Where Do You Think You Are---1957? By Greg Clary

After ordering a Seven and 7,

Salisbury steak, and

salad with 1,000 Island dressing,

the waiter asked:

“Where do you think you are---1957?

Elvis shaking his tail,

Little Richard screaming, “I AM Tutti Frutti”

at white bucks poseur Pat Boone,

Ike smiling calm and steady,

Ginsberg Howling,

Rosa resisting,

Little Rock 9 integrating,

ducks tailing, bees hiving,

juke boxes kicking.

Sputnik beeping,

French bikinis teasing,

Hemingway hunting in the African sun,

Kerouc searching without a map,

Atlas shrugging,

Miles and Monk improvising

in smoky dim lit haze,

Marilyn smiling that diamond gleam,

televisions glowing

before Bird’s Eye dinners,

boundaries shifting,

coffee houses whispering

for poets to come with

rebellion in every napkin-written verse,

teenagers ignoring Cold War fears,

smoking Newports and

drinking warm Schlitz

at drive-in movies,

where romantic trysts unfolded.

Year of change.

Cultural spark.

Atomic Age legacy of

drifting souls with conflicted hearts

and coffee-stained fractured dreams.

Greg Clary is a retired college professor who was born and raised in Turkey Creek, West Virginia. He now resides in the northern Appalachia Pennsylvania Wilds.

His photographs have appeared in The Sun Magazine, Looking at Appalachia, Rattle, Hole in the Head Review, Pine Mt Sand & Gravel, Tiny Seed Journal, Watershed Journal, About Place, Change Seven, Appalachian Lit, and many more.

His writing has been published in Rye Whiskey Review, The Bridge Literary Journal, Northern Appalachia Review, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Waccamaw Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Trailer Park Quarterly, Black Shamrock Magazine, Rust Belt Review, and Tobeco.

His new book of photographs and poetry, “The Vandalia in Me”, was published by Meraki Press and is available on-line at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. 

Coal Miners 1933 By Arvilla Fee

In a little blues bar 

in a little blue town

cigarette smoke 

encircled his head,

a most unangelic halo,

but he kept his eyes closed,

lips pressed to the reed

of that silver Selmer sax.

Its deep-throated notes 

hung like tinsel

in the too-warm air

just above the blackened heads

of those who guzzled away

the dust and grit

of another lungless day

beneath shrouded ground

where there is no sun

and canaries go to die.

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio and teaches English for Clark State College. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favorite quote in the whole word is: "It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website and check out her new poetry magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/

Jimi Hendrix’s Girlfriend By Michael Minassian

I came upon an old photograph today— 

you were in front of an open door

of the house on West Linden Avenue

where we parted a few days after

returning from an afternoon

of picking through old vinyl albums

and paperback books at garage sales,

the day you bought the Pearl Jam poster

from the old lady with a red ribbon

tied in her hair who claimed 

she had once dated Jimi Hendrix

and gave you a free box of incense.

I don’t know why you wouldn’t 

look me in the eye 

as we left her house

when I said the best songs 

on albums were in the beginning,

and you muttered,

“Just like relationships,” 

then walked away.

The old lady patted my arm, leaned 

in close to my ear and whispered,

“Take a picture, honey, so you don’t forget.”

MICHAEL MINASSIAN lives with his wife in Southern New England. He is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing as well as a chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information: https://michaelminassian.com

 

Post Marked Nowhere By John Patrick Robbins

I would find comfort in sharing my woes,

If only the card had a destination.

It lay worn within my pack, as my emotions lay bare on full display as I am locked within as usual.

I didn't need to see you, but my memories would not allow me that comfort, and the cold will not spare me from sleeping outside yet again tonight.

No matter the terrain, we are underneath the same skies, it seems.

I drifted slowly down the trail into another town to resupply and vanish as quickly as possible.

I kept the postcard with you in mind.

I haven't written a single line as this discomfort goes beyond the satisfaction of a locked door and a warm bed.

