Harry’s Bar by John Drudge

The night was warm
With a light wind
Blowing off the lagoon
Down the narrow walkways
Across bridges
And over canals
Through a thousand
Endings and beginnings
Where romance
Suffuses with the glow
Of one more story
In the twists and turns
Of another Venice night
Pushing through the crowds
Of St. Marks
Across the square
To Harry’s Bar
Where I saw beyond eternity
For a moment
That night
And fell deeper in love
With you

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.

Going to Hell by Tony Pena

Saint Peter at the pearly

gates reads from a thick

leather bound book

featuring my failings

as a good man assuring

my descent so with nothing

to lose I offer my Tim Tebow

baseball and football cards.

Not a word from the man

Jesus named after a stone.

 

I throw my Hail Mary

offering a pair of mint

Playboys with Jessica Hahn

pics and good articles.

Apparently the rock ain’t got

any kind of sense of humor.

Merciless archangels grab

each arm like titty club

bouncers tossing the rowdy.

Goddamn it’s hot down here.

Tony Pena was selected as 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York. A new volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available now at Amazon.  He also has a self published chapbook, "Opening night in Gehenna."  His publication credits include “Chronogram,”  "Dogzplot," "Gutter Eloquence," “Hudson Valley Transmitter,” "Red Fez," "Slipstream,"  "Underground Voices," "Zygote in my Coffee," and others. 

Colorful compositions and caterwauling with a couple of chords can be seen at:

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry

a poem for vegas by Paula Hayes

you don't have to live inside

a desert town to feel the wind blow

sand and dust from underneath your feet

the red hot sun like candy cinnamon hots 

can burn a line in the cold of your heart

just as easily as the dollar blackjack table

or the women at the Oyo 

your hands tremble

as you put it down

i can feel the quivering in your veins

of your addiction 

reach me many miles away

while a dealer in a deadpan voice 

sneers, "house wins"

the house always win 

i don't have to know, to know

you don't have to say it, to say it 

you need a chemical lover 

it's tied up in your absence 

like some reckless hellhound 

waiting outside the doors of the burlesque 

funny, you can't shake it

but it blurs the lines between love and

whatever else there is

the way a fantasy show 

seeps inside making you think 

you can have what you can't 

i keep driving

toward some west coast utopia

we are all rock stars here

beneath the sway of the palm trees

against the clip of the mountains

as scenes from music videos light up the big screen

that hangs over the pool 

i can see the dancing images from my hotel room

as i stand there with the curtains wide open 

what kind of town is this that jacks you like a rabbit

but won't steal your name 

that is why they call it Paradise, i suppose 

it has everything you think you want

to escape who you don't want to feel 

just a mile or two away from the strip

where young men who look old rage at their staggering shadows

in dark corners of an all night drive-thru wedding chapel

you can buy a bride as quick as you can say

yes lord 

then all your unmet desires 

can go meet in a free rave on Fremont street 

where the lasers bounce off street performers 

it may not be eternity, but it is a slice of right now 

all you can do is just call out 

weird dreams that snuck up on you 

as she slips right past you in the crowds 

she probably doesn't even think of you now

but at least the moon sung Sinatra 

as you scuttled on past the Bellagio 

unable to tell day from night

Paula Hayes is a poet hanging out in Memphis, the same town where the ghost of Elvis roams in the jungle room. Since music imbibes her soul and the blues are sometimes her muse, it seems a natural fit. 

5/9 by Scott Ferry

i don’t drink i don’t do drugs i don’t

need them anymore to lift from

this de-feathered word corpse

into a conjoined

ringing

all i need is to listen to the silence

(and the wordless burrowing

under the lawn)

until it starts

speaking

i will bring it to you—an unclean

string of corpulent grubs

wriggling on white snow

they are fine

to eat

they have feasted on parenchyma

on regret they are well fed

don’t chew them they will

scream just swallow

pray

and swallow again

Scott Ferry helps out Veterans heal as a RN in the Seattle area. His most recent book is fishmirror from Alien Buddha Press. You can find more of his work @ ferrypoetry.com.

