We're the Ezine dedicated to all things barroom. We are slightly off what others consider the norm and always the last to close the bar. If you prefer the local dive bar to the glitz of some overpriced club then you're our kind of people. So welcome grab a drink and enjoy.
Friday, December 31, 2021
Benefits Of Escape by Rp Verlaine
Thursday, December 30, 2021
The keys By Alex Z. Salinas
Came close last night to
Making words mean
Other than what they mean—
What do words mean beyond
Meaning?—beyond meaning
What do words do? What words
Do what & when do they
What? Do words when when they
What & why do they do what they
Do? Say what?
How do words mean & why
Do I care?
Where the fuck are my keys?
“Where you left them,” replies I.
I dig The Black Keys primarily
Because of their name.
What’s in a name, a wordy funky name?
How many names can I stuff in the garage?
However many I want.
O how I wish to be what I
Can’t & why God gave me
Poetry to write home about
I don’t want to know why.
Beyond meaning, words are taffy—
The sponsored dessert of the
Parareal parallel to the
Ultrareal wrapped in surreal quilts
Knit by phantasms
Shoving me out the door
Onto the wending concrete
Into the glimmering skyscrapers of death—
Yes,
My keys were always in my hand.
Alex Z. Salinas is the author of two poetry collections: WARBLES and DREAM
Wednesday, December 29, 2021
When you write, try By Chris Spark
When you write, try
to be drunk. That way
you’re stumbling
and you might fall
into some
amazing ditch.
Chris Spark (a.k.a. Chris Dingman) graduated summa cum laude with a degree in biology from Harvard where he began writing humor for The Harvard Lampoon and poetry for himself. From screenplays to songs to philosophy to more poetry, he’s been writing ever since. He optioned his first screenplay to Warner Bros. in 1989, and has since been involved in various Hollywood shenanigans.
One of Spark’s pieces was included, alongside those of Conan O’Brien and John Updike, in The Best of the Harvard Lampoon: 140 Years of American Humor. He’s a published poet, and a contributor to The American Bystander, which Newsweek called the “last great humor magazine.” He’s also a frequent lecturer of friends and family.
Website
Tuesday, December 28, 2021
Talking to My Younger Self by Ann Christine Tabaka
Monday, December 27, 2021
The Incredible Mr. Snips By *(Matthew Bowers)*~93
I was as tired as the day felt long,
and right now that seemed like a god damned eternity. There were plenty of goings on throughout the house, but nothing that struck my curiosity.
A new tenant moved in across the way. In a small tank with water, lettuce, and a fairly good size rock, considering the amount of space provided.
The mister called it Leon, which I found a little odd for a red-eared slider. The name seemed pretty "street" for something that'll never leave the comforts of it's ten gallon tank.
Yeah, this day dragged long, otherwise uneventful save the usual rapping at the window when Larry and Gus the local Columbian livias showed up casing the joint for some grub, usually week old bread scraps and old stale hamburger buns.
The monotony can drive one mad. If I didn't know how to jimmy open the cabinets of the mister's liquor cabinets years ago, I'm sure I'd be a goner by now. There ain't nothing like a nightcap or three to break up the day's insanity, a little gin and vermouth to take the edge off always seemed to do me right….
Well, once again the morning comes along like rolling thunder. Breaking open the sky with bellowing claps like some proverbial ten pin strike down aisle four. The echos igniting dull throbbing pain behind my eye sockets and lower frontal cortex. I guess I must've tied one on tighter than I thought.
The whole place wreaks and seems like it's falling apart, and I ain't seen the mister in about three or four feedings.
Tipsificator Spelunking. Yeah, he's probably three sheets to his own wind out looking for tail or clever anecdotes to include into his own daily writings, trying to write that Moby Dick of personal projects that never seems to materialize. First things first, he got to shake them DTs.
Well, the sun's gone down on another day, punched it's timecard for it's time spent shining above this dirty city. The hustle and bustle of the streets below seems to have mellowed down to a dull roar, at least for the moment.
Late Night chit chat and canned laughter fill the void of commercials aimed to get folks to purchase shit they know they don't ever need.
I myself have reached the end of another cycle of twenty-four hour doldrums. Time to cash in the chips, have one more for the road, even though we all know I ain't got nowhere to be.
Leon seems quite content in his little glass abode. Can't knock him for not having much going on upstairs. There's a certain kinda freedom, living in the moment, not bein' aware of self or death. Things get rough for Leon, he just pulls himself in all tight. Retreat into his self made asylum. I guess there's perks for being thick as a stump, not having any aspirations. Ignorance is bliss in the hollow moments of the dog end of the days gone by.
Born in Massachusetts, received the "Class Artist" title for the graduating year of highschool, as well as assisting in the writing and production of the school poetry book.
Later moved to Boston then Salem MA. becoming a novice practitioner of pagan and ritualistic arts, spending time studying Chaos MagicK before moving to Hollywood CA. to write and perform music.
