A Crow, a Stag and a Biscuit by Jason Ryberg

A 

shot

of Crow

and a pull

of Stag after a

long day of hot coffee, hot wind

and nothing but a cold biscuit to act as ballast

is about as close to a supernatural /

     quasi-religious experience

as I generally get these days, and I’m grateful

for it and all, but sometimes I

have to wonder if

my standards

might not

have

dropped

some

in

the last

couple years.

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

Company by Susan Isla Tepper

They tunneled forth

by the hundreds, single file

it’s presumed— based on 

injuries noted and

judged to be damage 

to the skeletal matter. 

Some were domestic animals, 

small pets.  I was ordered 

to seal one off

in a plastic bag in the kitchen.

The counter was loaded with

glossy high-end appliances,

a cappuccino machine stamped

with an expensive Italian label

large and in silver.  

The animal was tiny, black and white.

Scruffy.  Determined.  

After I got it in the bag,

and not without a struggle,

I wandered off to arrange

the dining room for company.

About to slide the last chair

in place at the over-scale 

Victorian table— laden with

sparkling glasses 

for the many wines served, 

company arrived.  Just two.

Man and wife.  Presumed.

Leather bags and monogramed 

suitcases dumped 

in the sprawling foyer;

unceremoniously; 

crushed up against 

a glass fronted armoire

of some historic vintage.

Had it become scratched?

I bent to see but

couldn’t determine damage.

The animal

wiggling and jiggling

managed to escape the white bag.

Lost somewhere in the house.

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.

Ale by Wayne F. Burke

Pale green ocean the

color of bottled Ballentine Ale--

a six pack on the

window sill

and seagulls on the

gravel roof below; dirty city birds

like wise-guys, beady-eyed, and

with hooked beaks

like war-clubs of the Iroquois--

after drinking 5 of the bottles

and trying, unsuccessfully

to piss on the birds, and

having solved, in my mind

half the world's problems,

I drink the last, then

decide, the other half

not worth thinking about, and

go out

into the city, with

trouble

following so close

behind, it

steps on my heels

whenever I halt.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in RYE WHISKEY REVIEW). He is author of 8 published poetry collections, one short story collection, and a non-fiction work titled HENRY MILLER, Spirit & Flesh (published by Cyberwit.net., 9/2022). He lives in Vermont.

Fumes by Timothy Resau

The lost efforts that bleeds into the rain—

The vineyards’ bearing the fruit—

Another mother’s lost child—

The father lost in the bottle—

These are the fumes that

Thread through our desperate lives.

Timothy Resau has been published in the U.S., Canada, Portugal, and the U.K. Recently his work has been in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Sideways Poetry Magazine, Sylvia Magazine, The Beautiful Space, and an essay is forthcoming in Loch Raven Review, as well as poetry in Rat’s Ass Review, Native Skin, and Pure Slush. He’s just completed a novel called Three Gates East. His career has been in the international wine industry.

Reasons for Silence by Mike James

after Harkaitz Cano

Because the sky is the sky, the color changes no matter 

So it is what we do, a job we won’t quit

Because all your consonants are cruel

Because all my vowels are cruel

No, really, there’s nothing to say

So the rain makes enough distraction

So the lightning is there when rain is not enough

Because words pollute the landscape, then stay

Because silence, like yelling, can become a habit

Because we need better habits

Because the cricket beneath the bed provides company

Because silence doesn’t encourage eye contact

Because there’s not a hole in the wall we can crawl into

Because the bird within my chest has given up singing

So we can each eat our hearts, focus on that

Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee and has published widely. His many poetry collections include: Red Dirt Souvenir Shop (Analog Submissions), Journeyman’s Suitcase (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), First-Hand Accounts from Made-Up Places (Stubborn Mule), Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog), My Favorite Houseguest (FutureCycle), and Peddler’s Blues (Main Street Rag.) He served as an associate editor of The Kentucky Review and currently serves as an associate editor of Unbroken

Gratitude By Karen Warinsky

So, years went by

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

was outside 

and all the happy laughter was also

outside,

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.

every autumn by Scott Ferry

i climb inside myself

to where the winds and dark can’t reach

but ironically the place inside is also

a dim and voice-swept place 

where light and song weakly

glint and swish though the brine 

and i lift up another face

the adhesive side of tape

the pointed ends of nails

seams half-soldered

strange fish dangling

glottal bait at the

 silence

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.

Persephone by Tanya Rakh

Lily girl, you skip up the sky and land face-first in cloud milk. It’s warm up here, it blankets, and it only chokes a little at first. Then you surrender to slow breath and clover, the blue clover of impossible springtime

You meet him by the river

That golden poet with those eyes

You offer him your lilies

He offers you a sonnet and you drink

You plan to meet again tomorrow but

The water is rising

You awaken in a peach pit with a whispering man

He calls himself death and you believe him

He worms your sonnet heart as he enters

You learn to speak insect, you carry the worms,

Feed them, let them breed

Your mother tried to find you but she’s dead now

Far too many years between the lily and the seed

You call the names of all the highways

They listen but they do not breathe

Persephone, I’m sorry

I couldn’t keep your boy at home

I couldn’t tell him of your sorrow

He would have wept himself to bone

And now we wait here for the devil

To give us matchsticks for our chores

What do we do with them?

