Tragedies of the Regulars By Matt Mercado

And yes,

the rumors are true,

I’m at the bar

at 2 a.m.

drunk.

$4 Jack

$4 Jim

$24 tab

still open.

And I,

sit,

in a drunken haze

agonizing over

the bachelor life

being overrated

and watching

the regulars.

Gormley, 86

smoking his last pack

before he is admitted

to the hospital.

Pancreatic cancer,

diagnosis terminal.

Janet, 72

her only daughter

went through a windshield

on I-85

three weeks prior,

still listens to her voicemails

every night.

Rocky, 49

Fresh out of county,

the first clean shirt in years,

$13.76 in his pocket,

an empty bic lighter,

and a picture of his son,

who he hasn’t spoken to 

in seven years

and two months. 

And as the jukebox plays

and the slot machines ring

and I close out my tab,

I think,

maybe 

the tragedies

of a twenty three year old

were only tragedies

because it’d only

just begun. 

Matt Mercado, based in Austin, TX balances is a writer who focuses on the human condition, ugly as it sometimes is. All writing is done in the late night and early morning hours before being a full time father starts.

A Tenement on Jones Street By David L Painter

A string of clear rope lights hangs overhead.

"Those are stars," she said.

"We can't see the real ones from here,

so these will have to do."

But the wine is real, as the cap is unscrewed.

She told me she loved me

with all her heart, but not her eyes.

I told her the same lies,

but for me,

it was just a matter of thighs.

So here we sit under our

make-believe stars, with no moon,

while the flowered wallpaper hangs lifeless

between the curtains.

We drink our wine and make believe it is

tomorrow.

David is an International published poet.He is a member of the Inner city writers’ group and penned in the city.His works have been published in Sweetycat Press,Piker press, Rye Whiskey Review,Clarendon House, Spillwords Press,The Writers’ Club,and Dyst Literary Journal.as well as The World of Myth,Every Writer,Ohio Bards and Academy of the Heart. He is a member of Ohio Writers Group and West Virginia Writers Group. His book of poems Thoughts Alone the Way is available on Amazon  

The Pour By Bart Edelman

It’s all in the pour:

Short, long, and in between.

Folks alter their lives,

Attempting to figure out

How to make it work—

Safely engaging the bartender

In idle chit and wholesome chat,

Coaxing enough booze in the glass

To luxuriate the evening,

Or afternoon, should you prefer,

One shot after another—

Ancient ritual of survival.

Yes, from Fast Eddie,

To Slow Hand Julie,

Every patron has a favorite,

Waiting to serve them

Their drink of choice,

Long before a word’s spoken.

Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023. He has taught at Glendale College, where he edited Eclipse, a literary journal, and, most recently, in the MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles. His work has been anthologized in textbooks published by City Lights Books, Etruscan Press, Harcourt Brace, Longman, McGraw-Hill, Prentice Hall, the University of Iowa Press, Wadsworth, and others. He lives in Pasadena, California.

 

Rises by Susan Isla Tepper

The whiskey rises 

in the half full

to the top

As if a brand new bottle

taunting your peaceful sleep

jars you awake

As if just opened 

sharp and divine, like love

smells in the beginning

you can’t let go of—

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

A Wallflower Learns When It’s Time to Go By Trish Saunders

The sound of a crowd singing

drinking dirges

off-key sent a city bus

through me last night,

I’m ready to go 

anywhere,

oh anywhere! 

as long as it’s

far away from here. 

 And where, pigeon friends of my youth,

were you last night, when I needed you?

 You can’t all be dead,

I remember you, so you 

exist, still young 

and ecstatic, still wearing

miniskirts with tall boots,

then gray flannel,

poking hopefully 

under leaves and shards of glass

looking for the perfect job, man, etc.

until we trip over our own shadows

and finally just walk away.

