Jesus Takes Driving Lessons By April Ridge

I'm driving south on the state highway 

when I see a sign, 

handmade and tacked to a tree 

by the side of the road 

that says 'Jesus take the wheel'. 

And it gets me to thinking,

what does this cliché phrase actually mean? 

Do these religious zealots 

posting their weird,

sometimes misspelled, signs 

at the side of a highway

believe that Jesus could handle 

being behind a V6 engine and 

who knows how many horses? 

What would he make of the windshield wipers? 

How would he handle going so fast

after traveling by sandal 

across desert so many years? 

To canvas in yet another town full of lepers, 

hoping to be able to see a vision 

he could speak of-

to approach the people 

with a viable miracle,

he would have to walk for days,

just thinking on this,

hoping and praying 

that his Daddy in the Sky 

would bestow upon him some kind of sign 

that all of this walking was worth it. 

And now, two thousand years later,

to give us miscreants these cars,

the brains to invent these cars, 

these roads, 

these networks of towns? 

What would Jesus do?

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom. 

The Demons Below By Henrik Jakobsen

Are nothing compared to the bastards above that plague this uncertain 

ever-shifting soil.

They spew ignorance to gain the acceptance of others who are too afraid to reveal their true faces.

To gather in packs as mongrel dogs of no actual importance.

Yet, in violence, they display their only true power in reliving others of their own.

It's in propaganda, it's in the guise of art.

It's in rape and every other form of violence, as even death to non-conformists lay on the table.

There is no taboo untouched, as no equal defensive reaction should not, in turn, be used.

Truth is brutal, concrete, and unyielding to the ever-fragile bone.

Violence grants freedom from the fools as a shovel easily beheads the snake.

When torments plague the horizon, and the demons claw at your already weakened door.

You cannot hide anymore.

Actions speak louder, and I promise you will need people who suspend sympathy and tears.

Always fight fire with utter decimation.

The hand must always be heavy, not the heart.

You cannot kill what is already dead.

Henrik Jakobsen is the editor of Svartedauden Zine and owner of 

Black Circle Publishing.

BEHIND US By Roger Singer

we stand

under a

cloudy sky

on a backroad

where cricket

symphonies

rise beside

a stream

flowing to

the ocean

 we sing

love songs

to a

broken moon

and then

feel sad

about the

ashes of

burned bridges

behind us

 

Dr. Singer has had over 1,200 poems published on the internet, magazines and in books and is a Pushcart Award Nominee.  Some of the magazines that have accepted his poems for publication are:  Westward Quarterly, Jerry Jazz, SP Quill, Avocet, Underground Voices, Outlaw Poetry, Literary Fever, Dance of my Hands, Language & Culture, The Stray Branch, Tipton Poetry Indigo Rising, Down in the Dirt, Fullosia Press, Orbis, Penwood Review, Subtle Tea, Ambassador Poetry Award, Massachusetts State Poetry Society.  Louisiana State Poetry Society Award.  Readers Award Orbis Magazine 2019.  Arizona State Poetry Award 2020.

Mad Swirl Anthology 2018, 2019.

 

 

What’s that By Susan Isla Tepper

I’m suffering.  

What’s that? 

You are staring at the screen. So large it could be in a movie theater.

If I have to tell you what suffering is… Oh forget it.

I didn’t hear what you said.

I start to unload the dishwasher.

I reload with the dirties.

You get up from your screen and close the double doors between us.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer and the author of 12 published books of fiction and poetry. Her most recent novel “Hair of a Fallen Angel” was released by Spuyten Duyil, NYC in early October. Check out the Official Video for this book on YouTube link: https://youtu.be/W2HVIc4NrqYriter 

Tepper has also written 5 Stage Plays. www.susantepper.com

Oh Fernet By Ben Gladnikoff

The city of San Francisco  

Drinks more Fernet 

Every year 

Than the country of Italy

He said for the 15th time 

As the bitter brown liquid 

Ran down my throat

The herbs express a longing sense for the Milanese skyline

Or is it for the sweepings of the factory floor

When it comes knocking on your door 

asking if you want some more

Baby, you know I adore you, but can we take it slow? 

