Is Bird Song Better Than My Song? By Juliet Cook

Because their song is vibrant and pretty

right now whereas my song is quiet, invisible

to almost everyone else even though

it sometimes explodes inside

my own mind or across

the page or within an overpopulated 

unorganized screen until 

the computer dies or else I 

become a repetitive mess,

page after page of dead birds,

even though I didn't kill them. 

I tried to express myself to them,

then banged against the wall

on the outside of a house that didn't belong

to me. Landed on lawn that will not recognize

my song or realize what was on the inside.

Maybe I can't sing without being drawn down

towards destruction or envisioning

inevitable death. Obliterated innards 

spewed out on ground which is not mine.

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/.

Marco Rubio’s dress shoes By Mike Zone

Dead swab carcass on the dashboard

Unlike Castro’s boots

They don’t fit

Chess men

Yes men

All pawns

No matter the rank

Moon-high

Insect ground level

Violation of The Hotdog Act

No votes for you

Boots on the ground

CUBA- red sands Atlantis

Castro with Jane Fonda wearing nothing but the dictator’s boots

Slipping in chairs during cabinet meetings

The swollen ankle orange emperor’s feet fit

Just fine

Boots on the ground

Two pairs of socks

Desert storms in Iran

Under the guise of holy war

Gas station woes

Mother Russia dripping crude

Between her thighs

West coast drone attack

Oncoming

Was it- the reds? The Jihadists? The cartel? The State? Deep state?

Nah, never the state

Midterm mayhem canceled

Keep the people safe

Lucky lottery shoes

Everyone in the cabinet has a pair

Some may some may not

No complaints there but thoughtful head bows and bashful gratitude

To be anointed 

With oil

A likely successor

Between advancement and the Rubicon

Shoes don’t fit in this warzone of debris

To come without shoes

Son of a refugee

Like Paul Bunyan

Johnny Appleseed

John Henry

Tony Montana making it right

AmeriKKKan dreaming

Twisted mouth messiah complex

BLACK PHILLIP

The billygoat

FOR PLANETARY

PRESIDENTial-EMPEROR PLEASE

Curves & sanctions

It’s all just a cult 

Mike Zone is the Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press, the author of Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse , as well as coauthor of The Grind. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Outlaw Poetry and Cult Culture magazine.

The Last Pour Before the Dawn By Joe Garvey

The night is cold concrete, heavy with ash.

I feel the ache, but I am not lost.

The shadows crowd the corners, dark and calculating.

Yet the miles live in my bones, the years in my hands.

I drink scotch, but I am not the drink.

Spice and smoke roll through the dark like old memories,

sharp at first, then settling into something honest.

It burns without cruelty, lingers without permission.

I have known noise and silence,

victories that faded and scars that stayed.

Tonight, there is no need for answers.

Just the weight of the glass,

the slow fire of the alcohol. 

I feel the scarred wood, the amber liquid, the steady pulse.

I feel the sudden, quiet warmth.

The shadow breaks as a gold ray cuts the window.

The dawn is a clean horizon.

I am enough.

Joe Garvey is an American poet from Worcester, Massachusetts, living in southern New England. A former linebacker at Hofstra University and later an actor in film and television, his work has appeared in Expat Press, The Lake, Mad Swirl, Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, and The Rye Whiskey Review.

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