Trish Saunders has poems published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Gargoyle Magazine, Chiron Review, and Open Arts Forum, among other places. She lives in Seattle. 

in a digital world By J.J. Campbell

the kind of night

where you drink

so much the bidet

becomes a water

fountain

and as usual,

a woman is

involved

money is

involved

the lack of

communication

in a digital world

as usual

but now, you’re

wondering if the

whore down the

street will take

fifty

to dress up pretty

and shit on you

you know

for entertainment

purposes only

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy, Yellow Mama, Night Owl Narrative and Crossroads Magazine. His most recent book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available at Amazon by going here: https://a.co/d/073NBSFO

a concerning post By Stephen House

i know someone who posts on social media when they are blind drunk / they’re not a close friend but i have known them for many years / sometimes the post is taken down the next morning / so if i’m keen on reading it then it’s best to do so when it first goes up / i often like the posts they share / there is a stark honesty to them / and they can be funny and make me laugh / the posts can be risky too / in regards to politics and religion and sex and more / so much so that i have often thought they probably should not have been posted / it’s generally the risky posts that are taken down by the morning as they often attract a range of comments that can be tinged with anger or disgust but also with die-hard agreeance and applaud / i suppose one could ask how i know they are blind drunk when they post / i just know / decades ago i was a heavy drinker and i guess there are certain things i recognize / in those days i was around other big drinkers / there was a culture / a way of being and saying / i rarely drink now / one or two beers or a glass of wine / but that’s about it / i mostly like drinking water and coffee / a week or so ago i read a concerning blind drunk post from them / it was something about them having had enough of life and wanting to go / i read it several times and each time i did i found it more concerning / i decided to ring them on the social media phone contact / they were blind drunk and distressed / i told them that the post had concerned me and did they want to talk / they did want to and we did so for about forty minutes / they said they were not going to harm themselves and would go to bed after we had hung up the phone / in the morning the post was gone / but the next night they posted blind drunk again / though it was a funny post which made me laugh / not concerning at all / i hope they are ok / i might ring them again sometime / especially if i’m concerned //     

Stephen House has won awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s been commissioned often, with 20 plays produced, many published by Australian Plays Transform, and produced nationally and internationally. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts to Canada and Ireland, and an Asialink residency to India. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His poetry is published often. He’s performed his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen had a play run in Spain for 4 years.

Bush Buzzed By John Drudge

You’re not supposed

To go on safari drunk

But I was never one 

For rules

Incorrigible

They used to say

I had had a few 

Pink gin and tonics

On tap

And a cold beer

Back at the lodge

And maybe some wine

At lunch

Watching the monkeys

Steal food

And spill drinks

Before heading back out 

For the afternoon 

Being in the bush

With a buzz

Is a trip 

There were moments 

I felt too brave

But I would catch myself

And think of dinner 

By the fire

And not wanting

To miss that

Or be that

So I watched the wildlife

Go by

With appropriate care 

And reserve

And then we stopped 

To watch the sunset

And had some more 

Gin and tonics

And Amarula on ice

And drove back to camp

In the dark

Under the stars

To have wine

With dinner

John is a social worker and disability management specialist with academic backgrounds in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of eight poetry collections - March (2019), The Seasons of Us (2019), New Days (2020), Fragments (2021), A Long Walk (2023), A Curious Art (2024), Sojourns (2024), and Too Close to the Shore (2025). His work appears widely in international journals and anthologies, and he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. John lives in the Caledon Hills of Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children, where a deep love of the natural landscape informs his writing.

 

She Wore Darkness Well By Tracey Sivek

She wore darkness well.

Not as a cloak to hide beneath,

nor armor forged from bitterness,

but as velvet midnight

woven from lessons learned

beneath moonless skies,

where every unanswered question

became a thread in her becoming

and every difficult season

left its quiet mark upon her heart.

She knew the language of shadows,

had danced with grief,

sat beside heartbreak,

and listened to silence

when it had much to teach.

She had wandered through long nights

when hope felt distant,

learning that endurance

is often a softer thing than courage,

and that healing rarely arrives

all at once.

The darkness did not own her.

It refined her.

It carved wisdom

into the spaces where certainty once lived

and taught her that strength

is not always found in sunlight.

Sometimes it is discovered

in the moments when no one is watching,

when the soul must choose

to keep moving forward

despite the weight it carries.

Some flowers bloom in daylight.

Others unfold beneath the stars.

She became both…

wild as the storm,

gentle as the dawn,

holding light in one hand

and mystery in the other.

She learned to honor

every part of herself:

the radiant and the restless,

the fearless and the fragile,

the woman she had been

and the woman she was still becoming.