I yearned to embrace you, as I needed to feel something besides the cold and blank face stares.

Everyone is guessing at this shit at best.

I dropped the postcard in the garbage can.

Love never needs an address for it's bound for the landfill no matter our intentions.

My heart was heavy, as were my lines.

I miss you by default.

I lost a button on a worn-out jacket.

I lost my senses long before this occurrence.

You never need a card for I never left you within my mind.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has appeared in Piker Press, Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fearless Poetry Zine, The San Pedro River Rivew, Cold Rambler and the Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

one more cup of coffee for the road By Keith Pearson

the trombone man plays in monument park

for the early birds. his sunburst shirt

scares the little children.

the music blows the dew from the morning grass

while the gravedigger waits

across the lawn where he taps

his foot to the tune and patiently bides

his time.

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

Wine diamonds By Julian Thumm

I laze in the lees,

wallow in the wine-diamond silt

That blooms in dregs

At the bottom

Of the bottle

Decanting denied, 

The nutrient earth -- 

blood & bone

& oyster shell --

is where i take root

& send forth

my tremulous tendrils

to bud up the neck

& reach towards

the faintest streak

of blear morning sun

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. 

The Boxer and the Ringmaster By Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram

Young man, your clenched fists hard and ready, Yet, you are still too short to box with gods. So listen to me carefully, the true struggle ain't against gods in heaven, it's here in the dust. Life, sly ringmaster that he is, he takes the hardest jabs. He weaves in and out, a ghost dodging every blow. He'll promise you victory, then deliver a sucker punch of desolation. He'll urge you from ringside, but leave you to the hardest rounds by yourself.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Twenty-four hours a day, twelve rounds of sweat and will. Every morning a bell, every evening a final gong. The world delivers haymakers, left hooks of grief, uppercuts of loss. Your face swells with tears, knuckles pop under the blows. You taste your own blood, feel the canvas slap your back. Every breath a grunt, every scream a wailing, like the legendary "No Mas!" that great sportscaster Howard Cosell bestowed upon boxer Roberto Duran, "No Mas!" I too wept, "No Mas!"

                                                                                                                       

You don't wear fancy gloves to absorb the blow, only knuckles rough as the storm. You choke on your fear, spit out desperation, but employ the spark of your own will to ignite your fire. Yet where is your cornerman, that cunning Life who lured you into this ring?

He's ridden with you into the wars, won the fights, calmed your wounds for losses. He was your boy, the fighter who fought your fights, spurred your spirit. Yet now the darkness closes and the arena bell screams, and he's gone. Only the wind-whispered apology, "No time to train, son, gotta get you to the next bout."

Here, you dance alone, with each new dawn, a new test. You are pushed into the ring by a world of unknowns, a whirlpool of chaos, to test how much you can withstand. Don't you remember the "harder, quicker, stronger" that Life used to whisper? They were commands, not taunts.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Then battle, son, battle like the sun blasts forth in dawn, relentless and fierce. Life will be an unpredictable ringmaster, but you, you are the victor in your own ring. Every fall, every bruise, a badge of pride. With every sunrise, you rise again, battered but unbroken. For in this battle, the only enemy you ever conquer is yourself.

And one day, when the final bell tolls, you'll step out of the ring, battered but not conquered, head held high. And Life, that old thief, may even wink at you and say, "Not bad, son. Not bad at all."

Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram is the host and producer of the internationally recognized poetry podcast Quintessential Poetry: Online Radio, YouTube and Zoom. Through his work as a retired associate professor of Counselor Education and Supervision and as a noted poet and spoken word artist, Dr. Ingram also leverages the arts, especially poetry, to bring attention to the effects of power, privilege, and oppression in our society. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his second poetry collection, Metaphorically Screaming, is eagerly anticipated. For more information about Dr. Ingram or the podcast, visit https://www.qporytz.