Two by two is my preferred rate

Three works as well

But once we get to six

You better treat me kind because you know i’ll be sick

Don’t worry though

I’ll soon be back

Woah

That one went down and brought some friends back to say hi

Ok brother, here I am 

Pour me another 

Who’s keeping score

Italy San Francisco

Forty oh

My old bartender

In the club where I grew up

Had the logo tattooed

On his upper arm

We’d order in silence

With two fingers on our triceps

Smile from ear to ear

Smacking our lips clear

Thought that I’d forsaken you

But how could I forget

You come back like a dad who left for cigarettes

A little older a little wiser

A spirit that shines brighter

With your absence

Someone said absinth?

Take two shots of rye 

and a quarter of fernet

A dash of bitters and some syrup stir it well

Add a twist of orange

Just enough to remind us of our youth

Wormwood made our eyes water

Tickled our tonsils and made our hands sticky

To Fernet I raise my glass

Toronto’s where it’s at

Italy San Fransisco 

Tel Aviv Stockholm

Gone but not forgotten 

Ben Gladnikoff writes introspective radical centrist punk poetry and lyricism for the angsty middle class. He frequently collaborates with songwriters and musicians and thrives on the interplay between music, rhythm and art.

Born and raised in Stockholm, reaching adulthood in Tel Aviv, and now based in Helsinki, Ben brings his multicultural background into his writing. Drawing inspiration from as varied sources as Blues, Jewish tradition and Greek mythology, Ben explores the interplay between the worldly and the inner world.

Kentucky By Manny Grimaldi

Grateful for time alone

with this paper, with this pen 

I don’t want to leave again. Grateful. That 

horses line the highway, stronger than mules,

and bandanas tell secrets in the cities, I’m grateful 

you kiss my absent tooth, my blooper, my shame— 

and today, I don’t know why you’re aside your horses,

I know you don’t need me to ride them.

Grateful we lean into our breakfast-dinners with 

coffees and a cola, Kentucky—and unfinished day, 

what’s the hurry? The goldenrod grows at my head 

and cardinals peck at my feet—I could die now—!

and I want you to never forget how much it hurt

to get you here, Kentucky, beautiful state of affairs,

beautiful land of human lakes, buenos días.

Give me your deep-fried snickers, your funnel cakes, all your diseases.

I am grateful for this life today. Buongiorno, amore mio—buenos días.

Crows called us emergencies digested and swallowed:

take a woman that led a horse to clamor.

They gnawed well water into such a dull illiteracy 

to babble and deluge every beach and branch, 

county electioneer and school boarder into worship. 

I bit deep into my health to borrow—

it returned replies, I am gone, traveler. 

Kentucky!—in grief to heal I sharpened steel, 

oiled clippers, sheared hair to the skull—

and felt the whirrsome blades in my elbows,

like a lawnmower shakes spectacles on the nose,

and covered my bottomless face in ashes.

Late it was writ I’d draw lottery and loser, defeated and victor.

O, late have I loved you Kentucky, your acorns, pines, and your oaks—

red maples sending sparks to Earth in spiral drawings 

to make “nines” “mine” and encircle air in laurels 

to break free of the world. Grateful to live in trees breathing

in the shape of a key touching mountains, rivers, and cities. 

Tonight, I thank God that I’m dull, flat as a brick,

begging your sharp, incisive wit to grind my verse, 

my unprofitable, toothless strings to sing.

Manny Grimaldi is a Kentucky writer and editor at Yearling, a poetry journal in Lexington. He is author of two poetry collections, Riding Shotgun with the Mothman (about addiction), and Ex Libris Ioannes Cerva (a book of satire). Upcoming a release with Whiskey City about screwing up relationships, and Manny has plans to explore a novella on generational trauma in the style of magical realism, and a collection about heartbreak and release.

I Am Your Pursuer’s Thumping Heart By Trish Saunders

Obsessing over vain, useless things is what I do,

and I flatter myself I do it well.

Smoothing my palm 

over a cracked marble tabletop

whispering, “Thank You” to a wobbly velvet chair—

it’s me who arranges brooms and mops in a mute,

attractive chorus line before cleaners arrive to

make everything linear again.

I see I’ve frightened you.

I’m sorry. A glimpse of me in the mirror,  

hovering behind your shoulder, while you’re locking up—

that would cause anyone to shriek,

to reach for rosary beads or garlic. 

 

And yet, I only want to help, when you’re wide awake 

in the cold blue hour of three a.m. and you know  

a bullet engraved with the name of your beloved

is speeding through the night air. 

 

Trish Saunders has poems published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Beatnik Cowboy, The Galway Literary Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Crossroads Magazine, Eunoia Review, among others. She lives in Seattle, Washington, formerly in Honolulu, Hawaii.

