with them, and there is nothing that anyone can do about it. It's a joke. One smiles and the other frowns, and vice versa. My kitchen window lives in constant seclusion because the blinds must be eternally drawn. The reason is the neighbors across the way. Those miserable bastards never close their curtains, shades, or whatever. I hate them. One day, I am going to stand there naked with a pile of rocks by my side while I raise my blinds and throw the rocks like a machine gun across and through their window, smashing the glass into millions of tiny shards that are impossible to ever completely clean up. They will forever be running to the bathroom, screaming for the tweezers so they can attempt, but hopefully not successfully, pull the razor-sharp splinters from the bottom of their tender barking dogs. Oh boy. This is when I would totally allow myself to let my facial muscles soar into uncharted waters. Letting the laughter ooze out of me like hot magma exploding from a too-long extinct volcano, and just when one might suppose the flow had begun to quiet, it would begin all over again with a new ferocity. A fresh energy would spit and gurgle and soar into convulsions. Okay, convulsions, then my body would writhe on the floor, and I would see the ever-present phony friends of the stove and fridge making me continue to laugh. And then the neighbors in pain would summon the police, but I wouldn’t open my door. I wouldn't be able to drag myself off the floor, and they would have to break the door down if they really wanted to subdue me, and if they did that, I would straighten myself up in a flash of a wink and inquire why they would want to invade my apartment. I was only sitting here at the typewriter, working on a story. I would calmly report. I'd offer them a cup of coffee. There wouldn't be any rock evidence in the kitchen because they would all be across the way in the neighbor's apartment. As for my window being broken, well, I live in a dump, the landlord is a corporation, and surely there must be other broken windows besides mine. I mean, after all, my neighbor's window is broken too.

Tim is a published author and singer/songwriter. Originally from Easton, Pa. But the real formative years were spent

 in NYC. After a long run we loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly, Hills that is. Not true, but I like it. Actually the wilds of Arizona.

20. (bedroom clutter) By Ace Boggess

Forgive me when I praise my wealth

of bedroom clutter:

dusty sneakers I never wear

kept as weapons in the constant war

with spiders on the off-white walls

standing out like Ahab’s coin;

folded towels on a Rubbermaid tub

because I have nowhere to put them;

hand-torch & battery-operated fan

beside my bed, handy

when the power fails;

DVDs stacked tight on shelves—

I collect them to remember joy

of having watched these films &

the other odd joy, in owning them,

of never having to watch these films again;

a bottle of lotion—vaguely lavender;

a tube of cortisone ointment;

empty bottles that once contained

over-the-counter pills to battle

allergies, headaches, reflux;

the boxes filled with books—

my books—I haven’t sold,

clogging chairs in which no one sits.

Praise, too, those books, poetry & prose—

they take up room, filling gaps

in my disorderly fortress,

also in me, where the clutter exists

as memories, hopes, shortcomings,

thoughts of times I failed

or fell down a manhole while high or drunk,

or should’ve made love

to a stranger but didn’t

because I didn’t

know how to speak my holy name aloud.

Of course, there are spaces.

I praise those, &

will continue writing

until I somehow fill each one with words.

Ace Boggess is author of seven books of poetry, most recently My Pandemic / Gratitude List (Mōtus Audāx Press, 2025) and Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021). His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His forthcoming books include the poetry collection, Tell Us How to Live, from Fernwood Press and his first short-story collection, Always One Mistake, from Running Wild Press.

To purchase My Pandemic / Gratitude List Poems. Please use the link below. 

https://a.co/d/eu9HG43

Cul-de-sac By Caleb Bouchard

It’s 10:59 

on a Friday night

and I’m standing outside in the dark 

waiting for the dog to piss. 

My son and girlfriend 

are asleep

and I’m three beers deep 

composing half-assed 

haikus 

about the moon

when a subtle electric whirring 

comes from up the hill. 

It’s the house 

that had the high school 

graduation sign in the front 

yard back in May. 

Now the recent grad  

and her friends 

are making the most 

of their newly acquired adulthood, 

zooming off in a Tesla.

I imagine them going to 

a punk show 

or a bar downtown

or an unhinged house party 

or just over to the liquor store 

then to the QT 

and dumping vodka 

into slushies 

and chasing each other 

around a tennis court. 

I did these things years 

ago, but now I’m 32, an unshaven 

homebody, 

twenty pounds overweight and 

perpetually 

in desperate need of a nap. 

Despite what 

they say, 

there’s poetry 

to be experienced 

in these cloistered suburbs. 

I hope they find it

and create more poetry, 

righteous and rebellious

just like them.  

As they turn the corner 

hugging the edge of the cul-de-sac

their headlights 

just barely 

miss me. 

Caleb Bouchard is the author of 79 Nonets, The Satirist: Prose Poems, and most recently The Downside Up Year: A New Dad's Diary. His poetry has recently appeared in The Chiron Review, Hanging Loose, Splat, and other journals.

