FIVE OF WANDS (REVERSED) By Robert Beveridge

They never replace the bulb

near the table in the corner

which is why the chair is empty

unless I’m in it. The bartender

knows my drink, the waitress

brings the new one when there’s

a quarter-inch left in the glass.

A few bruised kidneys and full

pages later it’s time to pack up

and leave some twenties and open

the door and walk into the sunshine

but only as far as the theater

next door, screen one, right side,

four rows from the door, aisle.

It is nothing, it is all, it doesn’t

matter what the movie is as long

as it is a movie and it is playing.

There is a groove in the sidewalk.

It will get deeper.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.

THE WORST JOB I COULD EVER DO. By Bradford Middleton

If i did ever get that job
That job that so many,
Including myself, would
Dread for me to get it
Surely wouldn’t last long.

Working in a bar, i never
Could.  The shots they
Pour are way too small
And i’d always insist, no
Way you can’t have it
Like that, pouring in a
Large double-double.

One for you, one for me
Within three months the
Place would be bankrupt
And my liver would need
Replacing.

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. 

At a Hotel in Bradford, PA By Jim Bourey

At the free breakfast she ate

a blueberry muffin. She nibbled

at it in small precious bites,

aware of herself,

making a show

of glistening lips,

white perfect teeth.

I saw her again later 

in a sad little tavern

one block down.

She leaned hard against

a man she didn’t know;

grasping with selfish purpose,

with forced desire, laughing loud,

eyes lit from within,

lips parted, drunk.

The next morning she reappeared

at the free hotel breakfast, 

disheveled, distraught 

and tired, unsure and confused.

She was tired of being

with all these strangers.

She was ready

to check out. 

Jim Bourey is an old poet who divides his year between the Adirondack Mountains and Dover, Delaware. His chapbook “Silence, Interrupted” was published in 2015 by the Broadkill River Press. His work has appeared in Mojave River Review, Paddock Review, Gargoyle and the Broadkill Review and other journals and anthologies. He was first runner up in the Faulkner-Wisdom Poetry Competition in 2012 and 2016. He has served as an adjudicator for the Poetry Out Loud competition in Delaware. In his North Country months, he is active with the St. Lawrence Area Poets and has taken part in Art/Poetry projects in Saranac Lake.

I’m a Veteran Asshole. By Dan Provost

Most poets are assholes

Compete in a small

box of well-wishers

who complement each other

until their ass bleeds crimson red.

Of course, I am guilty of

the crime I whine about…

Played the jerk in a drunken rage.

While well-meaning host, whose

only crime was that I tried to

play the filthy Bukowski bit.

I’m sorry to all those I

pushed down, yelled at,

complained about and ignored.

Old age, piss too much in

the middle of the night.

Has led me to be a bit more reflective

But --I’m going down and I 

know it…

So, to all you young

pretentious, wannabe rebels

in bard territory…

Write the word to

the best of your ability.

Let it stand…read

and walk away with

hands in pockets

Adjust the ballcap, say

thank you and move 

on.

Rebellion and hatred have

been played…

So much better than you and I 

can ever conceive.

Dan Provost has been published throughout the small press for many years.  He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura

Poem In A Winter Storm. By Jake St. John

The highway

iced over

with a thousand 

years

of sadness

the moon 

avoids

my stare

my heart

a deer

in headlights

coyotes

crouched

on the edge

of night

ready to pick

my bones

once again.

  

Jake St. John is the author of several collections of poetry including Snow Moon (Holy & Intoxicated Publications, 2019, Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019)and Working Man’s Odyssey (Analog Submission Press, 2018).  His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world.

My Bloody Chucks by Ashley Cooke

To the man who stole them off my porch

I wouldn't wear them inside your home

or anywhere you care about for that matter

hence why they stayed outside of my door nightly

they weren’t for you to take

but if you really need them

at least let me heed this warning…

They have tracked through punk shows

collecting samples of various spilled beer 

and the blood of someone's broken nose

who insisted on walking from the mosh pit

with his head pointed at everyone feet

because it’s so punk rock to bleed on everyone

They were also my work shoes at the hospital

and I collected many samples here too

from the guy who pissed blood 

to the woman with uncontrollable bowels

and that drunk patient 

who insisted on puking on the floor 

and not the bucket

So please continue to collect 

a petri dish of earth's samples

and hopefully you don’t catch anything

 that I have already grown immune to.

Ashley Cooke is a creative writing major attending Long Beach City College. She is from Long Beach, CA. She is currently working on her first poetry collection. Her work can be found in various online journals such as Moontide Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Scarlett Leaf Review and many others.

Beside You by C.M. Crockford

I'm weaved in

as stars are with the sky

as age

in New England houses

until we sleep

separate sides

of a king

we are entwined

for so long

but then

we have to return

to what we always are

My poetry and writings have been published in Ethos Literary Journal, Neologism Poetry Journalism, and The Junction among other journals and magazines. The first chapbook of my poems, Adore, is out now from Iron Lung Press. I'm a writer on the autistic spectrum. I live in Philadelphia, PA.