Made for Paradise by Taylor Dibbert

Scotch,

And soda,

True,

Beauty,

Magic,

Even,

If not,

A match,

Made,

For paradise,

He isn't,

Sure,

What is.

Taylor Dibbert is a widely published writer and journalist. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and is seeking representation for his first novel.

JOAN OF WALMART by R.M. Engelhardt

Joan of Arc

Joan of Arc

She heard a voice

In the dark

Cut her hair

Like a gentleman fair

& Picked up a sword

On Etsy

Joan of Arc

Joan of Arc

She heard a voice

In the dark

And

Attacked a

Man in the park

Who was speaking at a Neo -

Nazi demonstration

And so now they

Have her on medication

And she works

For a corporation

Called Walmart

Where she

Stocks the shelves

In the candles section

For $13 dollars an hour

And all the voices tell her

“Good Job"

R.M. Engelhardt writes, lives & breathes in Albany, NY. He is the founder of Dead Man's Press Ink (1998), a small indie poetry publishing firm & is the original founder of the literary community group Albany Poets. Over the last 25 or so years his work has appeared in dozens of small press journals, anthologies & zines  worldwide and he is the author of roughly 16 books of poetry, such as " DarkLands" ( 2019 Whiskey City Press) "The Resurrection Waltz "(Infinity Press 2012) & "The Last Cigarette, The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt" (Dead Man's Press Ink 2007) .  He currently hosts the open mic for poets "INVOCATION OF THE MUSE"  At Lark Hall and is also a supporter of experimental & Pagan poetry as well. 

His new book, " Of Spirit, Ash & Bone Poems*Parables" ( Dead Man's Press Ink) comes out and makes it's appearance in 2022.

www.gentlemanoutsider.com 

Molasses by John Doyle

The fat-guy from college comes from the U.S. of A.,

arm-wrestling better men than him in local bars

proves nothing, he loses cabbage every time,

its only benefit being that he hangs out with death’s

dark-hearted minions in places better losers than him

hang-out in, back in the U.S. of A.

The fat guy from college isn’t fat like Walter Matthau, 

or Jackie Gleason,

he’s fat in ways that get him called “putz” and “shlump” back home,

words us shamrock kids adore, 

words that trump “Bollocks” 

“Cunt” and “Prick”

every time. Speaking of Jackie Gleason, you remember that time

he threatened to barbeque the bandit’s ass in molasses?

Maybe it was the bandit, I can’t remember, 

I was 7 years old or something,

thinking of fat Americans and what could make them fatter - 

molasses, barbeques, 

beer-slurping in some shithole 

that fat American student kid has just lost 

another arm-wrestling showdown in.

Molasses - what a word - 

someone should sing a blues song about molasses,

as pool balls smash through windows after bars shut down, 

as fat student boys

struggle to run home, asses barbequed in molasses, 

armed with their first short story.

 John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.

Eighteen by Peter Mladinic

I’d like to say it was Smalls, a landmark

but it wasn’t, it was the Top Club,

almost right across from the Baby Grande,

which in ‘66 was famous, so I heard.

Scotch and milk, the big drink, the bugaloo 

the dance. You extended your arms, waved

them up and down, snapped your fingers

like you were ready to welcome someone

into you, only it wasn’t a hugging dance.

John and James had dark skin, John, 

a shade darker was called Chip.  Times,

if not for Chip I’d have been drinking alone

at the bar.  He taught junior high math.

He jabbered, talked quietly and a lot, some

nights to himself.  A lot shorter than James,

the big difference, I didn’t think of then,

was Chip was alone.  James’ wife Gloria,

tall with red hair and almond cat’s eyes

shook a canister and poured whisky sours

behind the bar. James was there because 

Gloria was, tall and handsome, light skinned

like Velma, who also was a barmaid. Velma,

from Mobile, could sing, but didn’t there.

Chip was there, jabbering.  Sometimes, 

were he not, I’d have been drinking alone.