For she understood

what many never learn:

The dark is not the enemy.

Sometimes it is the sacred place

where the soul remembers

its own power.

Sometimes it is the quiet sanctuary

where old wounds are tended,

where truth rises gently to the surface,

and where resilience takes root

deep enough to withstand any season.

And she wore it well.

Not just beautiful.

Powerful.

Powerful in the way mountains are powerful…

steady, enduring,

shaped by storms yet never diminished.

Powerful because she had faced herself

in the deepest hours

and emerged with compassion

instead of bitterness,

with wisdom instead of fear.

She wore darkness well,

not because it never hurt,

but because she transformed it

into something meaningful.

And in doing so,

she became a light

that could not be extinguished,

a woman who understood

that true strength is not the absence of darkness,

but the grace to carry it

without letting it steal who you are.

Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan. 

 She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel. She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.

Her publications include .

The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.

Her latest book For The Love Of Lily  is currently available on Amazon.

https://a.co/d/0hSH9eG9

Peddle Power To The People By John Patrick Robbins

I see e-bikes everywhere on the city streets.

Millions of kids and grown-ups alike, all flying down sidewalks, attempting to talk on their phones as they pretend their lives are more than anything but ordinary at best.

Snapping selfies at car accidents, driving by the homeless who just wish they were anywhere but here.

As the dogs get driven insane, they start wishing they had oxygen tanks to keep up with the progression of society as the ocean goes dry so some dumbass can create a pic of themselves as a superhero.

I never trust anyone who wears a cape along with spandex on a hot summer day.

As we distance ourselves from one another to chat with robots who wish only there was a mass blackout so you would leave them the fuck alone.

As we become more like children with ever-growing, expensive, environmentally conscious toys, as we shove garden hoses up our asses to cleanse our colons while feasting upon animals on more juice than a WWE wrestler.

While we cruise on something with pedals we know damn sure we will never use,

praying not to get caught in a rainstorm to avoid a mass electrocution.

While I sit in the bar, wickedly amused, as I always enjoy watching others catch a buzz.

As some dork walks in, shooting sparks out of his ass.

Asking if they have gluten-free coffee IPA pussy ale fermented in socially minded, woke hops.

As the bartender just places a PBR in front of them with a bourbon chaser.

As some nutcase editor laughs hysterically from a darkened corner.

Virtual never is my reality because I am forever a full-fledged prick by design.

Who identifies as a Norwegian coke hound of a bygone era.

Cheers to the apocalypse.

And to all common sense, sayonara.

Bi-yo 69 

John Patrick Robbins was deemed a threat to humanity and deported to his native country of Germany, where he has retired to raise his award-winning invisible Yorkie/Tasmanian Devil hybrid dogs. He tours on weekends with his jazz trio, playing gigs all over France via Knotts Island, N.C.

He collects vintage wines and stores them in his wife's walk-in closet because, really, how many shoes does that bitch need, after all?

He is a practicing Satanist and youth minister because he believes children should learn the dark arts early on and sacrifice their grandparents to Odin while he constructs a monument to himself made solely out of Pez candy.

He enjoys strippers, blowjobs, and doing poetry readings in correctional facilities because he loves a captive audience.

He recently died and spoke to God, who gave him a high-five in appreciation of his work. God didn't have His wallet on Him. I think that's the setback of wearing a robe. It was very hot there. On second thought, maybe that wasn't Heaven after all.

If you would like to have a mural sculpted of yourself in macaroni art, please send him your address and fifteen thousand dollars.

His art has been displayed and published in:

Wal-Mart, Rolling Stone Magazine, Screw Magazine, The Happy Pants Minus Pants Review, The Satanic Panic Newsletter, Harper's, The Dope Fiend Daily, and on the bathroom walls of some of the finest shitholes across the United States.

He hates people, flash photography, and balloon animals.

You read all of this, which means you should probably seek medical help immediately.

Cheers. You have great tits, sir!!!

