Frozen Face by Linda Imbler

To me:
Have you ever considered Botox?

Let me put it this way.
When I was a kid,
my mother used to tell me,
“your face is going to freeze like that!”
Back then,
I figured this was just
sloppy thinking on her part.

But, nowadays,
I realize there is a way
to prove that she knew
what she was talking about.

So, needle me all you want
about my opinion.
On second thought,
I’ll pass on the needles.

Linda Imbler's second ebook "Pairings," is a collection of wonderful short fiction stories loosely coupled with excellent poetry selections which help intensify the reading experience. The topics address myriad subjects and styles ranging from selective mutism to speculative short fiction to revealing new historical facts. These are vital writings rooted in the values of a valiant civilization.

Testing Sanity by Hugh Blanton

There's nothing more pleasurable than solitary drinking.

Preferably on a cold night - the heater on rain splashing

on the concrete outside.

Sublime.

But once a month or so I hit the bars.

I can't really figure out why.

I almost always regret it the next day

as I wake up and the memories of the

previous night's events start bubbling up

out of my hungover brain. It's an overwhelming

assault of both vision and sound.

The repetitive nonsense I yammer endlessly.

The angry glare from the woman at the end of the bar

who overheard my whispered gossip about her.

The sexual encounter in the restroom.

The bouncer unlocking the door and walking in.

Even things that happened over a decade ago

still rip at me to this day.

Why do I keep going back?

Releasing myself from solitude is necessary

to check my sanity. As of yet - I've never evaluated myself

sane enough to become one of the crowd -

so I retreat again. And I never improve.

Crazier than a shit house rat.

Hugh Blanton is a truck loader who combs poems out of his hair during those times he can steal away from his employer's loading dock. He has appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey, The Dope Fiend Daily, Terror House Magazine and other places.

Steel City Christmas. By Greg Clary

                                                                         

Having a fish sandwich

and Iron City at

Pittsburgh’s oldest bar, the

Original Oyster House.

149 years on the same corner.

No frills, one page menu,

recipes 100 years old.

Cash only.

My wife asks: “Do you

have any Hendicks gin?”

“Nope—Gordons and Gilbey’s.

Tanqueray sometimes.”

It’s the Tuesday night before Christmas.

Outside the door, Pittsburgh’s

seasonal Holiday Village

had taken over Market Square.

Kiosks selling distinctive ethnic

Christmas ornaments fill the area.

Ukranian tree balls, Irish trinity knots,

Bavarian Santa’s, Kenyan soapstone stars.

Behind the bar hangs a huge, faded 

poster of Rocky Marciano, 

with all 49 fights listed

below his Christmas wreathed picture.

Undefeated and still

Heavyweight Champion of the world.

Festooned with colored lights, his right arm back,

ready to knock your ass out.

Stepping back to the restroom,

I hear the bartender say to the cook:

“Hey Jigsy, you fucked up.”

“I fucked up the day I started working here.”

I paused, caught his eye and said

“Merry Christmas, Jigsy.”

He sighed, smirked, and said,

“Merry Christmas, my man.”

Greg Clary is Professor Emeritus of Rehab and Human Services at Clarion University, Clarion Pa.

His poems have appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review, The Watershed Journal, and North/South Appalachia: Poems Vol 1.

His photographs have been published in The Sun Magazine, Looking at Appalachia, Tiny Seed Journal, and The Watershed Journal.

He resides in Sligo, Pennsylvania and is a Son of Turkey Creek, West Virginia.

A Couple of Shots. By Puma Perl

A couple of shots later

We wind up onstage singing a Stones song

A couple more and we’re leaning against the wall

I ask how are you and we talk of blood moons,

full eclipses, and loss, why lately it always comes

back to loss, buildings falling, streets caving,

dying alone while we bang our heads uselessly,

pockets too small to carry everybody’s keys.

It only takes a shot to remember and five or six

to forget, we stop at four, a number good enough

but not great, and we are all on stage like Judy

or Lenny or Billie, trying on the truth if only for

a minute, a couple of shots later and we are backed

against the wall again, singing a Ramones song while

the full moon thinks about waning but decides to

hang around, just for another couple of shots.

