Drunk Driving Is NOT An Extreme Sport. by Ezhno Martin

The nature of shame

is that you want to stop

or wish you wouldn't have

but know you just can't help yourself

and I have this habit

of facefucking myself with alcohol

anytime I got a long drive ahead of me

Kids

please realize that it isn't cool

to be driving down the highway

doing like a hundred

weaving between lanes

cause suddenly you are convinced

getting to the next detour

has the same consequences as “Cannonball Run”

and maybe that Corvette in the left lane

has three times the engine as your 97 Camry

but you are at least 10 times crazier than he is

and you'll crash

passing him on the shoulder

if that's what it takes

to reach the pot'o'gold first

Last weekend wasn't the first time

this year

that I got home

and didn't remember anything past

pissing myself in a gas station

trying to get to the toilet

and realized it was too late

and everybody was watching me

pinch my now drained dick

like a sad six year old

so after I picked myself up

after slipping in the puddle

I started flinging potato chips as subeterfuge

cover fire as I crawled to the front door

hopped in my car and drove into traffic

laying on the horn

running red lights foot to the floor

till I was back on the highway

deciding this was a bonny and clyde situation

and when the blue and red lights got behind me

I wasn't gonna stop

Somewhere on back roads through cornfields

a little while later

I'd taken that deep sigh

realizing that since GPS couldn't find me anymore

the cops couldn't either

and I set my compass for south

familiar highways lulling me to the semi-sleep

of selective memory

Waking up in the passenger seat

and the search for my keys on the front lawn

is a routine I always regret

having to go through again

Kids

it's not cool

having no idea where you've been

or how you managed to escape

I laugh at so many other near misses

but swerving till I wake up to the sound

of the rumble strips on the shoulder

always fills me with the dread

of being lost

and hoping I'm not the source of anyone's loss

like my...

well, my uncles mistress

she ran over a black man

going 50 on a side street

and said afterward

when they caught up to her

cause her windshield was crushed in

that it was his fault

and she couldn't distinguish between his blackness and the asphalt

it's only fun to call her a racist

or swear you're better than her

until you're drunk and distracted

looking at porn on your phone

racing a train across the tracks

and you hit the gate on the other side

and it breaks

flying through the drivers side widow

of a parked car

and you end up passing pedestrians on the sidewalk

just trying to get the hell out of dodge

It isn't so funny anymore

when one-eying it no longer works

and you end up hiding your car behind a tree on a gravel road

and run for the ditch at the edge of the dark horizon

which you dive into for just as much sleep as you can get

before they find you

and demand an explanation

you hope comes to you in a dream

I never want it to be like this

it always starts almost innocently –

the shimmering lights of a city I've never seen

on a highway that's been dark for hours

I tell myself I'll have a beer and burger

but

I have the beer first

so it turns into 3 bourbons

and then I get on my phone and start planning my next stop

at a bar just an hour down the road

and it only adds 20 minutes to my trip!

Then I'm drunk

and every bright light in bumfuck

means more alcohol

and I stop and pick up a six pack

at the Kum and Go

Jizz and Jett

Break and Beat

gas station

I always claim I won't drink

but for the first one

till I get home later

cause it's late already

and I just need 3 more nightcaps

you know how that always works out...

kids

drunk driving isn't an extreme sport

cause the only prize is surviving

but hey

at least you won't be around to see them strip that medal

when you fail the drug test.

Ezhno Martin doesn't believe in god, pronouns, american exceptionalism, most conventions of capitalization, monogamy, any form of censorship, that 9/11 was real, casseroles, coming to a full stop at stop signs, chivalry, patriotism, hand washing after bathroom visits, rough sex, decorum, the importance of biological families, and/or that The New York Knick's are ever going to get their shit together.  Ezhno lives in Toledo, Ohio.  Ezhno is now from Toledo, Ohio, because that's how that works.  You can't misgender Ezhno, because Ezhno doesn't believe in genders, pronouns, safe spaces or any of that social-justice-warrior-rich-kid-with-a-complex bullshit.   Just say “nice ass” if you're feeling nervous or confused about the fact that the 6'2” Adonis that is Ezhno hates your counter culture just as much as the culture it opposes.

Vow. by Michael A. Griffith

Lipstick stains my wineglass.

I loved her long before the grapes were harvested,

turned to a red deeper than her stain

but less intoxicating than her lips.

Stick to stone, break the bone.

Broken bonds and words

can always hurt me.

Vow          do us          part.

Death may still kiss my bride,

a willful bride to a willing death.