Though people talked with me: Sonny, 

who’s surname I’ve forgotten, Leon Wilson, 

a stud in his black lid, cashmere

blond top coat, pencil mustache, 24,

whereas Sonny, who wore a black leather,

a lid tilted back, a scraggy goatee, was 26.

Velma was 28.  She dated Chuck Jackson

once or twice, she said, The Chuck Jackson

of “Any Day Now.”  He was big.  I saw him 

at the Apollo, down from the Baby Grande.

Gloria Prince, a barmaid, short, chubby

 

looked like the singer Gloria Lynne. Frankie 

Smith, like Sonny, wore a black leather 

cut past the waist. He never wore a lid.

I visited his room, narrow like a closet. I rode

in James’ sedan, with James and Gloria,

their surname Jones, at night on the FDR

above the East River. It was when Viet Nam

was just starting.  It wasn’t Smalls, a fancier 

club, nine blocks up from where we were.

Peter Mladinic’s fourth book of poems, Knives on a Table is available from Better Than Starbucks Publications.

An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

 

that boxcar life by Jason Baldinger

missoula ain't a big place

even during rush hour

if you carry a pizza 

across the city, no one

will notice except the big

white m landscaped

on the mountain 

a chill in the air

stays into may

the road over lolo pass clear

but one step beyond

everything disappears

this winter still untamed 

motel door open 

east broadway 

before tourist season

all evening hush

if I had a pistol 

I may shoot the clock 

the oldest bars in montana

don't have jukeboxes or tvs

the old west nudes

the remington's as rockwell 

slowly dying out

another lie of the true west 

this hobo stacks his pack

against the wall 

pays in change for moose drool

thunders his story

he is north wind along the rails

teeth chattering on the spine

of the canadian rockies

heading for a springtime

in alaska that's forty below 

but he ain't jack black

this ain't you can't win

even if the sentiment is true

no one wants to hear 

that boxcar life

no one wants to hear

hallelujah I'm harry mcclintock 

Jason Baldinger was recently told he looks like a cross between a lumberjack and a genie. He’s also been told he’s not from Pittsburgh, but actually is the physical manifestation of Pittsburgh. Although unsure of either, he does love wandering the country writing poems.  His newest books include: A Threadbare Universe (Kung Fu Treachery Press), The Afterlife is a Hangover (Stubborn Mule Press) and A History of Backroads Misplaced: Selected Poems 2010-2020 (Kung Fu Treachery). He also has a forthcoming book with James Benger called This Still Life. His work has been widely across print journals and online. You can hear him read his work on Bandcamp and on lp’s by The Gotobeds and Theremonster. 

Slip By Wayne F. Burke

A strong wind sweeps up a girl's

skirt;

she has a slip on underneath,

and underneath that,

nothing.

After she goes into the cafe

I wait, outside

for her return

but,

by the time she does

return,

the damn wind has died

down.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in THE DAILY DOPE FIEND). He is author of eight collections of poetry--most recently BLACK SUMMER, Spartan Press, 2021. He lives in Vermont (USA).

Tom’s Tavern on 7 Mile by John Harold Olson

I’d nev­er been so com­fort­ably drunk 

Tom’s old 1 sto­ry house 

With the in­side open-flow past 

Posts hold­ing up the 

Low ceil­ing 

Juke box with James Tay­lor 

And Miles Davis 

Eter­nal­ly 1973 

Chil­dren from the old neigh­bor­hood 

Down from leafy sub­urbs 

Sit­ting In fa­mil­ial groups 

Beer and hu­mid­i­ty 

Ment­hol ci­ga­rets 

A ham­burg­er bas­ket with those sliced pick­les -Years lat­er 

I’m read­ing the De­troit Free Press 

On the Wood­ward LTD 

 Go­ing past 7 Mile in the sleet 

I read of the death of Tom’s 

Peo­ple tore open the build­ing 

With crow­bars and cleaned it out. 

It feels bad 

The death of some­thing good 

Every time.

Retired Las Vegas teacher now a hospice volunteer.

