Off The Beaten Path / Hank's Pub

 

Hank's motto is, "You're always welcome until you're not," Being the writer I am, that caught me from the very first time I walked into this bar 2138 S. Military Hwy., Chesapeake, VA.

Hank's, from the outside, is deceptive. Located in a little strip mall, she could easily make some feel she could be a rough gal, and nothing could be further from the truth. Hank's is what I love about bars and what, in my opinion, is something that lacks in these overpriced franchise bars that have as much appeal as a Starbucks on acid.

Hank's is a hole in the wall with character. Its beauty is its charm, and it caters to customers and staff alike. It's the kind of place that doesn't look at you and question whether you're lost.

It's a place that looks at you and asks,

"Hey, where the hell have you been!?"

The name drew me in for obvious reasons, as any writer would get, but that's just an odd coincidence.

The faces may change, but one thing that remains consistent with any top-shelf bar is the feeling that it's your own. Rebecca Nisbet, the former co-owner and the creator of the tagline that I truly admire, has a zero tolerance for bullshit, and honestly, the place is just warm and inviting. It's what a good bar or tavern should be and what too many places try to erase: true character.

Quirky and truly unique, with great prices, good food, and a welcoming environment.

And unique is definitely one thing Hank's is, without a doubt.

From my first walk through the doors, I was served by the singing bartender himself, Trevor Nisbet, on karaoke night as I was handed a Jack and Coke while the room was being serenaded with a rendition of "New York State of Mind."

The guy is working the bar, singing to customers, and practically sweeping the floor, then looks at me and says,

"Male bartender, gotta have a gimmick."

Which you just can't make this shit up. It cracked me up, and being a total recluse who, on his best days, avoids most of humanity, when you make me want to return just to hang out, you're doing something right.

Trevor, along with his wife, may be moving on, but the place holds a bevy of characters, and no matter who is there, its vibe is always welcoming.

It's not one person's place. When you're there, it's your own and the perfect backdrop for some great future memories of your own.

Hank's is real and shares what all the best bars have in common: a place that makes you always want to return, myself included.

If you're ever in town, check it out. I promise you it's worth a visit.

Cheers, and as always, the next round's on me.

John Patrick Robbins

Editor in Chief of The Rye Whiskey Review

If interested here's a link to their Facebook page.

https://www.facebook.com/share/1G1o7AFNvj/

When the do re mi says so By Tony Pena

I carry a tune 

like a baggage handler

thrashing Samsonites

in a cargo bay of a 747 

bound for the long cold 

cavern clubs of the UK,

but if I could find me

an auto tune on the cheap

on Craigslist or EBay,

maybe one day my vocal

cords can quiver enough 

to convince the part of you,

gliding like Ginger Rogers 

within the black and white 

of your room with the lights 

from Top Hat’s numbers

shimmering off the TV set

at three in the morning,

to lose the China white

into that deep black hole

within porcelain, for though

I’m surely more Fred

Flintstone than Astaire,

maybe just maybe, the ball

of melody bouncing along

my ribs, rises from the tune 

like a fiery strawberry moon, 

bold enough to serve the staff

as a sanguine beat far too catchy

for what’s left of you not to follow. 

Tony Pena was formerly 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York.  

His new book of poetry, Triad, is now available on Amazon

His prose and poetry have found refuge recently with 101 Words, Alien Buddha Press, Cajun Mutt Press, Dear Booze, Death Wish Poetry, Fevers of the Mind, Mono, Odd Magazine, The Erozine, The Literary Underground, The Lotherian Poetry Journal, Trailer Park Quarterly, and Witcraft.

 Also, Best of the Net nominations in 2019 from the Rye Whiskey Review and the Dope Fiend Daily.

A volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available at Amazon.  

A chapbook of poetry, "Opening night in Gehenna," is available from author.

Social Media

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry

Instagram: Tonypenapoetry

Conflicted by stars__ By Merritt Waldon

A girl I know 

Has a pig she swears 

Goes plum hay wire 

When Venus is too close to the Earth 

& So humans might

Be in similar temperaments

If they don’t forget 

They too are

Animals

Horny in love

Conflicted by stars

Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,

The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.

At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.

The Usual Ensemble By Alec Solomita

I write too much of loss,

but what else is going on

at three in the morning?

The old blues singers knew,

sitting up in bed on hot nights,

brows ringed with sweat.

The usual ensemble:  

money gone, woman gone,

whiskey gone, nothing

but seeds and twigs

in the sad pouch by the bed.

And a nameless, snaking fear

that starts in the lungs

and rises behind the eyes.

Alec Solomita is a writer working in Massachusetts. His fiction and poetry have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, The Lake, The New Criterion, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Galway Review, Red Dirt Forum, and One Art. His chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017. His full-length poetry book, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was released s in the spring of 2021. Both of these are available on Amazon. He’s just finished his third collection, “Glass Flowers.”

Nights of Roses By George Gad Economou

Four Roses in my glass tonight and it tastes like

forbidden kisses from the past; tonight, of all nights,

the ghosts are back, and there’s one whispering in my

ear all day long: get drunk, stay drunk, become what you used to be.

I can’t. I’ve tried.

I’m losing sight of the Edge. but the fourth Four Roses brings

back something I’ve been missing; clarity.

I need to focus, need to get a grasp of reality again, find

the meaning I lost in the syringe that ended everything.

without the needle and the spoon I’ve been meandering around

the streets like a confused ghost not understanding what the white light’s for.

without Emily, I’ve been aimlessly peregrinating the pathways of algid passion

and frigid kisses under sterile fluorescent lights.

playing dice with the Devil again, as we trade shots of Patron and Jack Daniels.

no matter how hard I try, I always win; we polish off a joint and he reassures me

Emily’s doing very well indeed. in my inebriation I smile, knowing that

everything will be gone come hangover.

for a few superlatively intoxicated hours, however, I’m alive and she is

too, sitting right next to me as I gamble away whatever’s left of my sanity.

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.

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.