                   Photo by Ellen Berman

Puma Perl is a poet and writer, with five solo collections in print. The most recent is Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque Books, 2019.) She is the producer/creator of Puma’s  Pandemonium, which brings spoken word together with rock and roll, and she performs regularly with her band Puma Perl and Friends. She’s received three New York Press Association awards in recognition of her journalism, and is the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing.

Honest Drunk at a Poetry Reading in a Bar by Jonathan K. Rice

No telling how long
he’d been there
before the poet showed up.

There’s a Pabst
and a shot of whiskey
in front of him.

His sleeves wet
from leaning into circles
of sweat from the beer bottle.

The poet situates the mike
as the hostess adjusts the lights
and stacks his books on a table.

Testing one one one.
Can you hear me in the back?
Welcome,welcome!

The drunk looks at his buddy,
the poet, the bartender.
What the fuck?

The hostess introduces the poet,
who gauges the crowd
before he begins.

He reads poems about drinking,
gambling, topless bars, women,
blue collar stuff.

He keeps it short, maybe fifteen
minutes. Figures the clientele
won’t stomach much poetry.

But the drunk shouts
read some more!
So the poet reads a few more poems

Okay that’s enough!
the honest drunk exclaims.
The poet capitulates and thanks the crowd.

Jonathan K. Rice edited Iodine Poetry Journal for seventeen years. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Killing Time (2015), Ukulele and Other Poems (2006) and a chapbook, Shooting Pool with a Cellist (2003), all published by Main Street Rag Publishing. He is also a visual artist. His work has appeared most recently in Amethyst Review, As It Ought To Be, First Literary Review-East, The Main Street Rag, Minute Magazine, Rye Whiskey Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Trailer Park Quarterly and forthcoming in Abbey and San Pedro River Review. 

COLUMBIA MISSOURI AIRPORT. By John Clayton

Waiting for Flight U A 5840 from Chicago,

I remembered when I was 17 and this land was a soy bean field

surrounded by brush piles and Multiflora rose.

Out the East window of the Berkshire house

I watched coyotes worry a brush pile.

The pressure on the rabbit to run, mounted.

I wondered if uncertainty and fear 

would cause the rabbit 

to abandon caution and make a run for it.

Run?  But to where?

Just another clump of Multiflora rose or brush pile?

So another cycle of intimidation and fear could begin?

The largest coyote jumped on top of the brush pile

and began digging and yelping.

Could the coyote reach the rabbit by scratching at the limbs?

Who knows?  Terror is a great motivator.  

To much for the rabbit.  

It raced out of the brush pile and had a 30 yard 

head start before the coyotes knew it was gone.

The race was on.

200 yards to the bank of the creek.

The coyotes were gaining.

Out of nowhere a shadow over head, talons reached forward , 

the rabbit screamed and was airborne.

The coyotes stopped running, milled around looking puzzled,

as they watched their almost meal disappear into the wild blue yonder.

The rabbit was erased by something it did not see coming.

There are no more soy beans, 

no more brush piles, no more multiflora rose

no more rabbits.

Only concrete, chain-link fences,

stone and metal buildings, cars,

 a loud speaker no one can understand

the squawk of rubber hitting runway, 

the whir of automatic sliding doors.

The only animal life are little dogs

wearing colorful clothing, tugging

at leashes held by old women.

All the humans wear faces pinched with anxiety

and uncertainty.  Wondering if today

is the day they will be erased

by something they can not see coming.

John Clayton lives in rural Maries County, Missouri with his wife, Dawn, on 56 acres where, with the exception of invasive spices and the garden, nature is left to her own devices. John has been published in Gasconade Review and online in Wine Drunk Sidewalk: Ship Wrecked in Trumpland.

among the smoking avenues of torn petals by rob plath

there’s a built-in pistol behind my temples
unloading on my peace until it’s swiss cheese
there’s a built-in pistol behind my temples
blasting my prayers like sitting ducks
there’s a built-in pistol behind my temples
whipping my angels into a terrible heap
but i keep placing flowers in its barrel
between the gunfire & sometimes at night
when the smoke clears the quiet muzzle
is occupied by the blue face of a violet

rob plath is a writer from new york.  he is most known for

his monster collection  A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY (epic rites press 2009) .  

his newest collection is MY SOUL IS A BROKEN DOWN VALISE (epic rites press 2019). 

you can see more of his work at robplath.com