One more shot
before meeting the floor,
sinking into the hardwood.
Sweat from my skin,
spilled bourbon,
and tears all come together.
The room moves
as I lay still, and your face
somehow evident in my mind.
So, erasure, impossible,
dark liquor, reliable,
and misery,
eternal.
Jenna Restel is a New Jersey based writer. She explores grief, memory, trauma and bad habits. You may find her published poetry in Keeping the Flame Alive, Bionik Pu$$y, Rust Belt Press, Crying Heart Press, and more.
Countless moments have been spent in separation, defining my role in this life in a singular way.
Divine caught me off guard. I found myself falling into the vision, the view of someone else’s dream.
It was exciting and accelerating to think someone could see the world the same way that I see it from that quiet space never talked about.
To feel that combined interest in energy as it developed through the simplicity and rage of the blue.
The depths of currents and chaos.
This was an unexpected journey, one that asks only to be lived.. I want to simply sit in this and let it be the organic unfolding, but there’s a child like interest…a spark that has been lit in the voided layers of the dark. A flame has been ignited.
Wanderer, I see the shadows that placed you into these moments of beauty. Seeking redemption, seeking healing on all levels.
Your essence, your light was created from this space.. the peaceful warrior.
Perhaps this is a thread from another lifetime, remembering itself through us. It feels too ancient to dismiss.
I want to acknowledge it for the layers of mystical that it holds. The way that nature speaks to us in divine ways. From the peace of the crystalline core of the Earth to the soothing depths of the healing waters. Then, the fire, searing through your life, letting us burn entwined for a moment.
If this is where our paths were meant to meet, then I am grateful for the blue… for the healing waters… for the fire that remembered our names. I ask for nothing more than this…that wherever the universe carries you next, it is with peace through the vast Wilds of the universe.
I see you.
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.
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/
This poem began in a dream state
in which I was forced to dive
myself into
oblivion.
I woke up guilty
for being me, sometimes
not in the mood for interruption
or an eruption inside my brain.
My brain is a terrible rainbow
obsidian with cracked edges
covered up by dark glass.
A strange combination
of natural and unnatural
elements fused together.
When spiraling down,
I don't want to be
a broken canine tooth
growling, shoved inside
someone else's throat or eyes or ears.
A synaptic middle of another
crash. Vehicle smashed against another
wall then suddenly waking up underwater,
confused about what happened when.
Is this the beginning or the end or
somewhere in between again?
I move towards the underground mirror,
unsure if I'll see myself or a swordfish or
a mermaid looking back at me.
Is a sword penetrating
one part of my brain?
Some of my words are little fish
swimming around in circles
inside me, unable to fully emerge.
Stuck in my gushing head,
one small part of myself
longing to be luminous and
maybe I am...
Juliet Cook doesn't fit inside an Easy-Bake Oven and rarely cooks. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, most recently including "red flames burning out" (Grey Book Press, 2023), "Contorted Doom Conveyor" (Gutter Snob Books, 2023), "Your Mouth is Moving Backwards" (Ethel Zine & Micro Press, 2023), "REVOLTING" (Cul-de-sac of Blood, 2024), and "Blue Stingers Instead of Wings" (Pure Sleeze Press, 2025). Her most recent full-length poetry book, "Malformed Confetti" was published by Crisis Chronicles Press. You can find out more at https://julietcook.weebly.com/.
When I was young, my family had
a 3-D image of the Apollo 11 landing
on top of the ledge of the doorway,
the first man on the moon.
I asked my father why the craft was named
Apollo,
not Artemis,
since she was the goddess of the moon,
and Apollo, the god of the sun.
He didn’t have a good answer,
I think he muttered the sun reflects
on the moon, and that’s where its
light comes from.
I didn’t buy it.
I believe the ship was named
Apollo because he was a man,
and Artemis, a woman.
Even in space, men made the rules.
Fast forward to now.
Artemis 2 went around the moon.
Was she named
Artemis
because all the little girls like me had
the same question? Because the ship that goes
to the moon should be named
after the goddess of the moon.