A New Deputy in Town By Jim Harrington

 

“Hey, Morgan.” He jumped at the sound of my voice. “Is that a real badge?”

Morgan hoisted himself off the stool, stood at attention and snapped a salute. I struggled to keep a straight face. The missing button on his flannel shirt, the glass of beer in his left hand and the Boy Scout salute didn’t exactly shout Deputy Morgan to the rescue.

 “That’s a ten-four, good buddy. The sheriff swore me in this morning. Good thing, too. Annie was threatening to have me arrested for loitering on the couch.” He took a sip of his beer. “It’s not my fault my job got outhoused to Asia.”

“Outsourced,” I said. I saw the empty look on Morgan’s face. “You mean your job was outsourced to Asia.”

“Whatever,” he said with a wave. “My job still went in the crapper.”

Morgan got back on the stool, finished his beer and signaled to Ernie for another. I waggled a finger, and Ernie poured me one, too.

“What happened to Jake?”

“Sheriff fired him for drinking on duty.”

I scratched a phantom itch on my wrist and glanced at my watch: four fifty-five. Close enough to quitting time for Morgan, I guess.

“You know something, Abe? I like the way this badge looks on me. I think I’m going to run for sheriff in the next election.”

I choked on my beer and couldn’t stop coughing. Morgan slid off his stool, knocking it over, slapped me on the back a couple of times and told me to hold my hands over my head.

“Thanks,” I said. I grabbed a napkin and wiped my eyes.

“No problem, Abe.” He picked up the stool and climbed back on. “It’s all part of being a deputy. You need to be ready to handle any situation that comes up.”

“Arrest anyone yet?”

Morgan sat at attention and said, “We are not aware of any perpetrators who have perpetrated a perpetration at this time.”

“Wow. Very official sounding there, deputy. You should be the spokesman for the department.”

“The sheriff mentioned part of my duties might include being the press lesson.”

I watched a fly wade through a puddle on the bar and let Morgan’s comment sink in.

“Oh, you mean liaison.”

Morgan’s head swiveled on a non-existent neck, and he gave me one of his what-did-you-think-I-said looks.

“Well, I think you’ll make a fine press lesson.” Anything would be an improvement over the sheriff’s vocabulary, which consisted of variations on a grunt. “So, you think you might run for sheriff.”

“Yep. Sheriff Riley ain’t going to do anything this year. Well, he’ll arrest someone if enough people complain. And if they complain he’s arresting too many people, he’ll stop. You know how they politicians are in election season.”

“I can see where that might upset a few people, especially all those malcontents, like the mayor and the city council.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said, pounding his fist on the bar.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll make a fine sheriff.” I raised my glass in a salute.

“Better than fine. I’m going to be the best damn sheriff this town’s ever had.”

I clinked his glass with mine and finally let my smile out of its dungeon. I planned on voting for Morgan. Heck, anyone would be better than the current sheriff.

Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Short-Story.me, Ariel Chart, CommuterLit, Fewer Than 500, and others. More of his works can be found at https://jpharrington.blogspot.com. His series of editor interviews can be found at https://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com.

Boring Chapter By Dan Provost

That blues

song you

forgot the words

too…Thirteen

beers into a Dive

Bar drunk—

All you remember is

that the lead guitarist

played the strings with a peso.

 

You mention this to nobody, as all

the fact finders have left to find their

own truths & the bartender is deep

into page six of the sports section.

Dan Provost’s poetry has been published both online and in print since 1993. He is the author of 17 books/chapbooks, including All in a Pretty Little Row, released by Roadside Press, in November 2023. Notes From the Other Side of the Bed will be published by A Thin Slice of Anxiety Press in early 2025. His work has been nominated for The Best of the Net three times and has read his poetry throughout the United States. He lives in Keene, New Hampshire with his wife Laura, and dog Bella.

