A Meaningful Relationship by Colin Deal

Captain and Coke

The recipe is in the name

You may take creative license when choosing the glass

Ice is an unspoken rule

Don’t assume a lime is wanted

The order was not for a cuba libre

This is how we build a meaningful relationship

I request a drink

You make the drink

I give you money

Colin Deal spends his free time exploring the bar culture of cities throughout North America and believes the unique personality 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_bo

The side road of somewhere by Emalisa Rose

They grow here.

The weeds do,

reckless as rain

uncharted, unchained

in the deep anonymity

weaving the window, as I watch

from these hot sheets

by the side road of somewhere

where you slipped me some scotch

and most likely a mickey

to get me to pose

in these late night contortions

where I slid from the grid and the sight

of the husband that feeds me

where like weeds

we grow wild in a poem

unrehearsed in the verse

we dare not to finish.

Sober 16

The branch becomes barren;

the songbird’s flown south.

Overhead hanging,

a half hearted moon, with

the stars in absentia.

And Abigail struggles, on

her sixteenth day sober

watching from window side

sketching herself in the still life

as the nights become longer.

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame. She volunteers in animal rescue and tends to cat colonies. She lives by the beach, which provides much of the inspiration for her art. Her poems have appeared in Writing in a Woman's Voice, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review and other great places. Her latest collection is "This water paint life," published by Origami Poems Project.

Beer Laced with Hallucinogens by Mark James Andrews

10x ODDS ON DICE

up on the marquee

“the D” hotel on Fremont St.

I am not seeking truth here

just wearing my Marvin Gaye

WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER

t shirt to represent my hometown

to hold my own and drink for free 

my mission to camp at penny slots

close to the bar & server parade

just pump the pokies

the fruities & slug slut slots

bad poetry but optimal play 

payback is running on the payline

a world of possibilities maybe

but mainly to park in the path

of the beverage runners

where I tip a sawbuck 

on the important 1st serve

to a half-naked pre-med student

it’s a dirty mixed up world for

working people in this freak show

but now she will come back

every 15 to 30 minutes

& I will go the max 2 drinks 

per person per order every time

as allowed for players in the game

to keep blood alcohol ascending

to shut down the prefrontal cortex

for instant karma & world peace

& I’ll reflect on the Nick Cage movie

from the John O’Brien book

the novelist would suicide 

by gunshot 2 weeks after 

getting word his Leaving Las Vegas 

would make it to film at last

& I’ll find courage in unexpected places 

dodge the fear & loathing gut boiling

as what did Hunter S. Thompson know?

crapping out with his suicide play

his ashes blasted out of a cannon

by Johnny Depp (stunt cost him 3 million)

& Johnny lost in a court room

trying to grow his pirate mustache back

to get back in his game 

& run the table for what? 

so let us build massive ritual sites

like hunters & gatherers 

in pre-history & drink beer 

laced with hallucinogens.

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).

 

CEMETERY OF LONGSHOTS by Michael N. Thompson

The bar I used to sneak in to

back in high school

hasn’t changed much

after twenty years

A few familiar faces

are scattered like leaves

inside the old girl

I appear to be the only one

who made it out of a town

more passive aggressive

than a stubborn mother-in-law

Chuck Meredith waves me over to his table

and the odds of him not being belligerent

are about as likely as fresh air

inside a euthanasia box 

He was the star quarterback

everyone thought would make it big

but he blew out his knee

during his freshman year 

at an out of state college

Bitching about the government,

Chuck proudly declares

he’s installed a dozen cameras

for when they come for his guns

but nobody’s at the door

Cadillac dreams are futile

when all you have 

is a beat-up Buick

and hope never floats

in a leaky boat

Michael N. Thompson likes bacon, cats and fantasy football.  His poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals including Word Riot, Toronto Quarterly and San Pedro River Review. He is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being A Murder Of Crows published by University of Hell Press. www.michaelnthompson.com

Southern Latitudes by Jake St. John

for John Greiner

I'm sitting here 

in the afternoon sun 

reading the Good Doctor

as he attempts

to flee Las Vegas 

my mind 

begins to shift 

and alter

as I recall the night 

I met the Baron 

in a Peruvian 

prison cell 

and how 

we were able 

to produce 

the right paperwork 

thanks to a 

well timed phonecall 

from our friend 

at the embassy

we were able 

to cross the border 

by midnight 

just as

the hangman 

untied his rope 

in despair

we limped 

through the beaten doors

of a hill side cantina

and enjoyed a bottle.