We are living in a time where human beings have gone where
no one has gone before, and it’s bewildering to think
the world still turns, we have the same
issues, not everyone has enough,
people die senselessly every day,
are born every minute,
some have no purpose and want
to end their lives, wars rage and children
are murdered,
but the Earth still floats
in space
It will continue until no more humans are here.
But we could go out there.
To see if we’re alone, to possibly
find a magnanimous culture to smack some
sense into the beings on this planet
to tell us we deserve the peace
universally sought,
to dream a dream
of the goddess of the moon,
going further and further,
than anyone else in the history
of this planet we call home.
Shannon O'Connor lives in the Boston area where she works and writes. She travels when she can, in order to find inspiration and worlds outside her sphere. She is the chairperson of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. She can be found on her Substack, Ms. Hen's World.
driven by a need for acceptance
fueled by a desire for an identity
too young to know the difference
too old to be excused for his folly
swept up in the urgency of the moment
grasping the one solid object in his possession
he enters the store, gun drawn
too young no more
too old, too soon
fueled by the power at his command
driven by the fear of discovery
taking the life held in his hand
gathering his meager bounty
he flees from the scene
once a warmth in his hand
now a burning in his mind
this cold realization
life taken from another
does not add to his own
a life of little prospect
stares him in the face
sixteen, sitting on a curb
beneath a streetlight
bottle unopened by his side
not worth the price
gun lying at his feet
head held in his hands
wrong turn in this rite of passage
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, Random Riffs in 2025, and The Long Haul in 2026 have been published by Spartan Press. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/
without asking i know
it is the solitude
i remember most.
after a good meal.
after a storm had passed.
after our argument
about the poetry
of wallace stevens.
after sex.
and how the solitude
born in the intensity
of the moment
ran down like some
antique clock wound tight
and put aside to slowly
tick the quiet moments down.
to when words became
necessary again whether
we wanted to speak them
or not or even needed to.
but they were just words
and meant nothing.
why else are they the thing
i cannot remember.
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The sun dips low,
a syrupy amber.
We're down here,
swimming lazy laps
in the sweet liquor
of a shared dream.
The bottle curves,
our world a tight embrace.
You exhale bubbles of laughter,
I chase them with my eyes.
Each sip from the top
pulls us closer,
warmer,
we understand
that this tiny, bottled ocean
is big enough
for just us.
Only a craft I forged through sacrifice.
Sustained is the note until perfection, leaving little regard for the host,
whose hands bleed to remain largely unheard, as is the way of art.
Empty as love and twice as destructive.
Pain is a consequence of masked intentions.
A devilish smile is the wolf's allure.
Please ignore the scars if they do so bother you, my dear.
I sold it eagerly, only to come to the realization.
Empty truths and false promises are but the nature of the beast.
I have evolved with loss
and disregarded my humanity along the way.
May I make you bleed to view what it is to once again feel?
Do you desire something in return?
Please allow me to poison your dreams so we may cast nightmares together.
Please, my love, just welcome my chaos within.
For once you have embraced this damnation's splendor,
you will realize there is no turning back.
All demons once knew light,
as in your death or your acceptance.
I once knew you.
JPR, is a Southern Gothic writer.
His work has appeared in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Cold Rambler, A Thin Slice Of Anxiety, Spill The Words Press, Fixator Press, Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Dope Fiend Daily.
His work is often dark and always unfiltered.
Prussian blue, deep and dark, is desired
but if the image comes through
even a lighter blue makes my heart dance.
As I wash the cyanotype beneath the shower,
tiger stripes in my photo sneak through
in blue, blue, glorious blue!
I dream in blue
get lost in blue
find myself in blue
blue days become blue nights
blue ocean waves wash away
the blues that will not leave me
blue skies illuminate horses
blue clouds brood above the dunes
blue on the beach is better
than the Blue Ridge Mountains.
My art moved to blue
reflected the blue inside me
the blues, the blues, the blues
the blame, the blame, the blame,
You’re becoming more Catholic
every day, my husband tells me.
My father’s eyes were light blue,
aqua blue, sparking blue, twinkling blue
but his eyes are shut now forever.
I still hear him, talk to him more now
that he’s dead than when he was alive.
This house, soon to be sided midnight blue,
like sea water, coastal waves.
