Triad By Tony Pena / A Review By John Patrick Robbins

In Tony Pena's newest book, Triad, we are treated to a voice that is vibrant and, honestly, exactly what this poetry scene needs more of: something refreshing, genuine, and fun.

This book blends the perspective of a rock 'n' roll poet with barroom wisdom that has true soul, standing apart from so many poets who continue to regurgitate the same tired odes to Bukowski.

Tony's work is truly a breath of fresh air and one of the best poetry books I have read in a very long time. He writes with tremendous heart while keeping the work moving with lines that anyone can connect with, whether they are a devoted poetry fan or not. There isn't a single ounce of the pretentious drivel that seems to pollute so much of today's literary scene.

It's real, and that's what I dig most in a book. It's entertaining, too, with titles like "The Dark Side of Car Karaoke," "Turning Sexty," and "Horizontal Hutzpah." Tony makes it clear from the beginning that he wants you to buckle up, put the top down, and enjoy the ride. It's rock 'n' roll poetry, and it's simply great art.

Accessible and a hell of a read.

The book is broken into four sections: Dead of the Night, Thirty-Three and a Third Revolutions, The Shine of a Rebel Moon, and Bonus Tracks.

I love that approach because I've always believed poetry collections, when done correctly, should be structured like great albums, flowing effortlessly from one track to the next. In this case, Triad does exactly that.

Take the title poem, "Triad":

Though it may take two to tango,

things happen in threes and it may take all three to keep the dance hall of diminishing dreams lit by the electricity of creativity, allowing a menagerie of emotions to coalesce into the unique character of unconditional love.

Tony mixes pure poetry with what often feel like miniature stories, all told with a narrative flair I wish I encountered more often in contemporary writing.

When a writer can so effortlessly paint vivid pictures in your mind, they've got me hooked, and Tony certainly does. What we have here is a wonderful hybrid of poetry and storytelling, all wrapped in a rock 'n' roll spirit.

In another piece, "Playing House," we tag along on the journey:

When cutting school

Dahlia and Benji would

meet up and crash*

at the zombie house,

a barely standing bungalow

held together by cobwebs,

peeling plaster and ghosts of

Natalie Wood and James Dean.

Roasting marshmallows on a tiny

hibachi grill ripped off from Haggerty

Hardware, sipping warm Schaefer,

 and chugging cherry cough syrup.

Tony's work flows effortlessly and takes us back, inviting reflection in the best possible way while providing a much-needed escape during an era when we need one more than ever.

Triad is an outstanding book in any genre real, honest, soulful, and fun.

Pick up a copy and take the ride.

I promise you won't regret it.

John Patrick Robbins

Editor-in-Chief, The Rye Whiskey Review

To purchase a copy please use this link below.

https://a.co/d/06JQJNHs

A Fool's Message By Sergey Bielecki

The only testimony of my existence will be a cigarette burn on a fringed leather jacket that you will wear. Then there will be a stack of poetry books, which will eventually be lost and scattered. Then you, yes, you, have witnessed my death. This is a fact of life you will carry with you. You will love a woman who doesn't love you back, and you will love a man who is far too cruel for your gentle soul. These, too, are facts that must be held dear. You will meet the man—the cruel one. He will wear boots, donned in fringed leather. An embodiment of the 1970s, when a cigarette dangles out of his mouth. You, yes, you will be caught— not him, but you. When this man leaves you desolate, you, yes, you will meet a woman. Yes, the one who will never love you, she will have the eyes of a cat. And she will be your summer, for you know no better. She will caress you and introduce you to poetry. She will have you entranced, mold you into someone else. You, yes, you have learned nothing, for she will leave you just as desolate as before. So you drink cough syrup, yet still you lie awake, staring out your window. And, when you lift your head, your body will be bathed in the dawn of a day that never came. Still, though, you are desolate. Still you, you don't fit through the window, no matter how hard you push. So instead, you’ll drown in old poets and the greats. Smoke cigarettes, dress up to erase the childish parts of you that she loved and he exploited. You, little by little, will become a new man. Still you, just no longer a boy. Still desolate, her memory will never leave you, just as the boots on your ribcage and cigarette burns. You, you forgot the fact you must remember. The memories, the boots, the burns, and the desolation will leave you, yes, you, but only in death. Once again, you lay by the window; this time, you stay awake to watch the celestials play tag. You realize what a fool you’ve been. You remembered my stories. Yes, me, I forgot these facts, now I'm a man, and you're no longer you.

Sergey Bielecki is an LGBTQ+ writer born in Russia, with one book already published, and is being recognized by poets like Yona Harvey and John Hennessy. He has put his resources into creating a writing club at UMass Amherst, where he serves as chief editor. His other efforts are being put towards his magazine Polymenia for up-and-coming writers, where he will serve as one of three editors

Fumes By Patrick Carella

The yellow pump icon had been on for miles. I cradled the bottle of Reyka in the crook of my arm.

Two women stood outside the liquor store, comparing their lottery tickets.

“Ya know, we spent forty-two dollars on these things today.”

“Suckers,” I said, just loud enough to feel it.

I slipped into the Outback, the seat giving the way it always did. Checked the mirror. She scratched, flakes blowing back into her face.

Fuck one-in-a-million odds—unless it’s something bad. Then I don’t miss. Never have.

Skeeter Davis came on, singing about the end of the world. When I was a kid, that song meant my parents were gone and I was still here. 

Now they are gone.

The song still plays.

The gas light was still on. I’d gotten used to it—how long you could drive before something gave out. How far you could push it.

The low glow of mortality—ignored, familiar, inevitable.

Patrick Carella is a former advertising creative director and School of Visual Arts instructor whose fiction, creative nonfiction, and humor have appeared or are forthcoming in Hobart, BULL, JMWW, The Hooghly Review, Eunoia Review, Panorama: The Journal of Travel, Place, and Nature, CaféLit, Gorko Gazette, Wicked Shadow Press, and other journals. He lives in New York's Hudson Valley.

UP AT THE BAR By John Grey

It’s the kind of evening

when stale barroom light

is warmer than a fireplace.

And my thirst sits up at the bar

followed by the rest of me.

“What’ll it be?” asks Ted,

as he always does,

even though my order never changes.

A beer,

a friendly conversation

with Ted,

with the drinkers on both sides of me,

no wonder my smile wishes

it could always be like this.

But drinking is time

borrowed from the outside world,

and there comes a time

when it demands repayment.

So outside the night’s waiting 

with its cold breath and its bills to collect.

It employs two heavies –

home and sleep.

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.

the white horse tavern has gone to the dogs By John Grochalski

you can’t even get inside

because there’s some fat lady 

blocking the door

eating a caesar salad

with dressing on her chin

tourists crowd the rest of it

with their tourist faces and tourist smiles

outside coeds from nyu

sit a picnic tables

drinking mimosas and vaping

eating something called smash burgers

in the cool spring breeze

jesus christ

this used to be a longshoreman’s bar

but now they croque madame

like they’re from france or something

the white horse tavern

has official gone to the dogs

jack kerouac can finally go home

and dylan thomas

can keep spinning in his grave

because money talks here now

and bullshit has to go and find himself 

another place to get a drink.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

THE SUBURBAN CUL DE SAC By Dan Flore III

it’s where I learned to shoot free throws

I dragged the trash out to that curb on 100,000 Tuesday nights

sitting out there I had my first hit of marijuana

I felt her up in the car

the suburban cul de sac is the end of the road

and just the beginning of so much

Dan Flore III’s work has appeared in over a hundred different publications. His latest book that’s available is JUMBO POETRY (Crying Heart Press)

Intangible By Jenna Restel

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.