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

Mason the Dwarf by Brenton Booth

When Bill drank soda
for the first time at the
bar and told me he had
found God, Mason the
dwarf rushed across
the room to us. "The
Devil made me!" he
yelled at Bill finishing
his full glass of vodka
with a single angry gulp.
Mason was a regular.
Always sat alone, 
drinking vodka. Waiting 
at the door every morning
when we opened. Moving
his tiny legs as fast as he
could to get to the bar
and order his first drink.
He never spoke. Just 
drank. Sitting in the same
spot at the end of the bar.
At closing time every 
night I'd have to carry 
him out, leaving him on
the bench outside. "Will
you be OK here Mason?"
I'd say. "GET THE HELL
AWAY FROM ME!" he'd
scream. He constantly 
played the same song on
the jukebox, Mariah
Carey's "All I Want for
Christmas is You." When
he got really drunk, he'd
play it again and again.
Tapping along with his 
tiny hands and feet: until
everyone but him was 
sick of hearing it. 

Brenton Booth Lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Chiron Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Van Gogh's Ear, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. brentonbooth.weebly.com

PITTSBURGH POEM by Dan O’Connell

  Benigno Numine (official motto of The City of Pittsburgh)

For some reason my girlfriend’s writers conference

is in pittsburgh this year, so, with google map result 

for bars of pittsburgh printed out, I walk

trying to get a feel for this erstwhile iron town

on my first of five hotel days’ free

beginning downtown at The Yard, a brick-walled

‘burgher’ and sports bar of no interest. I have 2 pints

and cross the fort pitt bridge and prized confluence

to scour the southside’s famous strip of saloons

on carson street named for an inurned environmentalist, 

but am disappointed with Urban Tap’s weak well drinks and  

clientele of mere kids dressed like kindergarteners, 

and Jack’s, Foxtail and The Flats because they’re not open yet

though its already noon

Soon discovery a dr. mcgillicuddy’s chalk sign

outside an unnamed establishment and find,

after my eyes adjust to the dark, empty red leather booths

with black ashtrays sliced for smokes – you know the kind – 

and a jukebox next to a cigarette machine like a time-warp 

and a bar as long as I’ve ever seen, two veteran drunks 

discussing american presidents from johnson on:

“asshole”     “yup”

“asshole”    “indeed”

“asshole”    “yes sir”

“asshole”    “that’s right”

“asshole”    “big one”

“asshole”    “CIA asshole”

“asshole”    “a-hole”

“asshole”    “asshole sonny boy”

“asshole”    “asshole got no color”

“asshole”    “traitor asshole”

“asshole”    “stinky old asshole”

I have 3 sutter chardonnays and take the bartender’s directions

to the blue bridge, make a left at the county jail,

stay on the boulevard of allies which will lead to The Eagle,

a fried chicken place with local brews I should try

Sounds easy, but after turning at the landmark (newly released inmate

asleep on the lawn) I get lost navigating detours around

the destruction site of a defunct shopping mall, wind up traversing  

andy warhol bridge, take in the revitalized allegany river

once clogged with coal boats, drop a hundred bucks 

for steak-on-a-stone and 4 penn hazy’s at Northshore Tavern

in the five o’clock shadow of heinz stadium

then, staggering now, make my way over saint roberto clemente bridge

back toward downtown and destination Rebel Bar

where along the way I trip on one of pittsburgh’s high curbs, 

scrape my palms bloody on broken glass, getting a feel for the city

Dan O’Connell is a four-time award winning poet, and multiple finalist and honorable mention. His poems have appeared over eighty times, including in Mississippi Review and Ghost Town Literary Magazine. A former Philosophy professor, Dan is an eviction defense attorney. He is the author of two full-length collections of poetry, Different Coasts, and Theory of Salvation, and the chapbook State of the Union. Find Dan O. at danoconnellpoetry.com

Nightfall by Taylor Dibbert

Don’t,

Make,

Him,

A,

Drink,

Pass,

Him,

The,

Bottle,

The,

Night,

Is,

Coming,

For,

Him,

And,

Everyone.

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.