She: Look how lovely in white!

He: How handsome in his best suit,

gray as cloud-layer atop a pyre.

Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry as he recovered from a disability-causing injury. His poems, essays, and articles have appeared in many print and online publications and anthologies. He resides and teaches near Princeton, NJ. His first poetry chapbook is slated to appear later this year from The Blue Nib. Drink of choice: Tanqueray and tonic with lime.

Her phone. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

welcomed

her to Canada

even though

she was not in Canada,

close enough

to see snow in May

and speak with an accent,

but the tech

giants were failing

or maybe

they just wanted her

to think

they didn’t know

exactly where she was

so they welcomed

her to Canada,

either way,

she had a good laugh

and posted

about it so others

could have

a good laugh too,

even the ones

in Canada

when she was

not.

(For Tracey Sivek)

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers. 

Bethesda Noir. by Jim Bourey

Sitting in a bar on a downtown street, acting like a private-eye, watching the action in a gilded mirror. 

It’s a clandestine lunch-time meeting. A guy in a shiny gray suit and a woman in a green dress (cut low in front and very high above the knees). 

She has a rolled-up yoga mat hung over the back of her chair. Yoga? In that dress? They’re at an outside table at the trendy American Taproom. She sips wine – deep red. He nurses a beer – pale amber. I throw back shots of Wild Turkey.

Their hands touch and they laugh, but not happily. She gives him an envelope. He gives her cash. She tucks the cash into her already full bra. Blackmail, I think. Should I confront them? Should I draw my .38, try to arrest them, shoot when they start to run? Better not.

I see my wife and granddaughter emerge from the pottery shop. They might get into my line of fire. I leave the gun where it belongs. Next time, maybe.

Jim Bourey is an old poet who divides his year between the Adirondack Mountains and Dover, Delaware. His chapbook “Silence, Interrupted” was published in 2015 by the Broadkill River Press. His work has appeared in Mojave River Review, Paddock Review, Gargoyle and the Broadkill Review and other journals and anthologies. He was first runner up in the Faulkner-Wisdom Poetry Competition in 2012 and 2016. He has served as an adjudicator for the Poetry Out Loud competition in Delaware. In his North Country months, he is active with the St. Lawrence Area Poets and has taken part in Art/Poetry projects in Saranac Lake.

Jazz Club. by Ann Christine Tabaka

The lights dim

a horn wails

smoke and whiskey    fill the room

A voice like silk

    from some long past era

hearts mellow

    tears spill

Bodies sway

    fingers snap

Feet     s h u f f l e

across the floor

Hushed voice        conversations

    glasses clink

        toes tap

Drunk on

atmosphere

a slice of heaven    on a paper plate

High notes - low bows

    the jazzman walks off

        claps and whistles follow

            the lights rise

Ann Christine Tabaka has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from publications. She lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are: Ariel Chart, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The McKinley Review.

[binary] by Aneka Brussen

her mind was a pyramid, carved into a

liquor store wall. my centrifugal vision lingered,

single-pointed raindrops reflecting

truth.

her eyes were a picture of a burning cop

car on the freeway. my moves were weak that day,

she still devoured my awkward

contradictions.

Star Dust

is what she called me,

after I turned her into the devil,

playing a broken piano.

Fool’s Games

is what she played with me,

after her hips became a tsunami,

bleaching memory.

we pushed each other

into a storm of [binary] fluctuations.

ANEKA BRUNSSEN is a writer, poet and graduate student from Bremen, Germany, with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and Cultural Studies. Aneka has written several non-fiction essays, in both German and English, as well as a few short stories, articles, reviews and poetry collections. Her work has been published in several American and German print and online literary journals as well as magazines. She is currently working on an autobiographical novel and a poetry collection. You can find samples of her work her: http://spacetrashpoetry.weebly.com

ME & JACK. by R.M. Engelhardt

Met in college

Me & Jack
Got drunk &
Punched trees

Me & Jack
Dressed up like the Joker
For Halloween

Me & Jack
Were never that lucky
In love

Me & Jack
Liked to read

Me & Jack
Back in the day
Sat outside in the moonlight
Writing poems until
The daylight came

Until of course
A few years ago
When I met Scotch

But occasionally
Every now & then
I'll still do coke
With Jack

Which is nice

R.M. Engelhardt is an author, poet & writer whose work over the years has appeared in many journals & magazines such as Rusty Truck, Thunder Sandwich, Full of Crow, In Between Hangovers, Writers Resist and in many others. His new book of poetry is called " Coffee Ass Blues & Other Poems" published by Alien Buddha Press (2018) . He is also the host of The Troy Poetry Mission, an open mic for poets located in Troy, NY.

