Denial By Jenna Restel

I can't dream anymore-

there's a face I cannot make out

or that I don't want to

I have another coffee 

at 9pm, and he asks what I'm doing

but this pain is mine

so I can't explain

I'm left alone 

again

the way I like to be

Laid out on the couch

background noise

a game on my phone

distracted

But I hear a word

I smell a reminder

I brew another cup

Now I'm wide awake

I see without question

So I take melatonin

and something PM

I pop open a beer

I need to sleep

because now it's too clear

In my dream it's distorted

and I can pretend 

that I don't recognize it

But no matter where

or who I'm with

My heart says

Liar

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. 

Days By David L Painter

It makes no difference as I unscrewed the cap.

It could be any day of the week for all I care.

I watched the amber liquid fall

and kiss the ice in the bottom of the glass,

clacking some with its sudden warmth.

Looking down, I thought, Is two fingers enough? 

My mind shot back the answer as I continued to pour.

It is early morning, but already it’s hot.

Most days start like this,

even the sun makes a bee-line for the ice,

no drought to cool itself off.

I pour another, hoping that this one will last longer.

The mailman drops off the mail a few read, past due

then he melts into the heat of the day.

Sitting on the front porch, even the

occasional breeze is warm.

I pour another just to cool off.

So it goes most days,the sun eating my ice

and me trying to stay ahead of it.

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  

Eye Know, Right? By Renee Williams

Don’t worry. I drink bourbon, I tell

the dry eye tech as he apologizes,

fears the alcohol rubbed around 

my eyes might bother me. I miss

that sweet, smooth, almost cotton candy

aroma of Blanton’s, but I sink

into the moment, still wish for one. 

The procedure goes well at first, 

almost spa-like but without the hint 

of lavender and warm towels. 

When the heat intensifies, burns, 

that smell…so many memories 

of skin cancer surgeries:

I swear, you never forget the odor

of your own flesh burning—

bacon grease followed by that sting,

that sting, that sting that isn’t quick

like a snap of a rubber band, but

continues like spilling hot McDonald’s

coffee on bare skin.

I talk to myself. Relax your jaw. 

Relax your shoulders. 

This guy is trying to help you, 

trying to halt your non-productive tears, 

trying to keep you from looking like Alice Cooper

with your mascara running. I breathe. 

I talk to God, ask for forgiveness 

for skipping Easter Vigil because last year’s 

four-hour session with frankincense and myrrh 

made my eyes burn, like I chopping 

three onions for spaghetti sauce. 

Breathe. Blink. He stops the zaps.

Warm UV light envelops me now 

like a heated blanket, I sink into light,

light that I deny myself outside.  

I can see light through my closed eyelids, 

sure blindness is coming. 

So white, so white…claustrophobia.

I concentrate on ocean waves, 

sand melts beneath my feet, but 

I want to run.

I try not to blink. I try to breathe evenly.

I try not to have a panic attack. 

Then…I imagine the forest, darkness

surrounds me, white pines, dark eyes

peek at me from behind a tree, black fur 

shiny, damp. 

Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for ONE Art, Alien Buddha Press and Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel. 

 

Sobriety Looks Ugly on Me By Heather Kays

No one tells you

how loud it gets

when the buzz wears off.

How you start noticing

the hum of fluorescent lights,

the weight of silence

pressed into your ribs like a bruise

you can’t drink away.

I miss the blur.

The softening of edges.

The way vodka used to kiss me quiet

when my thoughts started screaming.

Now it’s just water.

Dry lips.

The taste of everything I used to avoid.

They call it “clarity”

but it feels like punishment—

like looking in the mirror

under hospital lights

with no makeup

and every regret

etched into the skin.

I miss being reckless.

I miss the glittering edge of a bad decision.

The way it made me feel

alive

and already halfway dead.

Now, I count days

like sins.

Fill notebooks with cravings.

Sip soda at parties

like it’s penance.

People clap when you say

“I’m sober now.”

But they don’t stay long

when you start shaking.

When the high is gone

and all you have left

is the person you were hiding from.

Sobriety looks ugly on me—

not because it’s wrong,

but because it’s honest.

And honesty has never been

my best angle.

But here I am.

Sober.

Still.

Unsmiling.

Alive.

And sometimes

that has to be enough.

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.

What Your Choice of Scotch Says About You By Jack Mackey

We’re in the cocktail lounge.

Mrs. Gilani orders her husband 

a Chivas on the rocks and asks me, 

her waiter, for a cigarette. “I need something 

to do with my hands 

while I’m waiting.” The Shah––a title

he answers to––is late 

getting back from the thirty-six 

holes he played today. 

Her British accent 

almost masks her annoyance as she talks 

to us staff like we’re people. 

We are charmed. 

As a couple they weave 

an illusion of patriarchy and 

the nobility of capitalism.

It’s almost sunset when he arrives,

fresh from shower and massage, in

a silk achkan, dark, his Scotch now

watery. He orders another. The room turns 

its head, he’s assumed to be 

Indian royalty and the turban

makes him look taller.  

Some members are relieved––

the Club risks becoming monoethnic––

no one questions his provenance. 

We are charmed. 

Many decades from now 

I’ll will find his obituary on-line: 

she gets a mention as his first, 

but his golf trophies dominate 

the long write-up. 

There’s no mention of “shah.”

Another search reveals 

the title is not Indian.  

Jack Mackey’s first book of poems, Up, Out & Over (Kelsay Books, 2024) won awards from the Delaware Press Association (first place) and from the National Federation of Press Women (second place). A Best of the Net nominee, Jack was awarded a fellowship in poetry by the Delaware Division of the Arts. Individual poems have appeared in Gargoyle, Third Wednesday, Broadkill Review, Anti-Heroine Chic, Argyle, and other literary publications. Jack lives in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. 

Weep Yourself to Sleep By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

You weep yourself to sleep.

You wake up with dried tears.

You feel as if a cold

river flowed over you.

You know it is not true.

Your face does not agree.

But you feel you must take

solace in the dreams you

had. At the same time you

cannot stop the weeping.

There are too many tears.

Sleeping becomes the one

thing you are counting on.

You weep yourself to sleep

on a drunken boat drenched 

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal was born in Mexico, lives in California, and

works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared

in Blue Collar Review, Crossroads, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, The Rye

Whiskey Review, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Webzine.

EIGHTIES ELEGY By Philip Ash

Whaddaya want for a buck? Subway token accesses

all Five Boroughs. Warriors! Come out to play-ee-ay!

Pierce Manhattan’s underbelly like how a grave worm

devours a corpse. Smoke! Smoke! Crack! Crack it up!

Forbidden Planet near Union Square: purchase latest 

Heavy Metal or Judge Dredd comic. I am the Law!

Don’t laugh at the longshoreman wearing that dress 

within SoHo’s West Boondock. 6’4”, full of muscles.

PiL rehearse in a loft across the street unless eating 

N. Carolina style ribs. It’s not a Monopoly game.

Silver Diner’s open 24 hours for a coffee or burger,  

4 a.m., post-clubbing. Skim Voice music listings.

Trendy late ‘80s line forms for CBGB’s Sunday hard-

core matinee (party started with Warhol’s Factory). 

Punk is dead! So are Andy and Jean-Michel Basquiat. 

Grow your hair long. Go home. 

Philip Ash surfs the Dark Wave spectrum in your dreams. His work has appeared in Fixator Press and Beatnik Cowboy. He lives in San Diego.