Cribbage by Keith Pearson

The lights went out about nine so they lit two ancient hurricane lamps and played cribbage by the flickering light, a penny a point and double for skunks. Howard broke out a jar of his orchard cider and they drank as they played and the storm raged outside, lightning across the black sky, water churning against the dock. Tom let the old man cheat yet still had him, up thirteen cents and pegging, when one of the lamps ran dry and went dark, leaving barely enough light to see the board. Howard grinned and said Be easier to whip ya in the dark but when he reached for his peg the other lamp blew out and now there was only a faint dancing glimmer from a candle on the kitchen counter. Tom watched the old man hold his hand over the board, watched the subtle shake there. Then Howard pulled his hands into his lap and slumped back into his old leather chair. Tom watched his chest rise and fall though he could not hear his breathing over the storm outside. Then Howard took a deep breath and leaned forward and held his grizzled face in his weathered hands and began to talk.

I might a told ya this cribbage board come from my old man, that it was somethin he carved down east before he come here in the thirties. if I told you that it was a lie. Never told anyone and only Bert Neely knew how  it come to me and that only cause he was there and knew the fella I got it from and how I come to have it, and I’m thinkin the story died with him when he passed last spring. Some day I hope it’ll be yours, and you need to know where it come from, the truth, not some story I made up. This was in Korea in 1953 near the end of that war and I remember thinkin bout nuthin but livin to get home to my mother and bein more scared every day that last bullet would find me, and if Bert was here he’d tell you he felt the same way, cause its all we ever talked about as a way to keep sane, jokin how it’d be just our luck to get shot in the back on our way out. well, we were assigned to help a bunch of Canadian soldiers, young kids the U.N. thought should be there, and they were more scared than us. Bert and I were barely in twenty and they thought we were old timers, hard as nails vets. Couldn’t a been anything further from the truth, but these kids from Canada didn’t know that, and didn’t need to know it either. They’d a followed Bert and I into hell, and one night they did. We got orders to support a mission to secure another hill near Old Baldy that we’d been up n down a hundred times, and I still couldn’t tell you why, but one more time we geared up and set out, a March night cold as that water out there, snow in the air, ground half frozen, half mud. We were supposed ta be rear support but the Commies had circled behind us and cut us off. They could walk across that frozen ground without a peep while ya could hear our fat feet crunchin in them old boots a mile away.  Then a flare go up, and the shit let loose from there. Those Canadian boys never knew what hit em, frozen out there in that flare light, and we tellin em to take cover and they just stood frozen and the Commies cut em down like reeds under a scythe. Bert and I were in the trees by then and we dragged in the kids we could, but most of em were dead fore they hit the snow and those still breathin were chopped up good. Then as quick as they come those fellas slipped away into the night and we were there pissin ourselves and nuthin but dead and dyin Canadian boys. There was this young fella smooth faced as a kid and we’d pulled him into the trees but he was shot in the chest and the gut and bleedin out quick.This kid grabs my sleeve and pulls his kit across his body, his chest all torn up, and pushed the kit into my hands and then he died. I had lost my gloves in the excitement and my fingers were so cold I couldn’t feel shit but I tucked that bag into my pack, and don’t ya now when we got back and thawed out and stopped shakin I opened that kit and inside was this cribbage board. It was a long time after I come home I could look at it, then one day when Bert was over I brought it out and we played a game or two in that kid’s honor, and after that played most every Saturday night  that way and never mentionin where it come from for almost sixty years. But I know every time Bert looked at that board he saw that kid all shot up and dyin, and how we were the lucky bastards and didn’t have no more right to be than them Canadians, but somehow we did, and remembered that luck and good grace every Saturday night, and a few nights in between. I never thought I’d tell anyone, not even Martha, bless her I told her enough we ain’t spoken of since, but you got a right to know.  Some day I’ll be gone and you’ll be layin out this cribbage board with a drink or two and playin with your kids or a buddy, I want you to raise that glass to me and ta Bert and to that Canadian kid I never knew cept his initials same as my father’s carved into the backside a that board. 

And that was when the power licked back on. We put away our glasses and the hurricane lamps and blew out the candle in the kitchen and Howard put up the board. He went off to bed and I sat the rest of the night listening to the water slapping the dock and when the storm finally moved out I watched the moon in the clearing sky and the dawn creep into the new day and heard Howard snoring in the back bedroom, and thought how blessed I was. I don’t need to tell you Howard died some months later and I never saw that cribbage board again, have no idea what became of it, and never had the courage to ask Martha about it. But now you know, even if this isn’t that board, and I think it’s your turn. Hold on. Let me get us another drink before we play.

