Tuesday, May 31, 2022

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.


Monday, May 30, 2022

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


Sunday, May 29, 2022

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. 

Saturday, May 28, 2022

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.




Friday, May 27, 2022

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.




Thursday, May 26, 2022

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.


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.

Tuesday, May 24, 2022

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.

 





Monday, May 23, 2022

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. 


Sunday, May 22, 2022

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).

Saturday, May 21, 2022

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.

Thursday, May 19, 2022

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





Wednesday, May 18, 2022

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

Tuesday, May 17, 2022

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.


Monday, May 16, 2022

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. 

 


Saturday, May 14, 2022

 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. 




Friday, May 13, 2022

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.

Thursday, May 12, 2022

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.


Wednesday, May 11, 2022

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. 



Tuesday, May 10, 2022

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.


Monday, May 9, 2022

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.


Saturday, May 7, 2022

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. 



Friday, May 6, 2022

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
   

Thursday, May 5, 2022

 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.

A Tenement on Jones Street by David Painter

A string of clear rope lights hang overhead. “Those are stars,” she said. “We can’t see the real ones from here so these will have to do.” ...