We’ll tell you

We spell out sonnets on the floor.

Tanya Rakh was born on the outskirts of time and space in a cardboard box. After extensive planet-hopping, she currently makes her home near Houston, Texas where she writes poetry, surrealist prose, and cross-genre amalgamations. Her writing has appeared in numerous journals including The Gasconade Review, Redshift 4, Literary Orphans, Fearless, Yes, Poetry, and The Rye Whiskey Review. Tanya is the author of two books: Hydrogen Sofi and Wildflower Hell, new editions of both available from Posthuman Poetry & Prose.

Emotional Labor by Lauren Scharhag

The first time I heard someone say the phrase,  

I thought of placenta. I thought of a woman 

sweating and cursing in the stirrups, preparing 

to deliver-- what? Because I mean, yes, 

labor is always emotional, isn't it? They say 

natural childbirth results in a faster recovery time. 

They say. I’m not sure it’s worth the tradeoff.  

The epidurals don’t knock you out, the twilight sleep 

is an artifact of our grandmothers’ time, and there’s 

still the afterbirth to contend with, and choosing a name, 

and formula or breast, and tubes tied or untied, back 

on the pill or IUD or 

or 

or    

But that's not what they meant.

They meant carrying something else entirely,

a burden that doesn’t end after nine months,

an umbilicus that no scissors can cut, a perpetual 

toil and aftermath that began even when we were 

practically in the womb ourselves, taught that it’s 

our job to be selfless and nurturing and thoughtful 

and accommodating, to see to everyone’s needs 

but our own, baking birthday cakes and wrapping 

presents (and, of course, we did the shopping, even 

if the card says Love, Mommy and Daddy), plan the party, 

clean and decorate the house, knowing that we’ll be 

the ones to take it all down again, knowing that we’ll be 

the ones picking up torn streamers and discarded cups, 

knowing that we’ll be the ones doing the dishes, knowing 

that we will bear the brunt of diapers and walking the dog

and we will have to figure out the bedtime schedule and 

research preschools and then get them there on time and 

make the playdates and enroll them in soccer and buy them 

cleats and remind our husbands that their mother’s birthday 

is coming up next week and there’s no thanks, of course, 

it’s just what’s expected of us and if I told you all of it 

I could fill volumes with the schedules and calendars and 

menu plans and shopping lists and to-do lists that are constantly 

running in my head because these aren’t just my things, you see, 

they’re yours and the kids’ and my parents’ and your parents’ and 

coworkers’ and that’s to say nothing of the workplace dynamics 

and oh God, is this depression postpartum, or am I just 

fucking exhausted, even as we ask you again if you’ve assembled 

the crib yet, then asking you why we even have to ask.

And you ask why I’m upset.

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 100 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, two Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com

Success Doesn't Grow On Trees By Jake St. John

Success 

doesn't grow

on trees

it bleeds 

in back alleys 

it's drunk

on bar stools

it's taking

two punches

to give one 

it's howling

at the moon

it's standing 

back up

when you know

you're getting

knocked back

down

   

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

Land of Tiny Gods by John Drudge

In the land

Of democratized fame

Trying to make 

Something

Of tomorrow’s promises

Today

Living dangerously

Past the dawn

Were we vie

For a chance

To sit at the feet

Of tiny gods

Stoic in our passions

Suffering in imagination

Phantom premonitions

Driven

By anxious strain

Where excellence withers

Without resistance

And glory fades

Without connection

To the truth

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.

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.

Troy Schoultz is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. His poems, stories, and reviews have appeared in Seattle Review, Rattle, Slipstream, Chiron Review, Word Riot, Fish Drum, The Great American Poetry Show, Steel Toe Review, Midwestern Gothic and many others since 1997. His interests and influences include rock and roll, vinyl LPs, found objects, the paranormal, abandoned places, folklore, old cemeteries and the number five. He is the author of two full length collections and two chapbooks

Scotch And Soda by John Harold Olson

Dying slow near 

the water is not the worst

way to go.

Being hit by a 

wind burst coming around the point

one boozy, sunny afternoon,

Taking all the keel and every 

bit of sudden sobriety

to bring her right. 

That was close.

“Intoxicated local man dies coming

around the point with too much sail” is

how it would read in the free paper. 

But it didn’t happen that way.

It’s going to be the crab.

Slow, this time. 

A different sort of card.

I’ll stand.

Having a cold scotch and soda

looking over the marina.

The boat still berthed,

Almost still.

Proud mast and

Sails furled until the next

sailor goes out.

Someone else.

The drink unfinished.

Thoughts unfinished. 

Breeze smells like water.

Retired Las Vegas teacher now a hospice volunteer.