In 2020 starting up The Calling which incorporates a YouTube channel, podcast, group, Facebook pages, as well as a website and store. Something Witchy This Way Comes was released in 2021, with several more projects in the works including a first Novel and Young Adult adventure.
Sunday, December 26, 2021
Writing By Wayne F. Burke
This writing I do
may add up to
something: some
kind of living is
my hope, which
is a joke. Maybe
a grant, but who will
grant it? Maybe a
position, top or
bottom (I will take
either). Most of my
words will go, I fear
with me onto the
funeral pyre.
Friday, December 24, 2021
PEOPLE WATCHING NEAR PENN STATION (OR, AGAINST BASHO) by Dan O’Connell
Thursday, December 23, 2021
ATTACHMENTS By Laura Stamps
The cat came out of nowhere, jumping out of the bushes, hissing at the pit bull. “Poor Rocky,” Carol said, stroking his trembling ears. Dumped on the side of the road, battered, bruised, and left for dead. That’s how the dog rescue people found him. He was a bait dog that had outlived his usefulness. When the vet discovered rocks in his stomach, the rescue agency named him Rocky. A starving dog will eat anything. Even rocks. When he was ready for adoption, Carol applied. She’d never had a dog before. But she couldn’t resist his sad face. Pampering Rocky became her new hobby. She fed him premium dog food, dressed him in stylish sweaters, and walked him every evening after work. There was only one problem. The neighborhood cat. It loved to come out of nowhere and terrify Rocky. A timid giant, he never defended himself. His past had beaten the fight out of him. Carol could relate. She’d also escaped an abusive relationship. Therapy had healed her wounded soul. Maybe it could heal Rocky too? She decided to try. Every night before she went to sleep Carol would read empowering books to Rocky, his head resting on her shoulder. “We become what we’re attached to,” Carol read, turning the page. “You’re a survivor, Rocky. Attach yourself to courage, not fear.” Winter arrived, and Carol slipped Rocky into a warm red hoodie for their walk. On the street, the man came out of nowhere, hurrying toward Carol. “Why haven’t you answered my calls?” he demanded. Carol stepped in front of Rocky. “Our relationship ended six months ago,” she said. The man grabbed her arm, pressing his fingers into her flesh, bruising. “That’s unacceptable,” he threatened. The growl came out of nowhere. In a flash of red, Rocky moved between them. The man jumped back and ran away. Carol looked down at the leash in her hand. She was the only one trembling. “Let’s get a snack,” she said, stroking Rocky’s soft ears. “My treat.”
Laura Stamps loves to play with words and create experimental forms for her fiction. Author of several novels and short story collections, including IT’S ALL ABOUT THE RIDE: CAT MANIA (Alien Buddha Press). Muses Prize. Pulitzer Prize nomination. 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Mom of 4 cats. Twitter: @LauraStamps16. www.laurastampsfiction.
Wednesday, December 22, 2021
Half-Empty, Half-Full By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
I empty the glass
half-full and half-
empty of all its
contents before I
fall asleep. Spirits
fill my thirst as I
become a ghost too.
I empty the red,
white, green, and brown
liquids and like a
magician the glass
is freed of the proof
that I have imbibed.
I become someone
new almost over-
night, conversing,
singing, speaking a
whole mess of nonsense.
The spirits save me
some nights from feelings
I keep bottled up.
Tuesday, December 21, 2021
Jagged By Terrence Sykes
On the motel dresser
7 jagged Little Pills
Once for each day
7 jagged Little Regrets
Only before dawn
7 jagged Little Hours
One deed shall be done
Monday, December 20, 2021
Riverwalk By James H Duncan
winter jazz nights alongside black waters dancing red blue green white in all possible Christmas variations, fiesta phosphorescent, the smell of late night fajitas and red wine ebbing in the wind that slips through stone bridges crossing the narrow river snaking through the heart of downtown, a palm tree canopy overhead, little hollows and coves tucked below street-level traffic, grotto solitude where shadows and a lonely cello somewhere soften his touch along your hairline, running one long black curl behind your ear, smiling as I pass by and turn my eyes away into the night, allowing as much intimacy as one can along the Riverwalk, escaping into the darkness of another bridge and stone steps leading me up into halogen yellow streets engulfed by a sudden warm wind, rare for December, though this is south Texas, where heat and a soft caress in the night are so mundane the stars deign not one glimpse down through the cloudless sky, only burn burn burn lifetimes away as their own hearts die a slow fiery death, cautionary tales a million times over, should we care to notice, but we don’t, we won’t, and the river trembles onward through fiesta neon midnight
James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of We Are All Terminal But This Exit Is Mine, Feral Kingdom, and Vacancy, among other books of poetry and fiction. He currently resides in upstate New York where he works on novels and reviews indie bookshops at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit www.jameshduncan.com.
