CREEPY METH HEAD. By Brian Rihlmann

4:30 a.m.

and 80 is shut down

so I’m forced

to take city streets

to the coffee shop

I roll down Prater

through old town Sparks

hang a left on El Rancho

as I pass the car lots on Kietzke

I notice the headlights—

up my ass

the car passes, finally

and goes around

I wind up behind them

at a red light

California plates 

the light turns green

and they crawl

now I’m up THEIR ass

thinking “put down the fucking phone”

so I pass them 

haul ass around

and they get behind

give me the brights

then zoom past

the light’s red at Plumb

and as I pull alongside 

a tinted window opens

and two young ladies 

(teenagers?)

are screaming  

“Creepy fucking meth head!

Learn how to drive!”

I laugh at the “meth head” remark

then express my own feelings

which involves the phrase 

“stupid cunts!”

but I don’t think

they even hear me

I cannot outshout 

these two mad lionesses 

they are ferocious

as they continue to scream

what a creepy loser I am

and I should get a life

until they finally take off

tires squealing 

I’m as outmatched now

as I ever was

I recall incidents 

from long ago 

at high school parties

at bars...

later, I see myself 

in the mirror 

my two week beard

the long hair

I smile

and look at my teeth

not exactly gleaming white

but still

there they are

creepy? maybe...

but “meth head?”

my ass!

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse, much of it on the so-called "grittier" side.  Folk poetry...for folks. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.

You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here. by James H Duncan

the long, aching descent into midnight

guided by the neon bar lights reflecting

off the whiskey and gin bottles lining

the mirror, our reflections blocked,

the doorways and exits blocked, the cries

of the innocent outside muted by the last

of our collective quarters in the jukebox

playing out the gutter hymns that will

never save our souls but at least sooth

the pain we feel when raising our glasses 

to indicate we’d like another, please,

just one more before we close our eyes

to the darkness of the lights going out

one by one until we navigate by pure

desire alone, my last friend in this realm

whispering beside me how glad he was

to know he’d finally go where she 

might be waiting for him, but I do not

reply, it already happened, we have risen

and fallen at once, glasses emptying

in a last eucharist gesture, 

our sins needing no forgiveness,
just the darkness within the dark, 

the endless shades of night, 

where even creation becomes a myth

and the memory of neon reflections

the only religion that matters   

James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Feral Kingdom, Nights Without Rain, Dead City Jazz, What Lies In Wait, and other collections of poetry and fiction. He also writes reviews of indie bookshops at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit www.jameshduncan.com. 

The Grande Burrito by Nathan Graziano

I cannot finish The Grande Burrito,
having barely left a dent. Whatever
is the opposite of grande in Spanish,
that is me. I also cannot dive into
a body of water or parallel park a car.
or bench press my own weight. When
challenged in conversation, I cannot
snap off a quick or witty turn of phrase.
I cannot unclasp a bra with one hand
or kiss a girl first without ten drinks
in me. I cannot execute the little things,
forget the grande. I cannot tell a lie.

Nathan Graziano lives in Manchester, New Hampshire, with his wife and kids. His books include Teaching Metaphors (Sunnyoutside Press), After the Honeymoon (Sunnyoutside Press) Hangover Breakfasts (Bottle of Smoke Press in 2012), Some Sort of Ugly (Marginalia Publishing in 2013), and My Next Bad Decision (Artistically Declined Press, 2014). Almost Christmas, a collection of short prose pieces, was published by Redneck Press in 2017. Graziano writes a baseball column for Dirty Water Media in Boston. For more information, visit his website: www.nathangraziano.com.  

Ozzie and Harriet Tubman. By Dig Wayne

Ozzie was on his fifth hi-ball when Ilene limped in. She noticed his splintered chin melting on the bar. His watch read 12:38. 

Leroy, the barkeep, knew. 

"I got my eye on you Ilene. Don't try to steal his watch." 

"Give me some credit, Leroy. It's a goddam Timex." 

"Your credit's no good here, Ilene. We've danced to that dead beat before.”

"Shuddup Leroy. You're not clever. I got a brand new Tubman twenty and I'm free, black and 52. Give me a shot and a punch in the gut." 

Ilene eased onto the stool next door to Ozzie. She fake-coughed to stir his attention away from the inside of his eyelids. 