Closing By Trish Saunders

Before my table disappears into three a.m.

darkness of Sunday morning; 

before shrieks, laughs,

clinked glasses 

ebb to silence,   

let me just

say goodnight

to the sink, broom and mop

huddling together in the bathroom,

mounds of discarded towels.

Let me not hear reeds whispering  

together after someone chucks a stone 

into their depths. 

How can we know for sure no one

is stranded tonight? no one calls

rescue me, lighthouse, 

I’m here 

waiting on a pile of rocks.

 

Trish Saunders has poems appearing (or forthcoming) in Chiron Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Open Arts Forum, Book of Matches Lit Review, Main Street Rag, among others. She lives in Seattle. 

The Creek By Keith Pearson

He follows the creek.

Nothing else makes sense.

A thin silver voice through the pines

telling him this way, old man, this way.

The sun goes behind the pines.

He remembers when his legs were strong

when he could walk this far and back before lunch.

Now each step is a small negotiation with time.

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

The Long-Lost Story of the Lost Colony Waterfront Pub’s Bar Top By Renee Williams

Of resin and revenants,

of sugar sand and secrets,

unlike any tavern counter you’ve ever encountered,

discarded during a remodel of Coastal Cravings in Duck, 

Paul rescued me and made me the centerpiece 

of his Lost Colony Waterfront Pub in Nag’s Head.

Closer now to the Pamplico Sound, I bristle from the Atlantic 

breeze, hear herring gulls cackle, and savor

the nearness of my ocean home. Cradled by indigo casing, 

peer inside this epoxy and you’ll see golden beige silt 

strode upon by warriors Manteo, Wanchese, and even Sir Walter Raleigh, 

remnants of angel wing shells, egg cockles, calico scallops 

and coquina clams, a single penny, dropped by a young boy, 

walking to the pier for an ice cream cone, 

and a silver fishing hook belonging to a future championship 

angler when his blue fish got away. Behind me, bartender Dirt

holds court, serves tourists and locals alike, though his overly

boisterous yell of, “HEYYYY!!!” and, for emphasis,

slap upon me whenever someone enters the bar chafes my ears and startles 

the heck out of me. Dirt and Charlie, the establishment’s best patron, 

devised a bootleg menu of combined beer concoctions, much to Paul’s chagrin, 

though a Shad Boat can still be served when Paul isn’t watching. 

Aquamarine ceramic beer mugs cloak me most days and hold beverages 

like Buxton Nut Brown Ale, Hatteras Red Witch, Holy Hand Grenade, and Santa Sleigher.

On my acrylic top—smooth as glass—Monday night trivia scorecards  

scatter about as the crowd debates the answers to such burning questions 

as the number of Bond films that feature Sean Connery

while at my far end, space is reserved for Paul’s 

deceased father with a glass of Kitty Hawk Blonde,

freshly poured each day, and the book, Finding My Way, held open

by a pair of reading glasses, and no one sits in this spot without buying

the house a round. While in Duck at Coastal Cravings, Guy Fieri glanced upon me 

while filming a segment of his Food Network show, but

I’d rather be here, listening to Dirt ramble on about the Braves 

or eyeing photos on Uncle Ray’s phone of cathedrals he saw in Europe.

A single white hair from the Great Pyrenees, Gandalf, floats by the door. 

Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for Guitar Digest, Alien Buddha Press and Fevers of the Mind. 

At the other side of the world By Susan Isla Tepper

 

with cramping belly 

a woman moves slowly

leg by leg lifting 

through high snow 

falling indefinitely.

Stars burn in the sky.

Entering the rank

toilet enclosure

the woman squats 

as she has done 

all her life

in this village.

A baby releases.

Months earlier than expected.

Along with the poor meal

that constitutes daily life.

Each treachery somehow endured.

And when he comes home 

blind drunk of her.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com

Instructions for Loving a Disaster By Heather Kays

Let her burn—

not like a candle,

steady and safe,

but like a star collapsing,

a quiet violence folding in on itself.

Bring wine, not water—

let it stain her mouth

like blood on old letters

never meant to be read.

Don’t ask for the story

in the smoke or the ash—

she speaks in ruins,

in the silence between explosions,

where the earth forgets how to hold itself.

She is the shadow

that doesn’t soften with dawn,

the crack in the mirror

where the light dies.

Hold her like a secret

too dangerous to tell,

too beautiful to keep.

Love her like a wildfire—

reckless, consuming,

leaving only the shape

of what once was,

and the ache

of what can never be saved.

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.

Yeah, I Get It (But I Still Don’t Think It’s Funny) By Kevin Hinman

I believe in the beauty of ripped stockings,

black lungs, black lipstick, black coffee,

and cats who can’t wait for the night to turn caustic,

go bare-knuckle jukeboxing,

throw back shots for all the washed-up rock prophets

who left us in the cold to hold each other hostage,

and swap kisses for the class of Getting 86ed Too Often.