The Meeting by Jonathan Butcher

A stumble in stating a case,

the click of pens and laptop keys,

that echo against the unbearable 

silence, a contrast of hierarchy,

that stands out like a broken 

mansion window.

The tick of watches drowned 

out over the clash of what

a subtle resolve would look

like, as the note papers burn

like corroding lanterns, 

the thermostat almost implodes 

with the projected heat from all parties.

Each one side stepping 

their own faux pas, another attempt 

at mediation sinks like coins

into corrupt pockets;

a conclusion is finally drawn,

one which far from benefits 

either side, and leaves this room

drenched in the condensation 

of indecision, a double edged 

sword, which they all fall upon,

spines pierced with shallow 

victory. 

Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, The Abyss, Cajun Mutt Press and others. His fourth chapbook, 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press. 

He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press. 

Holy Are The Damned By Jake St. John

Holy are the damned, 

who walk into 

the fray 

with a whistle,

a ham sandwich 

and no hope 

of survival. 

Clocking in

and out

with the simple 

thought 

of a happy hour 

that lasts 

just long enough 

to allow them

to forget 

that tomorrow

they’ll do it 

all over again.

Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Lips Leave Scars (with Jenn Knickerbocker, Whiskey City Press, 2023) 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."

 

Now You Know By Jeff Weddle

 

There are important things no one knows, 

like when I flooded the kitchen with suds 

because no one ever told me 

not to put Palmolive in a dishwasher. 

(There was a girl coming over, of course, 

and Eric and I went sliding about the place,   

trying to clean up the mess. 

No one knows about that.)

Or walking home past midnight, 

drunk and hungry, finding a twenty 

on the sidewalk in front of a church. 

Kissing Paula Hinchman for the first time 

in that abandoned house back in 1975.

The exact feeling of falling ten feet onto cement, 

chin first, and cheating death. 

Sitting on the Minor-Dixon stairs 

with Becky Albert in 1984, 

noticing a small hole in her green sweater 

before pulling her close. 

My friend coming out to me all nervous

and me telling him honestly that everyone knew, 

but no one cared.

How I felt getting a letter 

from Charles Bukowski.

The thrill when Leesa Kruse kissed me 

between classes in high school 

for no particular reason. 

Taking nighttime walks with my father, 

each of us comfortable in our silence 

or precisely how it felt, 

my hand resting on his chest 

as he died. 

Climbing on an old cannon with my son 

or playing school with my daughter. 

Watching television each night 

with my mom 

as she drifts away. 

No one knows about me 

standing alone in a field, 

tethered to a kite and so young,

almost lost in a coming storm.

 

 

Jeff Weddle is a poet and writer living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He won the Eudora Welty Prize for Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press and has also received honors for his fiction and poetry, including being named the first State of Alabama Beat Poet Laureate (2024-2026) by the National Beat Poetry Foundation. His work has appeared in Albanian and Spanish translation. Jeff teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama.

 

The Bottle By Julian Thumm

All glory and shame to the bottle

& the man in its thrall: 

slavemaster, lover & 

dominatrix; 

whispering devil, loose-lipped confessor, 

albatross, anchor,

& final friend. 

Julian is a fledgling poet from Melbourne, Australia. He studied literature and professional writing and now works as a corporate shill, selling his corrupted pen to the highest bidder. His poetry is an attempt to make sense of a lifetime of bad choices. 

On The Highway by Keith Pearson

She checks her face in the visor mirror. Red lines mark the white of her eyes. Red lines on the road map. She flips up the visor to hide the mirror. To hide her face. She slumps in the seat, braces her knees on the curve of the dashboard. Marks in the dust on the dash where her knees were yesterday. The day before. She can smell her socks. Her feet. Boots still wet from walking in the snow last night. Early this morning. Her boots on the floor in the back. If they stop she’ll have to put on her wet boots. Can’t go out in this in stocking feet. So gray it could still be first thing in the morning, another stormy day. Slush against the windshield, against the glass beside her head. Her hair against the cold glass. The steady slap of the wipers across the windshield moving the slush. The purr of the heater. The smell of her feet in the heat coming from the floor of the small car. She doesn’t care. Doesn’t care if he can smell it or not. His fault her boots are so wet. Next time she lets him run out. Maybe gets hit by a car. Drowns in a pond. Wouldn’t know it was ice until he was in the cold black water and sinking. Too drunk to swim.

         I woke up thinking I could smell blueberry muffins, she says. Somebody making blueberry muffins right down the hall.