NIGHTS LOST TO FORGETTING by Bradford Middleton

This town can get to you, get under

Your skin like an obsessive hater, and

Leave many memories which you

Wish could have never been created. I

Remember one of those blessed nights

Out when i’d first landed in this asylum

By the sea and i was out drinking in

One of those fabled pubs that used to 

Take up too much of my always

Available time.  We had nothing to 

Do but sit around, waiting it appeared

For death to come or possibly something

A little more fun, and drink, talk and

Watch.  

This night in question we sat outside

A long-lost weirdo institute on the

Paved-over pedestrianised street in

The centre of town and everything

Seemed just about normal, or as close

As it could ever be, until my friend,

Now long-lost to a decade-long period

Of self-isolation, gave me a weird

Curious look.  My eyes followed

His until they rested upon a woman

Who sat, mouth agape at what she

Saw.  A young, foppish rich type,

Probably some kind of student, 

Resplendent in his Saturday night

Finery with his eyes firmly shut and

A face a harsh tint of reds and

Purples.  

A groan is audible as his eyes open, a

Blaze of cocaine induced hysteria

Immediately apparent, and the next

Thing we see is a homeless man, at

Least several decades older, taking

Some money for services clearly just

Received and rendered and I knew

It would take some herculean drinking

To forget all about it but, now, years

Later i still recall it as clear as so

Many other nights lost in this madness.

Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize at the age of nine.  He then gave up writing poems for nearly twenty-five years and it wasn't until he landed in Brighton, knowing no one and having no money, that he began again.  Ten years later and he's been lucky enough to have had a few chapbooks published including a new one from Analog Submission Press entitled 'Flying through this Life like a Bottle Battling Gravity', his debut from Crisis Chronicles Press (Ohio, USA) and his second effort for Holy & Intoxicated Press (Hastings, UK).  He has read around the UK at various bars, venues and festivals and is always keen to get out and read to new crowds.  His poetry has also been or will be published shortly in the Chiron Review, Zygote in my Coffee, Section 8, Razur Cuts, Paper & Ink, Grandma Moses 'Poet to Notice', Empty Mirror, Midnight Lane Gallery, Bareback Lit and is a Contributing Poet over at the wonderful Mad Swirl. If you like what you've read go send a friend request on facebook to bradfordmiddleton1

The Night Before By Colin Deal

Your alarm clock won't do its job

for another twenty-two minutes,

but you are already awake.

You try to pull the sheets over your head

to shield yourself from the bright afternoon sun

shining through the nicotine-stained slats

of your shitty window blinds.

But even that doesn't work.

It’s 2:38

and there is only a vague recollection

of details from last night.

But the details aren’t important;

it will be the same tonight

as it was the night before.

Colin Deal spends his free time exploring the bar culture of cities throughout North America and believes the unique culture of any region in the world can be discovered over a few drinks with the locals. His drunken musings can be found on Twitter @dear_booze

Skanky old blondes by Emalisa Rose

Had it been several years ago

he’d have blasted the loudmouth

in the seat next to me;

the  guy going off on skanky old blondes

and who did him dirty.

But my guy’s been impaired.

Bad back and big bellied,

can’t even pee straight these days.

Instead of a birdflip or jolt to the jaw

of the loudmouth, he looked deep

in his Jack and coke, told me to

“drink up.  I’m buying Blondie.”

I told him “Of course you are.”

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and drawing with charcoals. She walks with a birding group twice monthly through the trails in her state. She volunteers in animal rescue and tends to cat colonies in the neighborhood. Her work has appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review, Mad Swirl, Literary Veganism and other wonderful places. Her latest collection is "On the whims of the crosscurrents," published by Red Wolf Editions.

Another Night by Daniel S. Irwin

Another night of coffin nails

And bottles of sweet liver killer.

That seems the best he can expect

In this world that he figured was

Spawned from the left nut of God.

Wander over to the hotcake hut.

Get that cup of the black stuff

That just gets stared at and

Barely sipped.

Not so much a life gone wrong

As it was an enchanting sad song.

He gets these rhymes runnin’

Rampant through his head.

Looks back on better days,

Days when his hair wasn’t gray.

He knows there’s the Devil to pay.

