Belly in Stop & Shop By Shannon O'Connor

In Stop & Shop, I halted

when I heard the song “Feed the Tree” by the band

Belly playing over the loudspeakers.

Belly in Stop & Shop?

I’ve heard Pearl Jam

and REM, even Nirvana,

but those are big name bands,

not like Belly

They were only half-famous

for one year in 1993

when their album, Star

was released.

People familiar with them

would be those who listened to alternative

music in that particular year.

Belly made one more album, 

then broke up, because it didn’t

sell as well as the first.

I don’t know what

warped reality I’m in

when I hear Belly

in the supermarket;

it’s like time doesn’t exist,

we’re living in a Dr. Who 

episode where there’s a blip

in the continuum.

Some things don’t make sense.

I have learned that accepting

some things don’t make 

sense is a way of dealing with

the spastic nature 

of the Universe.

The Gen Xers who go shopping

have money

(or the people in charge think)

they play music from our youth to inspire

us to buy more vegetarian chicken

nuggets and everything bagel cottage cheese.

Does it work?

My heart stuck in my throat when I heard Belly

in Stop & Shop, and it didn’t inspire me to spend,

it made me despondent that nobody else in the store

was reminded of that year,

the one I turned twenty, when I went insane for the third time,

I believed there was a Taco Bell

on the Moon.

I thought other crazy things, I was in touch

with God, and it was my destiny to save

the world.

It was long ago,

I’m better now, but Belly

popping up in the frozen food

section jolted me.

I hope it doesn’t happen

again. But everything is erratic,

and nobody can tell what otherworldly items

might hunt us down next

in the supermarket on an ordinary

day when we’re buying groceries.

It becomes a Madeleine 

when hearing “Feed the Tree,” from 1993 by Belly,

becoming swept back in time

and simply shocked 

it’s playing in Stop & Shop.

Shannon O'Connor holds an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College. She is a fiction writer, but her roots grow from poetry. She has been previously published in The Rye Whiskey Review, as well as Oddball Magazine, Wordgathering, The Alien Buddha Press and others. She is the chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. She lives in the Boston area, and listens to the music from her youth on occasion to be jolted, not always in a positive way.

Spiritus Contra Spiritum By Bruce Morton

(after a letter from Carl Jung to Bill Wilson, founder of Alcoholics Anonymous)

When the spirit is wholly

A ghost, departed, it is

Hard to raise it up again,

Dispirited as we may be.

Solace is often sought

In a glass of spirits distilled

From grains of amber truth,

Enduring fruits of the earth,

That reveal self to self.

Such knowledge will not

Quench for thirst is bottled,

Sitting there there on a shelf.

Better the bitters be spent

Without complement.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

New chapbook, Olive-drab Khaki Blues, just out from Foothills Publishing. Available at.

https://foothillspublishing.org/bruce-morton/

Refuge for Corpses By George Gad Economou

few hours per day for escaping, a bottle of

rotgut open and some music; thoughts drift

away from the tediousness of life, new

dreams materialize out of the mist. for a

few drunken hours everything feels possible,

even the wildest dream ripe for the taking.

when the hangover comes, lost dreams remain

suspended in the mist, waiting for another

expedition to set them free.

within smoky barrooms great dreamers come alive,

in between the fifth and eighth drink, and they only

temporarily die when they’re dragged back to

coffins shaped like supermarkets, warehouses, and factories.

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.

Why do I bother By Dmitriy Kogan

Why do I bother plugging the phone in?

if I’m waiting for good news, it won’t come

miracles do happen but

they never happen to me

so I might as well not bother plugging the phone in

Dmitriy Kogan is a short story writer and poet from NYC. His work has appeared in Stone of Madness Press.

Punk As Fuck By Kevin M. Hibshman

He grew tired of trying to be led by the dull and unimaginative.

Bullied by boorish clowns.

Irony is history.

The game is ludicrous.

Ask any day jobber or your local street hustler.

There's still sex but it is not dangerous in a good way.

His hometown became a foreign country and he does not speak the language.

He was never a flag waver.

He cut himself a slice of the surreal landscape blooming everywhere.

He sat in the barren fields and drank in thoughts from iconoclastic minds.

It was an engaging waste of time.

It's all bought out.

The money changers have decimated possibilities.

They are mean and sad and will do anything to silence their enemies.

The population, numb as always, frowned upon his peculiar excesses.

I cannot afford anarchy.

I cannot abide reality.

Let's get a good buzz going and rock out like they did during the 60's and 70's.

You know me.

I'm down for anything.

Just a big softie at heart.

Still punk as fuck.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press.

His current book is Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens also from Whiskey City Press and currently available through Amazon.

https://a.co/d/aIBcNvy

Combust By Ben Newell

Hitchhikers gone

the way of the payphone, 

the way of the cigarette commercial,

the way of Farrah’s feathered hair—

CCTV cameras on every corner, 

potential victims wielding iPhones 

which might as well be tasers, 

overprotective helicopter parents 

hovering like Hueys on a strafing run—

Your serial killing heroes had it easy,

police badges and switchblade knives 

for sale between a grainy centerfold 

and Bukowski’s latest rape story  

because even the Ford Pinto seemed 

like a good idea before it exploded. 

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. 

Gentleman Caller By Jeff Weddle

I was young, so I drank three beers 

to get my courage up. 

It was ridiculous, of course, 

but I had been a guest 

in her apartment before, 

sadly innocent, 

and it was near. 

I walked the quiet,

nighttime streets 

practicing what I would say.

So, I arrived. I knocked. I waited.

She came to the door all undone

and, of course, was not alone. 

The walk home took a long time. 

In fact, I don’t think I’ve made it there yet. 

Jeff Weddle is the Alabama Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026). His latest book is Letter to Xhevdet Bajraj (Uncollected Press, 2025). His work has appeared in Albanian and Spanish translation