Running a Tab Close to Home by Tobi Alfier

My grandpa timed his visits to the bar based on the sun.
A poet of sorts, he liked to watch the fiery pink slow to gray,
then the twilight of sky to sea to night before dipping his head
through the beads at Pat’s to take his place on the stool—his for so long
they almost bronzed a plate with his name when they remodeled
some years ago.

But he said no, I’m a father now. I have responsibilities.
His nightly visits stopped for awhile, then came the bartering
with himself, then the hangdog she was better off without him
anyway. He’d hand her his check and run a tab, finger a twenty
from her purse when she was primping for her trip to the store,
a mild flirtation with the butcher bought her a bit more here and there,
for the children.

You could smoke at the bar then. My grandpa would come home late,
the coarseness of a pack of Pall Malls hiding scotch - neat – not that it mattered.
There was no drama, just resolute resignation. No reason for anger,
packed bags or even desire for appreciation by another. Too much effort.
My grandmother would just turn over and finish what faded to could have been,
plan tomorrow. Even on their anniversary.

My grandpa missed everything but the night’s colors.
By exception, he taught my father how not to be. That pride was no sin,
that the awkwardness of your son at his prom, poorly-fitting tux
and poorly-fitting girl, were right, that you have “the talk” even though
everyone knows everything far too young. And you bring flowers.

Now I understand those evening skies grandpa loved. The occasional scotch
and I are great friends. As are my father and I. My grandmother
had a hard life. The palm of her hand—a permanent shadow on the window
where she pushed the drapes aside to watch and wait. I stare into a bouquet
of wildflowers, see my entire life recaptured. Shadow and sky,
the same dirty glass. Melancholy and joyousness. Keeps a family going.

Tobi Alfier is a multiple Pushcart nominee and multiple Best of the Net nominee. Both “Slices of Alice & Other Character Studies” and a reprint of “Sanity Among the Wildflowers” were published by Cholla Needles Press. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).

Thaw. By John Greiner

After all of the falling

through the ice 

of March I realized

that there was no purpose

in continuing on,

at least not on foot.

Having seen my lovers

pulled from the lake

when the spring thaw came

I concluded that mermaids 

were the most fabulous 

practitioners of kink

that lust could create.

I wish that I were more daring.

I hold onto my breath too dearly.

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). 

.

Channel by Susan Tepper

Bury me in a giant keg, I’m lonely—

the squeeze of amniotic 

fluid waves made seminal 

a twin who didn’t escape

the narrow channel—

Question on whisky lips, 

always pondering 

the why— in the end

a reason for

hugging dark bars 

in daylight with other dead people.

Susan Tepper is the author of eight published books of fiction and poetry. Her most recent book just out in June is a road novel titled “What Drives Men.” It was shortlisted at American Book Fest Best Book Awards. Other honors and awards include eighteen Pushcart Nominations, a Pulitzer Prize Nomination for the novel “What May Have Been” (Cervena Barva Press, and currently being adapted for the stage), NPR’s Selected Shorts Series, Second Place Winner in Story/South Million Writers Award, Best Story of 17 Years of Vestal Review, Shortlisted 7th in the Zoetrope Novel Contest (2003), Best of the Net and more. Tepper is a native New Yorker.

THESE CONVERSATIONS by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

If I had not walked
into that bar I
would not be having
these conversations
with my friend who
only wants to give me
sound advice. I don’t
want to hear what I
need to hear sometimes.
Things are complicated
and personal and no
advice is sometimes
what I need. I know I’m
wrong but I just need an
ear to let my frustrations
out. In the end things will
get better or worse and
nothing is within our control
no matter how many books
are written on the subject.
It is best to remain quiet,
become a hermit, only go
outside for the essentials

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.

The devil has too many pitchforks by Melanie Browne

He hands them out in traffic
to the harried moms
to The struggling dads
he sneaks in at
night and leaves them
in The pantry
were they are mistaken
for a broom
and the wife
wonders why it
leaves so much
behind

The devil has too many
pitchforks,
he hands them
out like extra
plastic-wear at
the drive thru
restaurants
and
If you look
carefully
You can see
Them on
TV,
in commercials
and on the
internet,

I have even seen
them hanging
like a ladder
in the night sky

He hides
them under vulnerable
peoples beds,
unsuspecting
young men
use them
to
rake leaves
of resentment,
the piles
growing
bigger &
bigger
until
they jump in
and it swallows
them
whole

Melanie Browne is a poet and fiction writer living in Texas. She has been published in various journals and

online literary magazines such as Pulp Metal Magazine. She has also been included in several anthologies,

including Zombies Galore and Everyday poets 2.

Dating Pool. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Hey, I’m the nice guy.

You seen the rest of those sorry pig fuckers out there?

Sure, I’m half-crazy, but I got good intentions:

I want the seal to club itself into empowered submission 

the Amazon to roast marshmallows over its own dying ashes,

I’m such an individualist that I truly hope the individual 

can find themselves alone forever,

crying into fair wage bedsheets over fair trade coffee,

nothing like the 3rd world flicking its own bean;

those other guys only want one thing,

I’ll take much more than that

and have you seen how ugly the dating pool has gotten

in my absence?

Nothing but STDs with razor wire faces.

Best of luck my dear.

You’ll need it.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly,The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.

Smoke Signals by Jedediah Smith

A field of Turkey is on fire

cupped in the palm of my hand. 

My briar pipe with birdseye

woodgrain burns without burning,

latakia sends slow scented curls 

and clouds around my head 

as I write, shutting me

from your view, allowing 

me to make magic words

in a fine and private place. 

I'm a shaman - watch my smoke.

Jedediah Smith teaches literature, mythology, and whatever he can get away with at City College of San Francisco. His poetry has been published in California Quarterly, Ekphrastic Review, Mojave River Review, and The American Journal of Poetry. He also edited Parlando: Collected Poems of Ray Clark Dickson.