Sunday, December 19, 2021
A Fine Tether By John Drudge
A bleak spectral mist
Descends
Into the valley
Like the creeping tendrils
Of a slow growing
Cancer
The steady drip
Of a rusty sunset
Faint on the horizon
Turns the pond
The color of dried blood
As my mind drifts
Into the cool dead greys
Of regret
Leprous and oozing
Into the pools
Of every memory
Every dream
And every mastication
Of sinewy thought
Lost in the possibility
Of madness
John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of four books of poetry: “March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019), New Days (2020), and Fragments (2021). His work has appeared widely in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.
Saturday, December 18, 2021
The Distance Between Us Review by Scott Simmons
In The Distance Between Us jim exposes readers to his own unique perspective on life as he reflects on years in both past and present in a refined yet honest style with a few hints of humor. The book is structured into 3 distinct sections with quotes from figures like publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti to help set the tone of each section and also as a nod to his favorite literary influences as well.
However I really think the first section utilized this element the best as jim uses it to connect an overall theme of sex and intimacy in a very interesting way as jim boldly embraces his age with such as "it’s halted by an arthritic twinge or a potassium shortage leg" in a poem that's titled Explicit Sex and other writes about "weathered bodies" or "orthopedic Stilettos". Which he cleverly uses to add in a rich blend of humor and unconventional sensuality that ultimately drives home the endearing message that love is timeless and it should be appreciated during every phase of life. Although this is not without heartbreak as well as the title write The Distance Between Us as jim tearfully states "Today I wish you hadn’t stayed" after his partner recollects distant memories about their relationship.The 2nd section talks a lot about jim's past and his time during military service as in his words "we really weren't built for peace" a sentiment that was demonstrated in several different writes including one of my favorite poems in the book called Calibrations where he discuses that targets were something that didn't shoot back or move to give his reader a reminder of the darker side of war. However it also recounts other little stories from his life as well like recovering from a hangover and seeing Spiderman curtains or watching a one winged bird at his feeder before transitioning into the third section which focuses more on modern times.
In my opinion the first section was the most concise with its theme while the second and third section had a more of a relaxed flow that was slightly harder to follow but certain elements such as his poems about nuns and literary references throughout his writes that tied into every section and ultimately helped the book all tie together very nicely. Overall I think that The Distance Between us is a very smartly crafted book that offers jim's readers a diverse selection of his work and it features many memorable moments that were definitely worth reading.
The Lake House By Keith Hoerner
Deep below the lake’s murky surface, there sits—in tact—a house. A two-story structure of Carpenter Gothic details like elaborate wooden trim bloated to bursting. Its front yard: purple loosestrife. Its inhabitants: alligator gar, bull trout, and pupfish. All glide past languidly—out of window sashes and back inside door frames. It is serene, and it is foreboding. Curtains of algae float gossamer to and fro. Pictures rest clustered atop credenzas. A chandelier is lit, intermittently, by freshwater electric eels. And near a Victrola, white to the bone, a man and a woman dance in a floating embrace.
Friday, December 17, 2021
temptation By Stephen House
i remember a night
just before dawn
howling moans of fear
echoing
down that lane
night ghouls dragging
ourselves
back to the grimy holes
from where we came
and went
no shame
wind against our sequins
beating of the rain
flea pit palaces
cry always the same
wobble back
mumbling
once more
never again
temptation
is such a nasty game
making blame
pain of easing pain
same conclusion
nil remains
i do remember nights
before and after dawn
no gain
our game
repeat
Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He has been commissioned many times, and had 20 plays, and several word and image exhibitions and short films produced. He has received international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts to Canada and Ireland, and an Asialink India residency. His chapbook “real and unreal” was published by ICOE Press Australia. He is published often and performs his acclaimed monologues widely...
Wednesday, December 15, 2021
I’m Gettin’ Old by Carlin Corsino
Tuesday, December 14, 2021
Make Your Mark by Robert Pegel
Monday, December 13, 2021
That family trait By Emalisa Rose
Driving back home, Kate took
the scenic route, deflecting
the sting of the bimonthly visit.
She’d stop for some camomile
to detox from the angst about
Anna, her mom, in recovery.
Key to the door, she kicked off
her heels, with lips on the bottle,
salt on the side, hold the ice, as
she slept until Sunday surrendered
her sanity.
the golden mile By Stephen House
back then it was called the golden mile and golden it certainly was / with night-life trappings from end to end in nothing could equal Oxfor...
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near the on-ramp of I-10 in Crowley, Louisiana we unload our band equipment into the back of Gozzlebeck’s not the real name of the bar but a...
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there is a woman who is sometimes at my local cafĂ© sitting outside with a glass of white wine and that’s not too unusual but i always notice...
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Diamond hair Bathe in bourbon and butter You are my Sunday prayer You are everything You are all You are life Rita S. Spalding has had poem...