We Are Rivers (for Jeanette Powers) by Jason Baldinger

down on the Gasconade

the cook shacks have pulled the curtains

we don’t pull no punches

we are rivers

      have been rivers

dream as rivers

but shit, maybe that’s what

most people don’t realize

how we flow, how time flows

how it’s all water

how we’re all water

with just a dash of electricity

the catfish are playing pool

the tv screen is running

today’s numbers

Althea keeps the Budwiser coming

kidneys scream

we talk dead fathers

absent lovers and time

this town is weird synchronicity

or maybe its just us

all these weird castoffs

still unmoored in our forties

still trying to wrap our heads

around when or how it all happened

the other night I saw

an armadillo

and a possum

copulating on route d

that adds nothing to the poem

but its midnight now

we’re waltzing in headlights

on Alvarado, we are dry bones

rivers of flesh, we are acutely

lost in time

Jason Baldinger is a poet hailing from Pittsburgh and recently finished a stint as writer in residence at the Osage Arts Community. He’s the author of several books, the most recent are This Useless Beauty (Alien Buddha Press), The Ugly Side of the Lake (Night Ballet Press) written with John Dorsey and the chaplet Fumbles Revelations (Grackle and Crow) which are available now. The collection Fragments of a Rainy Season (Six Gallery Press) and the split book with James Benger Little Fires Hiding (Spartan Press) are forthcoming. Recent publications include the Low Ghost Anthology Unconditional Surrender, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Uppagus, Lilliput Review, Rusty Truck, Dirtbag Review, In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Anti-Heroin Chic, Nerve Cowboy Concrete Meat Press, Zombie Logic Press, Ramingo’s Porch, Blue Mountain Review, Red Fez, Blue Hour Review and Heartland! Poetry of Love, Solidarity and Resistance. You can hear Jason read poems on recent and forthcoming releases by Theremonster and Sub Pop Recording artist The Gotobeds as well as at jasonbaldinger.bandcamp.com

Beat Afternoon, Victorville. by Michael Dwayne Smith

Gimme a quarter, can ya?

says Joseph the dim

cross-eyed panhandler

but all I have today is a ten spot

as I turn the corner at 7th street,

so Joseph gets a free

smile and a high-five

while half a block

north two shirtless, tatted,

exquisitely

pissed-off vatos

exchange pleasantries,

and when one wheels out a tire iron

I slip through

the whoosh of the auto-slide door,

into the familiar chill

of the Miss Deed Liquor Store.

I ditch down the long

west wall aisle to where

all the glorious beer and ale gets

cooled out.

Holding a quart of Schlitz

to my brow

generates my Zen glow, permeates

my forehead and spreads

down the neck, washing

my overworked conscience clean.

I tote the icy bottle

to the counter,

trade President Hamilton

for brewski and a half-pint of

Yukon Jack.

On the street back to my

crippled Airstream

at the Count Your Losses

Trailer Park

I sing, Oh sweet

heroic night, the poetry

I’m gonna feel

through my broken window

of sky and dying light!

Michael Dwayne Smith lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued animals. His most recent book isRoadside Epiphanies (Cholla Needles Press, 2017). Nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his work haunts many literary houses--including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Star 82 Review, Blue Fifth Review, Skidrow Penthouse, Word Riot, Rat's Ass Review, Gravel, San Pedro River Review--and has been widely anthologized. When not writing or teaching, he edits Mojave River Press & Review.

Morning Toast (A Tribute To Ernest Hemingway) by Anthony King

The pen has followed the heart,

With words that flow from mind.

A toast to start the brand - new day…

New adventures, still yet to find.

The waves they lap so gently

With a meticulous lullaby

The master makes his ready

To view, the suns arise.

The madness from the sleepless nights

Revisit in his dreams…

Now his words will spill in flurry

For the master has found the key.

Antony King 2018

Antony King is a writer/ poet from Eastern Kentucky. Antony spent his formal years in Cleveland Ohio where he underwent private instruction in The Arts, Music, and Literature. His love of the classics guided him to poetry and fueled his passion for writing. After art school, Antony spent 22 years in the world of advertising, and design. He began honing his skills both as a writer, and an artist. Antony is a proud member of several poetry groups and has been published in SpillWord Press, PPPEzine, and Piker press to name a few. He has also had the honor to have his works read in the UK.