         Didn’t smell any muffins, he says. Both hands on the steering wheel. She wonders if the highway is slippery. Or is he just fighting the morning after. His hair a mess. Eyes worse than hers. Hunched up over the steering wheel with both hands on it, knuckles all white.

         When we get there can we stop? Can we stop someplace tonight where I can get some of that continental breakfast that comes with the room? What is the name of this place? she asks.

         New something, he says. I’ll know it when we get there. New something, its on the map.

         Her head hurts. I don’t know where the map is, she says.

         Well its here somewhere, he says. We’ll stop when we get there.

         The slush is thick on the window beside her head. Thick pitches of it come up from the wheels of other cars and splash against the windshield. He is driving fast but not as fast as others. All the cars coming at them have their lights on though it is the middle of the day. She can barely see them as they pass in the dim gray light. When we stop can I get a muffin? Maybe a hot chocolate too?

         You can get a muffin when we get there, he says. He leans further up and over the steering wheel. He turns his head from side to side as though to loosen the tight muscles in his neck. Never takes his eyes from the road. She watches the white skin of his knuckles. Its not going anywhere and I’ll know it when I see it, he says. When we get there.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

Ten Shots of Jim Beam By George Gad Economou

“ten shots of Jim Beam; just line’em

up right here, and get me a large glass of Ceres Classic, too.”

“are you alright?” the bartender asked.

“I’m fucking fine. just line’em up, please.”

he did.

I was in a new bar; wanted to escape my old

haunt, needed to escape the memories imbued

in those dirty four walls. had to forget, had to

move on, had to try something new.

I downed two shots, chased them with some beer. soon,

the draft glass was empty. “fill it up, will you?” I told

the bewildered bartender. sank two more shots

while he poured me the draft. chugged half the

glass in a single sip. lit a

cigarette. had a shot. five

to go.

the beer was gone. a new one appeared in

front of me. three more shots went

down. another beer. some more

cigarettes.

I could still not forget the smiling eyes of

those gone, the curled lips I used to kiss

while under the influence of too many substances.

last three shots went down in quick

succession, plus the fifth beer.

“again,” I said. “ten shots, in a line.”

“are you alright, man?”

“no but I hope I will be by the end of the night.”

George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance writer, and has published three novels and two poetry collections, with the latest being his horror novel, The Lair of Sinful Angels (Translucent Eyes Press). His words have also appeared in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Drowned Words By Brenton Booth

"Alcohol makes

writing 

so easy!" I

drunkenly

slurred over

the crackling 

telephone line

soon after

finishing my

third new poem

in just two 

hours, following

a seemingly

endless four

week drought.

"If that were

true, I would have

written War and

Peace over a

thousand times!"

Ben immediately

responded.

Quickly draining

one of more

than a dozen cold

beers.

Eager to finally

get it right.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.  

descension By Stephen Ground

evening knocks at the

window but I’ve been

rummed out since lunch.

dangling off the couch like

a liquored up leopard on a

bowed branch, encroaching

night slips thru the shades &

settles on my sweat-dewed

flesh in an inch-thick coat

of chewy black stardust.

Stephen Ground is a writer and filmmaker based in Treaty 6 Territory (Edmonton, Alberta).

A Whiskey Embrace By Alison Nuorto

Amber nectar,

Smoke and fire in a glass.

A promise on my lips.

Kiss away my regrets.

Capricious paramour.

Keep me company in the empty night;

Until morning comes.

An English Teacher and Freelance Writer residing in South West England but with a nomadic heart that yearns to roam far and wide. I feast on horror stories and Psychological thrillers. My poems have appeared in a handful of Anthologies and I am currently working on an Anthology of my own, as well as a Psychological thriller. As long as I still have a pulse, I aim to always be writing - provided that I have a drink to hand.

The Invitation By Rita S Spalding

if you’re going to sleep inside my soul

you must carry a restful companion 

a primitive cave fire that lights my hand

you must accept wild gypsy words that dance 

and artistic expressions in the space 

where my mind lives and holds them sacredly 

room can be made if you love those things too

Rita S. Spalding has had poems published in numerous anthologies and magazines. Her first book, Abstract Ribbons, was published in 1992. A second book, The Eighth, is currently at a publisher. She has received awards for poetry from Jefferson Community and Technical College, Elizabethtown Community College, National Library of Poetry, Kentucky Monthly Magazine and the Kentucky State Poetry Society. In 2024 she was a presenter at the Kentucky Writers Celebration in Danville and Historic Penn’s General Store, the Last Insomniacathon and she gives poetry readings regionally on a regular basis.