He jokes at graves and laughs out loud.

He’s the last of his rowdy crowd.

He’s the one cursed with life so long.

It seems a snail’s pace but days go on.

Daniel S. Irwin, native of Southern Illinois (such as it is).  Artist, writer, actor, soldier, scholar, priest among other things.

Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals worldwide.  Has appeared in over one hundred films. 

Speaks fluent gibberish when loaded.  Not much into blowing his own horn as you are only as good as your latest endeavor.

Once turned to religion but Jesus just walked away. 

 

He Loved His Motorcycle By Kevin M. Hibshman

She was fast.

She was fierce.

She gleamed like a wish come true.

He cleaned and polished her.

He revved her engine just to hear her orgasmic sounds drown out the world.

He often got hard while riding her.

Feeling her throb between his legs until he too was throbbing, even leaking a bit.

The ride became a hot tryst they shared like a secret.

One night he had a terrible nightmare.

He had dreamed he walked outside and she was gone.

He woke in a cold sweat and ran down the stairs, out the side door and to his panting 

relief, she was there.

“ No one could ride you like I do, baby,” he whispered hoarsely to her.

He loved his motorcycle perhaps more than anyone or anything else.

He felt she understood him and his need for the wanton pleasure of escape, more and more a luxury in

a callous and cruel world where no one noticed him without her.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.

 In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

His current book Just Another Small Town Story from Whiskey City Press is currently available on Amazon. 

Another Sunny Day by Ian Lewis Copestick

I sit outside

enjoying the

beautiful sunshine,

with my dog, and

a few beers.

Then, I have to

go back inside.

As I wait for some

cannabis to be dropped

off.

I know that it doesn't

help me, in any way,

but sometimes you

need a break from your

usual mind, and manner.

And I really need a break.

A break from reality,

and a break from

myself.

I'm not proud of it,

but at times it has

to be done. 

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 48 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash.

Tomorrow by Jake St. John

Tomorrow 

does not 

kill 

or hurt 

or maim 

or love 

It does not 

drink to forget 

or drink 

to survive 

It does not 

wail at the moon 

with smoke filled tears or curse the sun 

with bleary eyes 

and broken hearts 

Tomorrow 

has yet 

to be born 

and corrupted 

and defeated 

and tortured 

with hours 

Tomorrow 

is still perfect 

and nonexistent. 

Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Ring of Fog (Holy and Intoxicated Publications, 2022), Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of poetry. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world.

poem for candy darling by Paula Hayes

candy

eye to eye

or sweet on 

and off

like a 

sour patch 

bursting in your mouth 

or a 

dandelion 

my lover

blows 

just like his lips were the  

wind 

i was a warhol superstar

once 

andy loved his girls thick

back then 

like me

riding shotgun

next to no one

and everyone 

i will keep flicking 

the cigarette 

push it out a little more 

onto the street 

and the silver ashes

mingle with the red burning glow

while andy keeps

the movie reel 

turning 

till my last light 

goes out 

Paula Hayes is a poet hanging out in Memphis, the same town where the ghost of Elvis roams in the jungle room. Since music imbibes her soul and the blues are sometimes her muse, it seems a natural fit. 

THE HUMBLEST EMPLOYEE AWARD by Clive Aaron Gill

    Every year, at our company’s Christmas party, the owner announces the award for the humblest employee of the year.

    Last year, he chose Janice, a shy fifty-year-old woman who had joined the company eight months prior, to receive the Humblest Employee Award. She wiped a tear from her reddened face and, with a beaming smile, accepted the honor.

    The company owner immediately withdrew the award.

Fifty-five stories by Clive Aaron Gill have appeared in literary journals and in “People of Few Words Anthology.”

He tells his stories at public and private gatherings.

Born in Zimbabwe, Clive has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America and Europe. He received a degree in Economics from the University of California, Los Angeles and lives in San Diego.

