Gentlemen’s Discourse by Daniel S. Irwin

In your own words,

“Don’t worry about it.”

In my own words,

“Go fuck yourself”.

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. 

for my birthday this year by Scott Ferry

i am asking god for synethsetic chapstick

that brings my power pajamas back

i am asking for blindness for a small

dribble of batmilk from under the warm wing

i am planning to leave a carful of dyslexic

porn at the vegan morgue

i will pray that my knees do not colonize

streptococci as i whip kick

give me a fishing license and a wallet of

tar

i am asking that my outbursts be forgiven

these rorschach glasses are spilling the Fs

i really am trying to pet everyone softly

to tease out the tangles in my chestpelt

sing to me a slow awkward waltz

under these starthorns and bullets

take away all the pimples that i ever had

in a flash of cymbals

make the world fair for one tilted second

before i try and haggle back my soul

from the gaunt moneyclown in the eel-den

give me back my body

 and paint blueblood on my sarcophagus

i will rise from this my pretty bald birds

my name has been misunderstood

all of these years

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.

Wednesday Night By Tohm Bakelas

I caught a buzz—first one  

in a long time. It felt pretty  

good, but then I remembered 

I had all these things called 

responsibilities; namely: my 

kids and the cat. Figuring 

the cat could fend for herself, 

it was just down to my offspring. 

Seven o’clock rolled around and 

I sounded the alarm: “bedtime!” 

Tiny feet stampeded upstairs  

while I finished making lunches 

and grabbed another can from  

the fridge. After the nighttime  

ritual was complete, I picked  

a book off the top shelf. “Well”  

I said “this is probably the first  

time in America anyone’s ever  

read Bukowski to their kids.” 

They both laughed but didn’t  

get the joke, and so I read on  

until they were asleep. After 

that I went back downstairs  

for another can. It was 8:41pm,  

the house was very very quiet. 

Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He has published 18 chapbooks and 2 collections of poetry. His forthcoming collection “The Ants Crawl In Circles” will be published by Whiskey City Press in Summer 2022. He runs Between Shadows Press.  

https://tohmbakelaspoetry.wordpress.com

Instagram: @flexyourhead

Desert Lover by Leah Mueller

Walking through 
the alleys of old Bisbee, 
I thought I saw
the ghost of an ex-junkie

who captured my attention

in these same streets, 

twenty-three years ago. 

A face like Richard Gere’s—

eyes always wandering

inward, as if bored.

Cheap desert boots caked 

with layers of dust, 

probably given to him

by an ex-girlfriend. 

Always, his shrill fixation

on his one great achievement:

a novel picked up by a

major publisher, then

out of print five years later,

with no further plans

for distribution.

His inability to stay in bed

for more than an hour

after sex. And, most of all,

his uncanny communication

with extraterrestrials,

who somehow couldn’t 

keep their hands 

off his genitals.

Who could blame them?

Neither could I.

Leah Mueller is the author of ten prose and poetry books. Her work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. It has also been featured in trees, shop windows in Scotland, poetry subscription boxes, and literary dispensers throughout the world. Her flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" will appear in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press' "Best Small Fictions" anthology. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.

This Guy I Saw Sitting in a Car By Holly Day

He was parked in the lot at Thrifty’s Drug buck naked save for

A big white cowboy hat and a pair of dark sunglasses he was

Holding onto his erect penis and grinning proudly and happily like his penis

Was a prize he had won as a bowling trophy or at a carnival ring-toss

Or like it was something a teacher had given him for being

A real good boy in school instead of a gold star or one of those

Phony certificates of accomplishments that can be traded in 

For a cheeseburger at McDonald’s with the purchase of a 

Large drink.

Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, The Hong Kong Review, and Appalachian Journal, and her recent book publications include Music Composition for Dummies, The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body, and Bound in Ice. She teaches creative writing at The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis and Hugo House in Seattle.

a difference of priorities by Keith Pearson

on a lark 

he looks out 

one day

and discovers

there are no clocks 

anywhere.

she is down on

her knees praying

at the toilet bowl.

she is begging him

to call down lightning

or at least fetch her up

a clean towel.

he is more interested

in where all

the clocks have gone

and cannot see

that her hair is 

on fire.

 Keith Pearson

I live in southern New Hampshire and works with special ed students at a local high school.

Conversation In A Hotel Bar by Robert Halleck

Let me say I know nothing about how

affairs start though I often wonder

about this conversation that today

reappeared from the abyss of my memory. 

The lounge  was dark, the marble bar

cold to the touch. The bartender 

sipped water as he remained aloof 

to the conversations around him.

Cigarette smoke from the woman next

to me drifted toward her companion.

She faced away from me as she listened

to him speak of the meeting they’d left.

I’m sorry the meeting took so long.

Why aren’t you drinking, she asked.

Coke just seemed to be better tonight.

I hope my having a martini is okay with you.

It’s fine. Most nights I’d join you.

Her hair was a little windblown but everything

about her was close to perfect. She continued,

What do you do when you aren’t doing this?

I go home. Looks like I’ll be late tonight. 

You make me curious, you really do.

Why?

Because I can’t see you doing anything other

than what we have done all day.

.

Well, now that you mention it, I’ve been thinking

the same thing about you

Her face was now reflected in the bar’s mirror.

She was smiling as she spoke,

Do you ever ask if it’s worth it?

Oh yeah. Don’t we all?

 Her smile broadened as she continued,

I really am curious about you.

Her companion asked the bartender for a Manhattan

straight up before he responded,

I’m not that interesting.

Oh, I think you are. I’d like to find out how you became

what you are.

It wouldn’t be worth it. I’ve been this way for years.

Oh, no. No one ever is.

Okay, tell me how you used to be.

Nicer. Her smiled faded. Quite a bit nicer. Now

I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. We should

have a talk some afternoon, maybe here. Get tight

and talk until we find out about each other.

After a few minutes, I left him staring at his

untouched drink perhaps thinking about

climbing the wall into the forbidden garden?

Robert Halleck is a hospice volunteer, rescuer of racing greyhounds, and autocross racer of an aging Porsche  He has authored three books of poetry and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His work has appeared in such places as the Paterson Literary Review, Waxing and Waning, and The North Dakota Quarterly.. He is a member of San Diego';s Not Dead Yet Poets

Nobody is Legit by Mark James Andrews

I down shift my Dodge to help out 

the brakes & it almost worked 

but my grinding bomb plows 

another beater stopped at the red 

on 8 Mile Road at Mound Road 

a minor cave-in but the trunk pops open

on the crap looking Ford I rear ended 

showing shiny black garbage bags 

so I struggle to get mine into reverse

the clutch another source of grinding

as my grill avalanches to the pavement

then I pull off to the right but a huge

hand out the window waves me

forward so I pull up close 

all windows down in both our cars

two guys looking to read my eyes

one goes “You good?” & I nod 

“Fuck it then!” he screams 

& they peel off with lights out.

We all know nobody is legit 

no proof of no-fault insurance 

possible outstanding warrants

or felonies in progress

in the wee small hours

on the borderline crossroads

past the Railroad Crossing Bar

just down from Kwicky Bar 

Alibi Bar & the Golden Greek 

all the hang out joints for a hive 

of Chrysler plants & a hot spot 

for traffic stops which lead to 

1,001 ways to send you to hell

& a lifetime of the long dick of the law. 

Mark James Andrews is a Metro Detroit poet who has worked a checkered career as a gravedigger, inspector at a defunct auto plant, jail librarian and library director. He is the author of So I Lit A Fire for The Last Thanksgiving (Alien Buddha Press), Motor City is Burning & Other Rock & Roll Poems (Gimmick Press), Compendium 20/20 (Deadly Chaps Press), Burning Trash (Pudding House Press) and a poetry recording Brylcreem Sandwich Band (Bandcamp).

