SHE SAID By Mike Zone

She said

“I love it 

when you drink

you son of a bitch”

Lifting sundress

Over her head

My grandfather’s starter pistol in my mouth

We don’t remember cotton fields 

But can imagine endless groves of poppies

Whiskey and gasoline out our pores

Strike a match during sex

Bullet kisses

Stardust blasted skin

Moonscape delight

Until morning

She was a witch

I was a stone mason

Foundations & curses

In ancient times

From mud huts to skyscrapers 

Voices from the Fire among pre-Cambrian trees

Molecules entwined across the universe 

In this shirt

Smelling her sundress

grandfather’s starter pistol in mouth

Towards the end of existence 

Interstellar monk

Upon the floating cathedral garden

Climbs upon her

Tree of life

Golden flowers blooming

Desolate nirvana

“I love it  when you drink 

you son of a bitch”

Broken ego

Bourbon bottles

On the bathroom floor

Rainbow glass 

Center

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.

No Rounds By Chad Parenteau,

My body’s a 

Shirley Temple

doomed to 

glacial fade.

I’ll be the guy

at bar’s back

who stays 

far too long

not one night

but over years.

Watch you

all drop off,

turn mirror

on me last,

dead by self-

inflicted boredom.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston’s long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His work has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and The Ugly Monster. He has also been published in anthologies such as French Connections, Sounds of Wind, Reimagine America, and The Vagabond Lunar Collection. His newest collections are All's Well Isn't You and Cant Republic: Erasures and Blackouts. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine and co-organizer of the annual Boston Poetry Marathon. He lives and works in Boston.

The Chukker By Bob Humphrey

it was my second home

the clientele diverse

artists, college professors, bikers

gays, hippies, Nam vets, misfits

they called it the Chukker

and the unspoken theme was acceptance

art covered the walls and ceiling

live music as diverse as the crowd

local bands and big names too

Widespread Panic, Sun-Ra

Gatemouth Brown, Johnny Shines

behind it all was a base of patrons

who were there night after night

and became known as the Chukker Nation

but nothing stays the same

people die and energy moves on

and a bar has a life and death too

just a sidewalk and grass 

in that space now

but magic was alive there once

and then like magic

it was gone

Bob Humphrey is a retired accountant, farmer and poet who lives in rural Alabama with his wife and three dogs. Previous poems by him have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy and Sacred Chicken.

His Indestructible Human Spirit By Philip Gaber

He wanted to know what I did in my spare time. I told him I did a little writing here and there. 

Books & Literature

“So you drink much or…?” he said.

“Do I drink much?”

“I know a lotta writers’ drink. I was just curious.”

“I mean, occasionally.”

“Nothin’ like Hemingway, though, right? He was a drinker. Believed life was a tragedy and knew it could only have one end.”

“That’s right.”

“Had high cholesterol and high blood pressure and an aorta inflammation.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Mm-hmm. Died July 2, 1961, at 5 AM from a self-inflicted gunshot blast to the head. You’re not that conflicted, are ya?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ya think the more conflicted a writer is, the more talented they are, or…?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Ya think mental illness diminishes or enhances a writer’s ability?"

“I have no way of even…”

“Yeah, I do a little writing myself.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Just some poetry you know, short stories, nothin’ major. Working on a screenplay about Walt Whitman. I’m totally into Shakespeare. I mean, if you gotta have a writer as a role model, ya know what I mean? Like he frames everything I write and how I live my life. Like whenever I’m describing a character, tryna get it right, in my mind, I’m linkin’ them to, like Iago or Hamlet or Ophelia or Macbeth or Lear, you know, it helps me to structure my own characters…’ course, Shakespeare stole many of his plots from the Greeks. Or was it, Christopher Marlowe? Marlowe was killed in a tavern brawl on May 30, 1593.” 

“Really…”

“Yeah. Hamlet was an interesting character. I essentially agree with him when he says, you know, that basically, life’s a piece of shit ’cause there are so many assholes out there makin’ it so fucken unbearable for us, so what’s the point? And I suppose many people would say his saving grace is that he doesn’t off himself…’cause he says, what does he say? ‘Something after death’ could be worse? Somethin’ like that? Anyway, I dunno; who knows? Whatever, right?”

“Mm, interesting…”

“Yeah. Well, very cool. always good to run into a fellow scribe…” He checked his watch. “Yo, I’m late for my shock therapy session. Lots of things goin’ on with me emotionally. Workin through ‘em though, with the help of my savior, yo,” and he gave a thumbs up.

“That’s good news for you,” I said.

“It is. Definitely, God is good. But ya know what I’ve learned?”

“What’s that?”

“A lot of defining moments that build or break your character happen in the blink of an eye,” and he let that one hang in the air for a while. “Well, good luck, man, keep writing. You know, sometimes it’s all we have…” 

He walked away, whistling.

I walked away, unable to blink my eyes.

Philip Gaber is an American writer based in Charlotte, North Carolina. He is the author of Between Eden and the Open Road (2012), Epic Sloth: Tales of the Long Crawl (2013), and the novel Jonny Zero (2026). His work explores alienation, work, humor, and the absurdities of ordinary life.

If I had known you then By Janette Schafer

When you drove through those

hillsides of Westmoreland County

raising hell in the ways only 

an ex-evangelical can—

I’m sure we would have fucked

in my giant boat Bonneville,

the one I named Hoopty,

because I so wanted to be wild—

and at 19, and recently 

excommunicated, it was 

the only way I knew how,

when wildness meant “be opposite.”

You would have loved

William Carlos Williams and I still

would have hated it,

but we would both agree

that you couldn’t get 

to Mary Oliver or Wendell Berry

without him. 

Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, and realtor living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in poetry from Chatham University. She is the author of three collections of poetry and the chief editor of two poetry anthologies. Her writing and photographs have appeared in numerous journals, newspapers, and websites, including Vox Populi, The Missouri Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and Eunoia Review. She is a winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize.

Smokers By Gary V. Powell

The brands they smoked, each man

or woman a brand unto themselves,

Camel, Winston, Kent, Viceroy.

The ashtrays they placed on coffee

and side tables or next to chairs

for collecting ashes and butts.

How they held those cancer sticks,

between fore and index finger or thumb,

or stuck to a lip while they worked.

Where they kept their pack, rolled up

in a sleeve like James Dean, in a shirt

pocket, or at the bottom of a purse

The Bic they flicked, the matchstick 

struck, or treasured lighter passed

father to son, father to son.

When they wanted one, after dinner,

after sex, before the bell, with a drink,

over coffee, while reading the paper.

The coffin nail inhaled in the school

parking lot, on the riverbank, down

at the Victory Liquor and Lounge. 

The one ground out like an argument

put to rest, sparked through an open car 

window, or mashed into a dinner plate.

The way they exhaled, rings dancing

across a pool room or in a rush 

of words to make a point.

Chesterfield, Lucky Strike, and True.

Tareyton, Merit, and Marlboro.

Salem, Kool, and Newport.

Gary V. Powell is a mostly rehabilitated lawyer and a Pushcart Prize nominee for both his poetry and short fiction. His third chapbook, The Largesse of the Maidenhair Fern was published by Main Street Rag Publishing, spring 2026. Recent poetry appears in Writer’s Digest, Oberon Poetry Journal, Southword 50, Passager Journal, and North Coast Anthology I.

how he became a writer By Keith Pearson

wild rabbits lived under the old tool shed

that leaned on the back of the family barn.

inside he found a rusted bucket of unused words.

when he showed his grandpa the treasure 

he'd found

the old man raised up the twenty gauge 

from his lap

and said i knew i shoulda kept that damn

shed locked.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.