Swimming by Susan Isla Tepper

Blood down their faces 

in rivulets recalls: 

swimming in the sea

so cold you felt the skin

almost shriveling 

off your body

There was no fear

just strength and power

Jubilation 

when you emerged

dripping and shivering 

the sea so black and

hungry and thirsty.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Advice is like the worm in a tequila bottle by George Gad Economou

took me a long while, heeding others’ advice for reasons I never

understood—sometimes, it’s to avoid their nagging, 

like I always did with my father. if I didn’t do things his way, 

wrong or right never fucking mattered, he’d nag and bemoan about it for weeks. 

or to avoid disappointing friends or brief relationships; heed their advice in things they supposedly knew more, the areas of their fancied expertise. 

only one thing I discovered; heeding their advice, and failing miserably because (in the brutal honesty that bourbon brings forth) they’re failures, led me into turning into a mean old drunk, ready to clock anyone, ready to murder my 

soul and dreams. 

now, when anyone offers me advice, I nod, smile, 

do shit my way.

if I fail, it’s alright; I’m used to it. 

if I ever succeed, well, I’ll rub it in their dumbfounded faces.

one of the things I wish I could tell my younger self; never listen to anybody.  if you die young, all the fucking better. 

I can’t; I mix bourbon and gin in the dive and the bartender leers at me, the tranquilizer at arm’s reach.

George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and resides in Athens, Greece, doing freelance work whenever he can while searching for a new place to go. His novella, Letters to S., was published in Storylandia Issue 30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines, such as Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine. His first poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds, was published by Adelaide Books in 2021. 

SAN MIGUEL by David Painter

Innocent -eyed, twenty- three, a pocket full of pesos

south of the border calling me

Peeling adobe with faded muraled walls

red brick showing through it all

Shafts of sunlight spread out across the room

illuminating places where danger looms.

A place where wide sombreros

give no traces of friend or foe.

Shifting hues of light never run true

revealing crossed ankles wearing those hooker shoes

her long legs stretching past the room upstairs

the air so hot it would make a pepper despair.

Gun- metal grey smoke curled around

her angelic face filtering through her dark hair

then rising like streams of mist on a

hot summer’s lake.

Half smiles fan the flames

her promise of passion

just one more shot of tequila away

prices made, pesos paid, and so it goes ….

Down San Miguel way.

David Painter is a Northeast Ohio poet and photographer. His aim is to

capture his point of view on the world through nature, culture, architecture and history.Dave’s love for photography began in the 1970s with the purchase of his first Minolta SLR camera. Through his keen eye, Dave became a member of the Cleveland Photographic Society and the Chagrin Valley Photography Guild. For the last decade, Dave has added poetry to his creative repertoire. Expanding his interests to the human condition, fiction and history; his favorite

era being the Civil War. Much of Dave’s poetry is inspired by his photography; the perfect marriage of his two passions.

Dave is a member of many poetry groups including Allegory Alley, ScribblesWriting Organization, Poems and Unpoems, Writers Writing Poems and Out of Your Write Mind. Additionally, he is active in The Pixel Photography Club and the local historical society. Dave was born and raised in Charleston, W.V. but has made the Greater Cleveland area his home for the past fifty years. He is married with two kids.

Instagram:@davepainterphotography

   

I Will Buy You A Wig By John Patrick Robbins

 

And pretend you're somebody new, as I am too narcissistic to make believe about myself.

We can ride around and take in the nonexistent sights.

We can grab a back booth and act like it's something secret on the side.

Screw in the parking lot and pretend it's love like we do in our so-called real life.

And we can discover it's always the same by Sunday. 

No matter our best efforts and sign the papers on a Monday with sympathetic tears and a mutual understanding.

Return to our lives before we met, and pretend we don't miss one another when the nights get cold.

Acting was always meant for the stage or silver screen.

Never the whispers of shared lovers and soon to be broken souls.

You can buy a quick fix, but in life there will never be such a thing as a surefire solution.

John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of the Whiskey and Black Shamrock Magazine.

His work has been published at Sava Press, Fearless Poetry Zine, Piker Press, San Pedro River Review l, Schlock Magazine,Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and the Dope Fiend Daily. He also a book out with Between Shadows Press Rave Reviews To Killer Feedback.

His work is always unfiltered.