Fuck talking,

I want to see the blood of Nancy Spungen come gushing out the faucet.

I want to melt into those always lawless Motor City mosh pits,

but the bouncers that I used to fuck have moved on out to Austin.

I guess they just got sick of all the shit that I was lauding.

I guess it happened far too often.

If I’m ever passing through maybe I’ll call them.

I hear the sunrise there is awesome.

I hear the sunsets there are awesome.

 Kevin Hinman is a Southern California writer and rapper, and my fiction and features have appeared in Temenos, blink-ink, Newtown Literary, and Mojo magazine.

The Coin Pusher By Keith Gorman

We’ve all seen these contraptions, neatly

cornered in an arcade or discreetly stationed

in a neighborhood mini-mart: coin-operated

gambling machines that are almost as addictive

 

as Demerol, with stainless-steel coin slots

positioned at the top, where quarters drop at    

random onto an oscillating gameboard, allowing

each leveled coin to edge against

 

a neighboring coin, inching forward, bit by bit 

toward an overdrop, where a fixed barricade 

forces a few prized coins to tumble into a 

payout bin below. Of course,

 

the house always wins. More silver circulates

than is ever retrieved, and the more a person plays,

the more they want to win. But players know that

winning’s a sham, that stakes are rigged, that

 

despite their efforts to outfox the game, fight 

five o’clock fires at the world’s far end or feed

four hungry mouths with three hopeless jobs,

the outcome is always the same.

Keith Gorman is a retired Appalachian poet who resides with his two cats, Iggy and Ozzy, near the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Eastern Tennessee. He is a scholarship recipient and graduate of The Sherwood Conservatory of Music in Chicago, Illinois. Currently, he divides his time between writing and hiking the slopes. His poetry appears in various journals, including I-70 Review, Chiron Review, Slipstream, Broadriver Review, Delta Poetry Review, Salvation South, and Naugatuck River Review.

Crooked Shadows By Alyssa Trivett

[inspired by the Thrice song, “Crooked Shadows”]

As my boxcar pounces all over town running errands pre-clocking in,

crooked shadows ignite on the horizon.

My daily billboard pass for a local hospital reads as more comeback stories happen here.

And the adjacent billboard says your passion, your purpose, your path.

Thoughtful words to ponder as my right lead foot increases the miles per hour.

The hours fly on like a dizzy bat marathon.

And as the finally day winds down,

The daily interview I have with myself before the sun sets is…did I try my absolute best?

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she chirps down coffee while scrawling lines. Her work has appeared in many places, but most recently at Ex Ex Lit, and Duane's PoeTree 

Harbor By John Greiner

The boats of the dead

are crowding the summer

season harbor.

I sit on the beach

waiting for a waiter

to arrive.

Instead, I get ghosts

going about willy-nilly.

Samuel Coleridge

orders up a negroni

and watches the birds above.

I enjoy sleeping at the Negresco.

When I wake up at night

I look out on the sea

knowing that Moses.

would never have been able to part it.

In the morning,

when I go to the front desk,

I know that they will tell me 

jokes

about Poseidon's demise.

There are so many pebbles here.

I want to skip them 

all of the way to Morocco.

I stroll the Promenade

in white linen needing a wash.

There’s a stench about me

that says nothing

about my time at sea;

I’m Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

I’ve got my albatrosses,

ravens and white doves.

Land ho!

Bring me God’s good word

and a mojito.

Open up my umbrella

to stave off

sun and storms.

I do not want to set sail again,

Ararat has nothing on the Riviera.

My typing fingers slip on the keys.

My feet suffer traversing the rocks.

The dead return to their ships

steered by the dime a dozen Charons.

They look back at the shore.

There is no envy in their eyes.

John Greiner is a Pushcart Prize nominated writer living in Queens, NY. He was educated at the New School for Social Research.  Greiner's work has appeared in Sand, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Valueand numerous other magazines. His chapbooks, broadsides and collections of poetry and short stories include  Turnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2017), The Laundrymen (Wandering Head Press, 2016), Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press, 2014),Modulation Age (Wandering Head Press, 2012), Shooting Side Glances(ISMs Press, 2011) and Relics From a Hell’s Kitchen Pawn Shop (Ronin Press, 2010). 

like a secret agent By John Grochalski

jp and i

used to drink in the same bar

but that

like a lot of things

was a lifetime ago

i haven’t seen jp in years

until this morning

when he was coming that way

and i was going mine

i recognized his stupid walk

from half a mile’s distance

and without thinking

like it was instinct

i jumped behind a bush

like some criminal

or a secret agent on a mission

waiting there

until jp was gone

and the coast

was finally clear.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.