 Keith Pearson

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

The Process of Moving By Cord Moreski

It’s as if the universe 

needs to sacrifice something  

during the process of moving  

in order to transition 

and to begin new again

 

it could be as little 

as a few coffee mugs breaking

or a vinyl record

cracking at the bottom 

of a cardboard box

 

or it could be as big 

as a diamond ring 

washing down 

a sink drain

or a family heirloom 

shattering by the side 

of a U-Haul.

 

This evening 

it’s just the pieces 

of this moment 

 

this final glance 

at the sunset splashing 

into my bare living room

 

before I finally trudge  

to the front door 

with the last box

in my hands 

 

then back out 

into the world

to begin new again.

 

 

Cord Moreski is a poet from the Jersey Shore. Moreski is the author of Confined Spaces(Two Key Customs, 2022), The News Around Town (Maverick Duck Press, 2020), and Shaking Hands with Time (Indigent Press, 2018). When he is not writing, Cord waits tables for a living and teaches middle school children that poetry is awesome. His next chapbook Apartment Poems will be released by Between Shadows Press in September 2022. You can follow Cord here: www.cordmoreski.com

That Time I Took Off the Rose-Colored Glasses By Skaja Evens

You told me that you fall in love 

With anyone who shows you kindness

I did

Yet you didn’t fall in love with me

I wondered why, for awhile

And now, some time later

I can say I am glad you didn’t

Whether you realized I deserved better than you could offer, I can’t say

But I am glad I didn’t become enmeshed

We’d never be good together as a couple

We barely were as lovers

Though you did remind me that I can’t settle

For half-assed groping 

And half-realized orgasms

My apologies for sounding harsh

Though I’m not really sorry

I didn’t sign up to watch your

self-destruction

Skaja Evens is a writer and artist living in Southeast Virginia. She runs It Takes All Kinds, a litzine published by Mōtus Audāx Press. She’s also been published with Spillwords Press and The Dope Fiend Daily. She can often be found listening to music, considering the impossible, and enjoying her cats’ antics.

John L Bar By John Harold Olson

My Dad used to hangout in

this place that scared me when 

I was a kid looking for him.

Here I was,

Looking again, not for

continuity or connection,

no, just looking for that Maxfield Parrish

river of beer on a rainy afternoon.

The shuffleboard table

was free,

free because no one 

could face those chrome

pucks and that slippery deck.

A deck so long it wasn’t worth it.

Flossy, still behind the bar,

Flossy who used to tell my

Dad to go home,

Flossy made the connection.

It was written on her face,

another son following the path.

Flossy had seen it a thousand times.

It’s business.

“Can I get a hamburger 

and another Liney?”

“Sure, Doll,” Flossy said.

Retired Las Vegas teacher now a hospice volunteer.

ABSTRACTIONS by Susan Isla Tepper

for Simon Perchik (1923 – 2022)

While you lay dying

my left ear bled

abstractions 

streaking the pillow    

— you’d unearth a poem

were you able

Day after I woke to 

red filling the right eye

Both sloshed its river.

But when the limb 

entwined  

crashed down 

what was left to feed the other.

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.

Saint Elmo's Fire By C.S. Mathews

There are stories of fires
that dance across the bows of ships
in tempestuous storms
casting ghost light on the damned
as men frantically fight to right a sinking vessel
to survive

Saint Elmo’s fire

is also the name of a song
that plays in victory
though so many ships failed
crews died
beneath these ghost lights

am I alive

when, in early light,
I see spectral orbs dance about me

is it in my eyes

the halo that forms around me
perhaps a distortion of the very air

and in closing my eyes
I see it imprinted there
on the inside on my lids

pulsing

rhythmic in its absolution.
and I often wonder if I can hear it
a soft hum of particles excited into motion
or if I'm merely breathing
I often can't tell If I breathe
if air exists

is it all just in my mind

if I still myself long enough
resist the urge to inhale
the ghost lights appear
growing strong with every second
until my vision is filled with light
and darkness
it's beautiful

are there realities beyond this

were the spectral flames but guides
that called sailors into night
bright with stars
as water replaces air
if air was ever there
until they saw true beauty

why won't my body let me go there

Do I need a flaming guide
to reach the other side?
would drowning do?

there has to be something better than this

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.