 

3 AM By C.S. Mathews

Its three AM

And the light is green 

Splitting 

Casting shadows 

as in the distance birds sing

like echo’s 

a broken egg on my porch

blue

the light of feathers split in two

I'm awake 

Laying on sheet 

Red

Satin spread over empty bed

Not dreaming 

Aimlessly teaming

In a room relentlessly clean

Not enough 

And your there 

In my periphery 

A visage in stark relief 

Out of reach

I taste it 

The kiss that was awaited

20 years of impatience 

Stolen between breaths baited

And it tastes of skin

The clock is ticking

Slowly drifting

Sand shifting 

Day yet to begin

I'm turning 

For warmth, yearning

A reptile in need of skin

Not shedding 

Basking 

In the humid air

Thinking of water pouring

Storming

But the levy is dry

Hinting

Everything is drenching 

But the sky is unlit

No sun or lightning

Uncut

Like the film in my freezer 

Undeveloped in its casing 

Hiding

From a lack of lighting 

Fighting 

To find meaning in an image

Hidden 

Unknown till swallowed

By pools of quick silver 

Hollow 

Like a basement

Flooded 

over running 

though the rain is never coming

Just green shadows

Casting

From a lamp masking

Every inch of me in passing

At 3:38

Wasting precious breath pacing

My brain not quite racing

Just turning

An ellipsis burrowing 

Avoiding the taste of you

Dancing 

On the edge of understanding

Skin not quite clammy 

Just heavy

Like fresh formed dew

Suspended in motion 

Clinging 

Blade of grass leaning

Until the sky opens 

Flooding the roads and,

My basement sits dry

It's 3:44 

And not a second has passed by

C.S. Mathews is the coauthor of Fearful Architecture and an editor for The Grindstone Magazine and Wheel Works Publishing. Having cut her teeth as an independent journalist and medic during the 2020 protests, their work focuses heavily on activism, their indigenaity, truama, and her experiences being transgender.

Dead End Home on a Dead End Road By Chris Butler

Life goes on,

on and infinitely on,

with or without you

indefinitely,

even if you try

to stay behind

far and wide,

whether or not

the weather is

too soon to bloom

unpollinated spores

on the strategic

trajectory of tragedy,

when the thirst of 

sunshine

burns worse than

moonshine. 

Anti-Chris Butler is an illiterate poet. His last chapbook, DOOMER, is available through Ethel. He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal. 

PORT DRINKER by Giulio Magrini

He wakes

In a shabby brown coat

Urinates

And vomits something brown

He won’t know 

Where he is

Until half a bottle

After that

There’s no stopping him

And the image of his before

Smiles approvingly and muffled

Anesthetized in his misery 

Now bliss

To the symmetry of his end

'

Giulio Magrini started writing poetry in the early 1970’s, and takes most of his inspiration from the darker sides of human nature. He is currently working on his first book of poetry The Color of Dirt, due to be released later in the year from Word Association Press. Magrini has always preferred the performance of his work over publishing, until now.

WD40 blues by John Grochalski

the head priest

of our church

rode around our suburb

in a big ol’ cadillac

my old man sprayed

WD40 on his spark plugs

to try and get our car to work

every sunday

we went to church

and put an envelope full of money

in the collection basket

every sunday

the head priest’s newly waxed cadillac

was parked in the church lot

for all the parishioners to see

we kept the WD40

in the backseat of the car

for easy access

the head priest

changed cadillacs

every twelve to sixteen months

silver one year

gold the next

he rode them around the suburb

with jesus as his co-pilot

honking and waving to anyone he recognized

we kept our car running for a decade

on WD40 and pure luck

if we broke down

no one pulled over to give us a hand

not even christ himself

the head priest’s homilies

were about modesty

kindness

generosity

loving the sick and the poor

and living a simple life

then he went about preparing

the host

pushing his big gold watch back on his wrist

if it happened to get in the way

while the collection basket

passed around the church

for all of the parishioners to fill

with bulky white envelopes

that smelled of WD40 or car grease

and coins that glittered off the church lights

as bright and shiny

as we hoped and prayed

the head priest’s next

brand-new cadillac

would glow

off the light

of a paper moon.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Lives of Poetry & Regret by Karen A VandenBos

The smell of smoke mixes with the

sticky residue of food and piss on

the floors and the scent of the

downtrodden is braided with heartache

to make a cocktail not listed on

the menu.