The Light By Ann Christine Tabaka

The taste of love is bitter-sweet, 

intoxicating like wine. 

An addiction both desired & disdained.

Before day is eaten by night / 

before sun is eaten by moon,

we shall lay our heads upon the pillow of life. 

Death shall not prevail. 

I have been forgotten / tucked away behind 

a cereal box - cabinet door shut. 

Darkness / only darkness.

Time chases moments across a meadow 

shadowed by misguided deeds. 

It carries light in its velvet satchel,

always searching for the sun.

A sun that shall not rise again 

until the truth is sought. 

Beyond the grave there are no lies.

There light waits for me.

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated 4 times Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars Award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year; selected as a Judge for the Soundwaves Poetry Contest of Northern Ireland 2023. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020” and “2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 19 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Sand Hills Literary Magazine, The Phoenix, Eclipse Lit, Streetcake Experimental Writing Magazine, Carolina Muse, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review.

A Year's-End Poem By Bruce Morton

We cringe at the celebratory binge when

We are compelled drink and think, once again,

Of peace. It is a time of resolution absent

Resolve. The idea of peace consumes us

Morsels of strife starve us--piecemeal.

One bite, one swallow at a time. We cannot

Stop. A dream or taste of truce, of salad days,

Of no desserts, just one course after another.

There is no waiter, only self-service, a buffet

Of gluttony. It is a repast, an annual feast

Of indulgence. Desire and guilt feed off, and

On, each other, as do we. We lack the discipline

To govern our appetites. We gorge on hope

Until we vomit and toast another year.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona.

Dive Bar By John Drudge

It squats in a cracked 

Back alley 

A battered jewel 

In a tarnished crown 

Where neon flutters 

Like a drinker’s heartbeat

Where the air is thick 

With whiskey-soaked whispers 

And the ghosts of dreams 

That stumbled and fell 

A jukebox croaks a tune 

Its melody swaying 

Like a boxer on his last legs 

And barstools cradle poets 

Too tired to write 

And lovers too broken 

To part 

Smoke curling

Around chipped glasses 

And weathered faces 

As the bartender

Dispenses absolution 

By the ounce 

And sorrows are drowned 

In the darkening tide 

Of forgetfulness

On the other side

Of tonight 

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.

Flushed By PW Covington

It is my own perverse distraction

On these early nights of the year

To dream of a world

Half hallucinated

Where every new noun

Every figment of fantasy

Of horror, hope, or fear

Is quantum-born and nurtured

As far as my distraction and delusion will allow

Then flushed from all existence to the void

Where all decays, then manifests anew, in time

Music in some foreign fractal tongue 

Is dancing in my moonlit mind akimbo

A nascent morning climbs across the ridge

Of Watermelon Mountain

Another heliotrope

Another karmic resting place in shining

Shiva and Madonna kiss

In secret, sacred, sunrise

Flushed

PW Covington is the NBPF's 2024-2026 New Mexico Beat Poet Laureate.

 Writing in the Beat tradition of the North American Highway, PW Covington has spent decades traveling in support of his writing, and encouraging the creativity of others.

 Covington's latest collection of poetry Vintage Denim is available from Alien Buddha Press.

  PW lives just south of Historic Route 66 in Albuquerque, NM, where he has worked on film and television productions such as Better Call Saul and The Cleaning Lady.

Cherrywood By Emalisa Rose

In the cherrywood cabinet

a gift from her grandmother, Janis

peruses the quarts, pints and

airplane bottles. Selecting the scotch

from the bunch, she gives a strong pour

minus the ice, then closes the closet

swearing she'll stop one day --

just not today.

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame and drawing in charcoals. She volunteers in animal rescue, tending to cat colonies in the neighborhood. She walks with a birding group on weekend. Her latest collection is "Ten random wrens," published by Maverick Duck Press.

Jump By April Ridge

The further into this century we move,

the more it seems to be

that many people are attempting 

to gain entry into 

the Guinness Book of World Records

by overachievement,

overworking themselves 

into an anxious frenzy.

A weird flex of muscles:

claiming to get the most done with the 

smallest amount of rest,

the tiniest winks of sleep.

The pep talks 

we give ourselves 

each day

as we rev our engines 

yet slyly ask

‘Anybody got any jumper cables?’

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.