"Hey, sailor. What's got you all perforated? You look like my ulcer." 

"Gnuh?" Ozzie snorted. 

Ilene crossed her good leg over her bad. 

"You're new to this facility, don't recognize your smell. You local?" 

Ozzie ventured a mumble. 

"They never tell you they lie. It would be a lie to believe that truth." 

Ilene shot Leroy a look. Leroy kept his job. He delivered her order and waited for the Tubman. Ilene rolled the balled up 20 at Leroy but kept her bead on Ozzie. 

"She done you wrong, eh?" 

Ozzie was an open book with every other chapter ripped out. 

"Watering, always with the watering and planting. Non-stop. I look for her... She's not in the house, she's watering. Telling me about a thousand types of ground cover. What do I care about the fuckin'...what's coverin' the fuckin' ground... Now she won't even come in the house. Pitched a goddamn tent out there." 

Just then, Leroy brought Ilene's change. Ozzie kept singing the blues. 

"She left me for the garden." 

"My old lady left me for the pool guy," Leroy offered. 

"I don't have a gardener. I cut my own grass." 

Ilene knocked her drinks back and counted her change. 

"Don't be an asshole, Leroy."

Dig Wayne put together his first chapbook in 1999. It was called Blurts and Blusters. He has somehow lost all 6 copies. “Perhaps when I’m dead, one will turn up for my children to read and wonder who their father really was…”  

Dig’s poetry has been published in the literary journals, Askew and Spillway. He has two self-published works, Bongo Skin and Hip Pockets. He is working on two new collections, Horny Chandeliers and a 45 page Haiku manuscript entitled One Fell Swoop. Dig grew up in Ohio and has practiced his art in New York City and London. More at Digwayne.com

You Stood at the Station by John Greiner

I left noon
in wonder,
wanting evenings
in your head,
I ran to you
while you stood
at the station
abandoned.
I knew that you'd
tell me to go away.
I knew that you'd
say that that night,
nights past,
nights to come
had nothing to do
with
what I wanted,
what I needed
to get through
to you.
I fell through
lovers
and mountains
looking
for a morning
running in front
of the sun
trying to beat
its grip
on the sky.
I outpaced
wolves
and pilgrims
who waited
for the blood
of morning
only to return
to your night time
eyes that are stars
that suffocate
the moon
and are always
in my mind.

John Greiner is a Pushcart Prize nominated writer living in Queens, NY. He was educated at the New School for Social Research.  Greiner's work has appeared in Sand, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Valueand numerous other magazines. His chapbooks, broadsides and collections of poetry and short stories includeTurnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2017), The Laundrymen(Wandering Head Press, 2016), Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press, 2014),Modulation Age (Wandering Head Press, 2012), Shooting Side Glances(ISMs Press, 2011) and Relics From a Hell’s Kitchen Pawn Shop (Ronin Press, 2010). 

Apologies to W.C. by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I could be drunk,

resting my bones

in the red wheelbarrow 

glazed and dazed

by the white chickens 

besides the fence,

but alas there is no

fence or white chickens,

and there is definitely 

no red wheelbarrow.

Luis was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health 

field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Beatnik Cowboy,

Dope Fiend Daily, Unlikely Stories, and Zygote In My Coffee.

I Went on a Walk to Clear My Head. By Gwil James Thomas

 

On a street in Antiguo, 

a man on a quad bike 

waits at the lights, 

munching a handful 

of Sour Cream Pringles 

from a packet by his crotch - 

a bright white worm is 

partially stuck to the tyre 

of a parked jeep, 

looking otherworldly 

against the jet black rubber - 

a man wanders over 

and welcomes the worm 

with a cloud of 

cigarette smoke,

before squishing it 

with his plimsol - 

a couple of floors up, 

through open window shutters 

an elderly woman stares 

down and cries, 

as a young woman 

on a balcony to the right 

starts playing the violin 

and grins, 

beautifully.

Gwil James Thomas is a novelist, poet and inept musician from Bristol, England. He is a Best of The Net nominee whose work can be found widely in print and also online. He is currently laying low somewhere in Northern Spain. His fourth poetry chapbook - Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry (Concrete Meat Press) can be found here: 

https://adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress/publications