Vacant eyes search the room, unfocused,

looking for ghosts as they linger here

like the smoke from an extinguished

match.

Their lips are bold with thirst,

their hearts aching with the need

to be loved.

Empty promises are written on

the edges of the left behind wet napkins

underneath empty glasses of sorrow.

This is their place of worship, the

place where they tithe. The place

where they come to take communion

and lead their lives of poetry and

regret.

Once upon a time, Karen A VandenBos was born on a warm July morn in Kalamazoo, MI. Her youth was nourished by books and writing. When adulthood opened the door, she was detoured to working in health care for 30+ years and obtained her PhD in Holistic Health. She tumbled into the realm of retirement landing on her feet and was reunited with her creative spark. She can now be found contributing to two online writing groups where she unleashes her imagination and trusts her pen to take her where she needs to go. Her writing has been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Verse-Virtual online and some of her photographs have been published in Blue Heron Review.

The Good Half By Rocío Iglesias

When you said you only wanted half of me,

did you mean the top or the bottom half?

Maybe you meant the outside half and not the inside half

Not the half that dives into the ocean but continually emerges the same person,

A salt-covered osprey shaking off the sand,

Looking you in the eye and asking you where you’ve been

Not the half that learned to fight like my mother with words that shoot to kill

No, you wanted the kill

The deer

The fawn falling softly on the mossy ground

Not the hoofs thrashing though the duff, stopping abruptly with her head raised sniffing the air

You wanted the half that flies, not the half that escapes

Rocío Iglesias is a queer Cuban-American poet. Her work has appeared in various print and electronic publications and can most recently be found in Firmament Magazine and Brave Voices Magazine. She lives, breathes, and works in Minneapolis, MN.

Saved by Sam McGee by Mary “Ray” Goehring

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

at first it was a joke

reading The Cremation of Sam McGee

to my college roommate

the speech class assignment 

to recite a memorized poem

making me shudder—

memories of snickering classmates 

my laughing jag while giving a speech 

teasing siblings waiting to pounce—

but my roommate saw its potential.

So, in the evenings 

we hitched to the off-campus bar

with copies of the poem,

drank 25 cent beers

and saw who could remember more passages.

There are strange things done

in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold

we proclaimed as we lifted each new tap

And on our chilly walk back to the dorm

sang to the lightless houses 

the Arctic trail has its secret tales

that would make your blood run cold

In the hall and up the stairs to our rooms

we confessed and

hurried, horror driven-- 

with a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid

because of a promise given

It took about a week

for both of us to memorize it

and I, in my speech class, 

performed without a glitch.

Now, 50 years later,

there aren’t many things 

I can recite from memory

But somehow 

etched into parts of my primitive brain

I still can recall  

That night on the marge of Lake Labarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Mary Ray Goehring was born and raised in Wisconsin where as a child she spent afternoons with her dad at Shannon's Tavern drinking cokes and listening to the jukebox.  On special occasions, eating at one of the local Supper Clubs--essentially a pub that serves food to folks of all ages.  A retired Landscape Designer she now migrates between her central Wisconsin prairie home and the pine forests of East Texas.  A member of both the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets and The Poetry Society of Texas she has been published in a variety of online and print journals and anthologies among them are the recently released James Crews Anthology, The Path to Kindness: Poems of Connection and Joy, Steam Ticket Review, The Blue Heron Review, Bramble, Your Daily Poem and Texas Poetry Calendar.