The ocean calls to me, wants me home,
and I want to be there
and go to the Blue Crab Tavern,
best dive bar on the beach,
where nobody knows
the blues I run from.
Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for ONE Art, Alien Buddha Press and Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel.
Hank's motto is, "You're always welcome until you're not," Being the writer I am, that caught me from the very first time I walked into this bar 2138 S. Military Hwy., Chesapeake, VA.
Hank's, from the outside, is deceptive. Located in a little strip mall, she could easily make some feel she could be a rough gal, and nothing could be further from the truth. Hank's is what I love about bars and what, in my opinion, is something that lacks in these overpriced franchise bars that have as much appeal as a Starbucks on acid.
Hank's is a hole in the wall with character. Its beauty is its charm, and it caters to customers and staff alike. It's the kind of place that doesn't look at you and question whether you're lost.
It's a place that looks at you and asks,
"Hey, where the hell have you been!?"
The name drew me in for obvious reasons, as any writer would get, but that's just an odd coincidence.
The faces may change, but one thing that remains consistent with any top-shelf bar is the feeling that it's your own. Rebecca Nisbet, the former co-owner and the creator of the tagline that I truly admire, has a zero tolerance for bullshit, and honestly, the place is just warm and inviting. It's what a good bar or tavern should be and what too many places try to erase: true character.
Quirky and truly unique, with great prices, good food, and a welcoming environment.
And unique is definitely one thing Hank's is, without a doubt.
From my first walk through the doors, I was served by the singing bartender himself, Trevor Nisbet, on karaoke night as I was handed a Jack and Coke while the room was being serenaded with a rendition of "New York State of Mind."
The guy is working the bar, singing to customers, and practically sweeping the floor, then looks at me and says,
"Male bartender, gotta have a gimmick."
Which you just can't make this shit up. It cracked me up, and being a total recluse who, on his best days, avoids most of humanity, when you make me want to return just to hang out, you're doing something right.
Trevor, along with his wife, may be moving on, but the place holds a bevy of characters, and no matter who is there, its vibe is always welcoming.
It's not one person's place. When you're there, it's your own and the perfect backdrop for some great future memories of your own.
Hank's is real and shares what all the best bars have in common: a place that makes you always want to return, myself included.
If you're ever in town, check it out. I promise you it's worth a visit.
Cheers, and as always, the next round's on me.
John Patrick Robbins
Editor in Chief of The Rye Whiskey Review
If interested here's a link to their Facebook page.
I carry a tune
like a baggage handler
thrashing Samsonites
in a cargo bay of a 747
bound for the long cold
cavern clubs of the UK,
but if I could find me
an auto tune on the cheap
on Craigslist or EBay,
maybe one day my vocal
cords can quiver enough
to convince the part of you,
gliding like Ginger Rogers
within the black and white
of your room with the lights
from Top Hat’s numbers
shimmering off the TV set
at three in the morning,
to lose the China white
into that deep black hole
within porcelain, for though
I’m surely more Fred
Flintstone than Astaire,
maybe just maybe, the ball
of melody bouncing along
my ribs, rises from the tune
like a fiery strawberry moon,
bold enough to serve the staff
as a sanguine beat far too catchy
for what’s left of you not to follow.
A girl I know
Has a pig she swears
Goes plum hay wire
When Venus is too close to the Earth
& So humans might
Be in similar temperaments
If they don’t forget
They too are
Animals
Horny in love
Conflicted by stars
Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,
The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.
At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.
I write too much of loss,
but what else is going on
at three in the morning?
The old blues singers knew,
sitting up in bed on hot nights,
brows ringed with sweat.
The usual ensemble:
money gone, woman gone,
whiskey gone, nothing
but seeds and twigs
in the sad pouch by the bed.
And a nameless, snaking fear
that starts in the lungs
and rises behind the eyes.
Alec Solomita is a writer working in Massachusetts. His fiction and poetry have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, The Lake, The New Criterion, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Galway Review, Red Dirt Forum, and One Art. His chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017. His full-length poetry book, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was released s in the spring of 2021. Both of these are available on Amazon. He’s just finished his third collection, “Glass Flowers.”
One more shot before meeting the floor, sinking into the hardwood. Sweat from my skin, spilled bourbon, and tears all come together. The...