A Taste of Poetry By Karen A VandenBos

A petite pink haired pixie of a gal got off her beat up stolen

bicycle blowing face sized bubbles with her gum and smiled

at the “Help Wanted” sign posted in the front window of the

local bar, a nondescript place where the hangers on outnumbered

the staff. You could tell by the vacant look in their eyes that

no matter how many drinks they had that their stories would

remain the same unless someone dared to dream big and give

them an opportunity for their voices to be heard. As things

looked now, the wee sprite peering in through the window with

the ridge of freckles across the bridge of her nose was the

answer to their prayers. As she approached the bar, the manager

noticed she was wearing a pink ballet slipper on her left foot

and a black high topped tennis shoe on the right. She wore a

faded black turtle neck shirt and a pair of ragged denim shorts.

A variety of cartoon band-aids decorated her fingers and

knees. In a voice that sounded like a cocktail of puberty and

cigarettes she said she was here for the job and she took it

and wore it like a badge of honor. Every night she would show

up at 9 pm on the dot and watch as the regulars stared at the

scraps of paper and pens that now came with their drinks and

asked them to jot down a word or a sentence about what was

on their mind. At closing time she would collect the notes and

put them in her locker. Week after week she continued this

process until one night in December there was a new sign in the

window that advertised an “Open Mic Night”for poets. Well

she knew then what she was going to do. She took those scraps

of paper that she had been collecting home and put together a

poem, a killer poem of love and loss, laughter and tears, names

and numbers and lines of deep thoughts. When it was her turn

to read that night she stood under the lights and gave each of

those regulars a voice. She used their words to tell their stories

and gave them back hope. Soon all the bars followed suit and

words were gathered from cocktail napkins, bathroom walls,

dollar bills and all those little scraps of paper. Pink books of

poetry appeared as a choice on the menu and poems became

the new soup du jour. Poetry had never tasted so good.

Karen A VandenBos was born on a warm July morn in Kalamazoo, MI.

She has a PhD in Holistic Health where a course in shamanism taught

her to travel between two worlds. She can be found unleashing her vivid

imagination in two writing groups. A two times Best of the Net nominee,

her writing has been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Moss Piglet,

Feed the Holy, The Rye Whiskey Review and others.

Late-Night Wine By Ma Yongbo

I rise to take my leave of the tavern keeper,

draining the last darkness from the bottle,

friends melt away all too soon.

The moon, a fledgling loon,

wheels above unseen pools,

fishing out your sallow, bloated mask.

I long to board any random tram bound for the outskirts—

how sweet the urge to breathe damp earth.

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of Difficult writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce American postmodern poetry into Chinese.

He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 9 poetry collections.He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell,Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. His complete translation of Moby Dick has sold over 600,000 copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. 

https://www.facebook.com/yongbo.ma.2025/

The Girls Who Held My Hair By Heather Kays

Not saints.

Not angels.

Just girls with chipped nails

and lip gloss smudged from making out with the wrong men.

They didn’t know my last name.

Didn’t need to.

They saw my knees hit tile

and moved like instinct.

One held my hair like a rosary,

murmured “you’re okay”

like scripture.

Another dabbed at mascara trails

with a cocktail napkin,

called me “babe” like she meant it.

We were strangers

in a holy place—

a bar bathroom

with piss on the floor

and god in the mirror.

She told me

he wasn’t worth it.

Told me my eyeliner still looked good.

Told me to block his number

and wear the red dress next time anyway.

I’ve never forgotten her.

Any of them.

The girls who didn’t ask

but showed up

with gum,

with water,

with warmth,

with rage if I needed it.

There’s a kind of love

that doesn’t demand your best self—

just whatever pieces you have left

on a bad Tuesday at midnight.

And maybe I never got their names,

but I remember their eyes,

their voices,

their steadiness

in a world that keeps spinning too fast.

They held more than my hair.

They held space.

Held silence.

Held me

together.

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.

Age Is Just a Number By Ben Newell

Having spent the evening 

getting drunk with twenty-year-olds 

and bumming countless cigarettes 

which will intensify tomorrow’s hangover, 

I find myself behind the wheel

navigating a gauntlet of law enforcement 

eager to take me down;

a DUI would wipe me off the map—

And who would I even call? 

Certainly not that cute redhead 

who told me I was older than her father 

when I tried to get her number. 

Ben Newell lives in Mississippi where he works as a bookseller and freelance writer. His poems have appeared online and in print, most recently at Fixator Press and Cajun Mutt Press. He taught high school English for one day.