 

Sunshine Daydream By PW Covington

(LIVE Collaboration with the Grateful Dead tribute band ‘The Deal’)

Songs about those

Golden shore

Troubadours

Return on trumpet bells

Shining seashells

Splendid flying serpents

Miscreants

Galactic streaming

Always missing

Missing

Spirit practice

Trance and cactus

On the Mother Road

All time has taught us

To be here tonight

Mountain sitting

Pickup truck winter

Swinging through San Berdoo

Rewind past to present

Present here, a gift

Dancing

As the walls come down

In Lobotown

Don’t you let

That deal go down

Wise women washed 

In New Mexican grooves

In all right 

Red light tonight

The magic swimming

The magic 

Spinning 

Soundtrack set to 

77

Degrees of integration

Among the alchemists

And warlocks, I write

Those golden shores

As lions roar

Esteemed and dipped in poetry

Returned, for all to be

In turquoise 

Mountain mystery

From the once and final glory

Eclipsing

Poems and little lights alit

Light up and share 

Life’s love and testament

Brilliant, beauty

Beauty

Beauty be

(Written and performed at the Lobo Theater, Abq, NM, Feb 26, 2023)

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.

Beer Nuts By Bruce Morton

Salty by design. They are

Free, set out on, or at, the bar.

Intended to make you thirsty--

To keep you thirsty, to desire

To have another sip, one more pull.

Their crunch and grit punctuate,

Add substance to the stream

Of sad and bad--stories and jokes.

You cannot help reach and munch

When you lean forward on the rail

To support the weight of your day

And whatever it is you rail about.

Their natural oil lubricates your point.

You point, asking for another refill.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

Crazy Train By Shannon O’Connor

I found myself on a crazy train –

I was surrounded on all sides by insane people,

one guy having a convo by himself, arguing about the contents

of his bag, scratching his arms and legs,

another asleep

with a blanket spread across four seats,

Two people talking about how much they loved drugs,

All during rush hour

How did I get on this crazy train?

Was it payback from when I used to drive that train?

The time I ran through Park Street Station screaming

for the Taco Bell on the moon, jumping and shrieking

because I believed God spoke to me?

Or the times I would wear a hat inside out,

talking to my imaginary friends,

until I got to my stop, and pretended I was sane?

I looked up Crazy Train

I knew it had to be a thing

It’s a song by Ozzy Osbourne

I was never a fan, not into metal,

but I knew the song,

from deep inside my psyche,

I lived on the Crazy Train

All those people that day,

They surrounded me,

All nuts like I used to be,

I wanted to yell at them to go to the doctor and get their meds,

I know it’s not easy,

But for the Grace of God, I have a job

with health insurance that allows me

medication

I work in Psychiatry –

but if I didn’t, I would be just another passenger

on the Crazy Train,

another lunatic

with no brain,

not anymore, not me,

last stop, get off the Train,

go home, take my pills, go to sleep,

dreaming of mountains and trees,

and a broken-down Orange Line,

call an Uber it’s faster, I’ll be alone,

sane,

instead of on the Crazy Train

surrounded

by people who are the way

I used to be.

Shannon O'Connor has an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College. She has been published in Oddball Magazine, Wordgathering, 365 Tomorrows, and others. She is the chairperson of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. She lives in the Boston area, and writes around working remotely. 

It's When You Stop Looking By Skaja Evens

Taking a long drink of his whiskey and cola

Driving along the winding backroads

I find myself more adventurous with him

A little more reckless

He’s telling stories in between songs, and we laugh

Him at my reactions to his antics and me at his laughter

Anything for levity in light of difficult circumstances

And the heavy weight of mortality

I’ve considered leaving so many times, only to strengthen my 

choice to stay until one of us is gone.

Cognitive dissonance ringing loudly at who I should be, and 

who I really am. Good versus bad. Light versus darkness.

And not seeing the differences between the versions.

We hold hands and I feel a comforting connection. Trying 

hard to burn the memories into my mind.

There are moments I wish I knew how long I had left. Or how

 much time was left with him. I don’t know if I’d dwell on it,

 anxiously trying to live as much life as possible before it’s 

gone. It seems useless to make that wish.