GRABBED BY THE THROAT EARLY IN THE A.M. by Bradford Middleton

I promised, I know, but right now the novel

Will just have to wait as this morning I’ve 

Been woken by the poetic rage.  It’s dragged

Me here early just to get down these words,

Grabbed me from my bed on just another 

Lost weekend here in permanent lock-down.

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

Something Light by Daniel S. Irwin

Maybe, this coming holiday,

Something light for Halloween.

Like a Halloween party,

Lock the doors,

And set the place on fire.

It will be a scream.

Yes, something light, definitely.

 

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. 

Clip-on Tie in a Gutter by Ken Gosse

“Another hangover! I’ve already warned you three times!”

“You’re not the boss of me Now!”

“The jerk told me—ME—to never come back!”

“One on the house. We’ll be seein’ you a lot more.”

“Hands OFF, bub!”

“You heard her. Them. Time to go, Jack.”

“Who put this effin’ wall where the door used to be?”

“Won’t need this tie for a while.”

“Damned curb! Arghhh …”

“A nice tie! What’s behind the dumpster? Oh my god!”

“911? He looks dead.”

“License has a local address. Wasn’t homeless. Now he is.”

“I’ll call you back. Someone’s at the door.”

Ken Gosse usually writes light, rhymed verse with whimsy and humor. Sometimes it’s darker. He was first published in First Literary Review-East in 2016, and since then by Pure Slush, Spillwords, Lothlorien Review, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.

The day I met Bukowski at the no name bar by Peter A. Witt

Bar was beat up, past its prime,

like most of its patrons,

including a shabby man who drank dark swill

talked of whores like they were his best friends,

along with fading people who like me

rented cheap hotel rooms at the dive next door.

Shabby bought me a couple of watery beers,

complimented the gravy stains

on my never washed shirt, leaned close

whispered bad breath in my ear,

be sure to grovel with strangers, he said,

especially those with ragged breath,

they're earth's hidden secrets,

as he saluted the barkeep,

sauntered out the door.

Peter A. Witt is a Texas Poet and a retired university professor. He also writes family history with a book about his aunt published by the Texas A&M Press. His poetry has been published on various sites including Fleas on the Dog, Inspired, Open Skies Quarterly, Active Muse, New Verse News, and WryTimes. 

I Was Depressed Before it Was Cool by Chad Parenteau

Original unfluencer,

unfollowers legion. 

UglyFans page 

since 2003. 

No one meant no one

maybe for last time.

It took so much 

to have nothing. 

Unheard, a cry for help

just to say you tried,

lies to yourself

not screensaved.

Isolation more than

clever camera angle,

bottled sadness sold

with low-cut selfie,

every lonelyheart 

a half-thought like,

forgetting you win

when you die with least.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston's long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His latest collection is  The Collapsed Bookshelf. His poetry has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, Nixes Mate Review and the anthology Reimagine America from Vagabond Books. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine.

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

hot sauce?

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. 

fuck the moon By Mike Zone

got a man

in Dallas

to scream

FUCK GOD!

at the local watering hole

hell, yeah

me nodding

eating pickles

at 3am

drinking straight

from the jar

pay no mind

dead mother

dying father

in the next room

wonder where

they’ll find my body

I’ll always love my blueberry fantasy goddess-queen

but never

your lunar

obsession

Mike Zone is the Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press, the author of Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse , as well as coauthor of The Grind. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Outlaw Poetry and Cult Culture magazine.

Locking Up by Susan Isla Tepper

You count the times you felt happy. 

Once after a rain

while walking

the tree-lined path 

through Rittenhouse Square.

Undeniably happy.  Though you 

couldn’t pin-point the cause.  

Another time 

in that same city, the first day 

of your new job

when you were last to go home.

Almost kneeling on the pavement 

to lock that round brass cylinder

on the bottom of the glass door.

A potted geranium

bought at lunch hour

resting in the crook of 

one arm.  Briefcase

on the ground.

Locking up.

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.

DRINKING WITH POETS by M.J. Arcangelini

Frank Stanford and Everette Maddox

swap stories in a delta back alley bar,

which closed up shop decades ago.

The waitress is a skeleton named Edna

whose joints have been screwed together

and squeak ever so slightly when

she places their drinks before them.

The poets sip bourbon and absinth.

Their words thrust and parry, weave

and diverge, trying to outdo each other, to

make each mundane moment magnificent.

The table calls to Edna to bring paper

and pens to catch the poems condensing

on top of it as the two poets’ words collide.

Edna’s apron, hangs loose around her hips,

there is a hole in the tips pocket.

The infant in the corner fusses and wails

for attention but remains ignored, the 

poetry in the air does nothing to nourish him.

It doesn’t matter that I haven’t had a drink

in over 30 years, I am drunk just being there.

Then, Lew Welch wanders in, brushing

leaves and twigs from his hair, he sits down

and another round must be ordered.

M.J.  Arcangelini, born in Pennsylvania in 1952, has resided in northern California since 1979. He has published in little magazines, online journals, & over a dozen anthologies.  He is the author of 6 published collections, the most recent of which is PAWNING MY SINS, 2022 (Luchador Press).