We're the Ezine dedicated to all things barroom. We are slightly off what others consider the norm and always the last to close the bar. If you prefer the local dive bar to the glitz of some overpriced club then you're our kind of people. So welcome grab a drink and enjoy.
Monday, October 31, 2022
A Crow, a Stag and a Biscuit by Jason Ryberg
Sunday, October 30, 2022
Company by Susan Isla Tepper
Saturday, October 29, 2022
Ale by Wayne F. Burke
Friday, October 28, 2022
Fumes by Timothy Resau
Thursday, October 27, 2022
Reasons for Silence by Mike James
Wednesday, October 26, 2022
Gratitude By Karen Warinsky
lives were led,
you stayed in town
I moved away
and my last memory of you is
a spring break visit to your apartment.
You had the second baby,
the toddler ran about
and you were busy and attentive to those little ones,
but the place was dark and small and all the light
and all the happy laughter was also
and I remember feeling grateful
as I drove away in my mother’s car.
Karen Warinsky has published in various anthologies and literary magazines including the 2019 Mizmor Anthology. She is the author of Gold in Autumn (2020), Sunrise Ruby (2022), and is a previous finalist in the Montreal International Poetry Contest. She loves to kayak and organize poetry readings.
Tuesday, October 25, 2022
every autumn by Scott Ferry
but ironically the place inside is also
where light and song weakly
and i lift up another face
the pointed ends of nails
strange fish dangling
Monday, October 24, 2022
Persephone by Tanya Rakh
Sunday, October 23, 2022
Emotional Labor by Lauren Scharhag
Saturday, October 22, 2022
Success Doesn't Grow On Trees By Jake St. John
Friday, October 21, 2022
Land of Tiny Gods by John Drudge
Thursday, October 20, 2022
High Among the Sad Stars by Troy Schoultz
It’s 2:45 in the morning. I’m sitting at the kitchen table
In the dark. A handful of years ago I would be drinking
Whatever bottles I remembered that I had hidden from myself,
Staring out the dark window, hoping to spot a meteor, gaining insight
As alcohol seeped my blood like sweet lava.
These days I’m awake because its simply hard to sleep
And my head doesn’t require liquid prodding.
Some say it’s a bad thing to think too much,
But at this hour how can one not?
Gravity and age bids this house to talk to itself
As hushed slide of traffic eases onto the interstate.
It’s weird and difficult being aware you’re alive,
Expressionless face in the bathroom mirror, trying to catch a glimpse
Of traces of a soul in your own eyes, aware that this will all end
Eventually. It reminds me of something
My friend Pete said.
Four men walk into a tavern, two saviors exit.
He tends to blurt out these non-sequiturs,
And they always seem genius.
I hope I die before him.
How dull it would be without someone to say such things
With or without an insomniac night to consider them,
Nothing moving high amongst the sad stars
Except that painful construct we call time.
Wednesday, October 19, 2022
Scotch And Soda by John Harold Olson
Tuesday, October 18, 2022
GRABBED BY THE THROAT EARLY IN THE A.M. by Bradford Middleton
Monday, October 17, 2022
Something Light by Daniel S. Irwin
Sunday, October 16, 2022
Clip-on Tie in a Gutter by Ken Gosse
Saturday, October 15, 2022
The day I met Bukowski at the no name bar by Peter A. Witt
Friday, October 14, 2022
I Was Depressed Before it Was Cool by Chad Parenteau
Wednesday, October 12, 2022
Ode to Chili Cheese Fries by Jason Ryberg
There is no shame in giving in, sometimes,
and just surrendering to the tractor-beam-
like pull of the local pool hall,
with its jukebox and air-conditioning
and afternoon cast of characters,
all bellied-up and big belt buckled to the bar
and each holding court, equally,
its ice-packed buckets of Stag Beer, on sale,
and a round of whiskey shots bought
by some old boy who just won his
first game of Keno, ever (and you’d
think was gonna buy back the family farm
from the bank that very day),
but, most importantly,
what might very well be the best
chili cheese fries you’ve had since forever.
But who’s got the damn
Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,
notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be
(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors.
He is currently an artist-in-residence at both
The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s
and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor
and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection
of poems is The Great American Pyramid Scheme
(co-authored with W.E. Leathem, Tim Tarkelly and
Mack Thorn, OAC Books, 2022). He lives part-time
in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red
and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere
in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also
many strange and wonderful woodland critters.
Tuesday, October 11, 2022
fuck the moon By Mike Zone
got a man
at the local watering hole
from the jar
pay no mind
in the next room
they’ll find my body
I’ll always love my blueberry fantasy goddess-queen
Monday, October 10, 2022
Locking Up by Susan Isla Tepper
Sunday, October 9, 2022
DRINKING WITH POETS by M.J. Arcangelini
You Can Run By Alec Solomita
The blues quotes Joe Louis as I take a hit of weed. The blues says to me, “You can run but you can’t hide.” Been running pretty well until t...
She was a secret sharer of intimate joys Was the mistress to one man and the wife of another Loved that sick feeling that one ...
Outdoorsman standing beside a mountain stream cracks open a can of BUSCHHHHH . . . Catchy marketing campaign, an attempt to revitalize th...
That night, a broken axle, sticks inside me, sweet burnt odor of bourbon & Marlboros. Drunk on Wild Turkey, Mama cussed Daddy out, my si...