I’m grieving the loss of him while he’s still here, and I know 

I’m not ready for him to be gone. I never thought I’d want 

someone so much while gluing the shards of my heart back 

together. I don’t know why it’s him. Why I want things I 

swore I’d never want again.

The very next minute I’m cursing him, at how infuriated he 

makes me. How he prides himself at being a blunt asshole.

Maybe he didn’t expect me either, and it threw everything 

sideways.

Skaja Evens is a Best of the Net-nominated writer living in SE Virginia. Her work has appeared in Medusa's Kitchen, The Rye Whiskey Review, Synchronized Chaos, Mad Swirl, Spillwords Press, Ink Pantry, Blue Pepper, among others. Her first book, conscientia veritatis, from Whiskey City Press, is available on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/conscientia-veritatis-Skaja-Evens/dp/B0CZTRN7ZP

Elegy for a Regular By Paul Jones

Once he spoke the indirect speech of men,

as if making bar bets after third drinks

that become sincere, become angry, mean.

Just his half joke. Some more of his high jinx.

But that gave way to dark rage long held in,

told in such a way it seems soft when said.

Yet by night's end, fists flew, someone's nose bled.

We missed him for a week or two. Before

his wife and kids and priest brought him back in.

“This is where his real life had been. More

home than his home. We were more like his kin.”

They moaned, sighing their funeral chorus.

“He loved us, always missed us,” they told us.

They begged the barkeep: "Take his ashes in.

We burned him so he won't take up much room."

There's a box today where his seat had been

across from the shelf of mid-range bourbon--

dark wood, maybe walnut, not mahogany

that would have been too ornate, too fancy.

Carved into the top: "He loved and was loved."

And the crude image of a boxing glove.

Paul Jones’ poems landed on the moon in February 2024.

In 2021, Jones entered the NC State Computer Science Hall of Fame. 

In 2024, Jones’ poem “Geode” was plagiarized multiple times by the notorious offender, John Kucera. 

Jones’ books are Something Wonderful (2021) and Something Necessary (2024). Both from Redhawk Press.

Recent poems in Hudson Review, Salvation South, Southern Poetry Review, New Verse Review, and in Best American Erotic Poems (1800-Present).

http://smalljones.com

Coalescence By Rita S. Spalding

you are the button that 

tightens my dark cloak

warms me from the cold

breathes life into my soul

seam in my life that 

pieces together

a home without walls

heart without judgment

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.

Extremism By John Drudge

It’s just another drunk 

At the bar 

Running his mouth too loud 

Spitting on the counter 

Waving his fists at ghosts 

It always starts with conviction 

With a purpose

But pretty soon 

It’s just another 

Wild-eyed rambler   

Screaming at traffic

Looking for a fight 

That doesn’t exist

And wandering in

For a quick drink 

Between rounds

But give it enough time 

And it all burns itself out 

Or burns everything down 

Either way 

The bartender’s seen it before

Another fool 

Too far gone 

To know they’re lost

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.

Marianne Faithfull By Kevin M. Hibshman

You finally made it home where sainted martyrs roam,
humming the songs of their resplendent youth.
The IT girl on a motorcycle gone bad as we like them to.
You were the news in a brand new way.
Girlfriend, groupie, protege.
Actress, addict, ever glamorous, my modern day doyenne.
I want to ride tonight with Marianne in black leather.
Circling the city like two pet vultures.
Vampires who must heed the coming of day
How can I be sad when you lived so many lives and cheated 

many deaths?
Your black eyes shining with a melancholy all your own.
We'll speed past the wall where you sat, high and ignored by 

everyone.
We shall revisit a swinging London alive in sound.
Mother, maven without a throne.
Your face not easily forgotten.
Sister morphine, wish I could reach her on my phone.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press.

His current book is Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens also from Whiskey City Press and currently available through Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0DKHRDQD5/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=