My Name is Katarina by Troy Schoultz

By age fourteen I wanted to ditch shooting hoops with the boys
And have Daddy makes his own fucking waffles.
I was tired of wearing sweatpants, tired of my
Wild hair, sick of my brothers putting me in headlocks
And calling me “Kit-Kat.” My name is Katarina,
I want to be a dancer,
And I’ll make your lives hell until you remember it.
On Wednesdays after morning mass
I’d stop by the church and light a candle for my mother 
with a stolen lighter I keep next to my stolen eyeliner, lip gloss
and the pocket mirror she left me.

I lied about my age to get this waitressing job,
And it looks like I’m still serving waffles to men with hangovers.
The goddamn name tag
I wear only has enough space for “Kathy” but I
Make a point of correcting the customers. 
Yesterday some old creeper, almost thirty, complimented me
On my smile, but it wasn’t my mouth he was looking at. Gross.
But I guess it’s a step up from headlocks free throws..

Troy Schoultz is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. His poems, stories, and reviews have appeared in Seattle Review, Rattle, Slipstream, Chiron Review, Word Riot, Fish Drum, The Great American Poetry Show, Steel Toe Review, Midwestern Gothic and many others since 1997. His interests and influences include rock and roll, vinyl LPs, found objects, the paranormal, abandoned places, folklore, old cemeteries and the number five. He is the author of two full length collections and two chapbooks

Negative Capability by Gregory Luce

To fly straight between
low clouds and high water,
racing just ahead of the fatal
longing, the craving for
the next hit, the next
kiss, the next shot,
the fix that fixes
nothing, living between
the mire of the past
and the glittering
illusion of the future.

Gregory Luce, author of Signs of Small Grace, Drinking Weather, Memory and Desire, Tile, and Riffs & Improvisations (forthcoming), has published widely in print and online. He is the 2014 Larry Neal Award winner for adult poetry, given by the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. He writes a monthly column on the arts for Scene4 magazine. He is retired from National Geographic, works as a volunteer writing tutor/mentor for 826DC, and lives in Arlington, VA.

Twenty-Twenty by Chris Butler

Anarchy in Twenty-Twenty!
Internationally it is illegal chemical warfare to use bear mace to the face and tear gas stink bombs,
but our own servers and protectors
use it as the first line of defense against its own citizens,
as a form of peaceful and equal dispersing of violence.   

Chris Butler is an illiterate poet howling from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. The next books in his Poems of Pain series, DEAD BEATS (by Dr. Randall Rogers & Chris Butler) and DOOMER, are scheduled for release in 2021. He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy. 

   

Searching for Real by Dan Provost

For Mike Taylor
 
I’ve chased the gods
many times in
 
dreaded dreams
where I was hoping to touch
at least a tassel of a robe or
 
find a hint of something that
truly exists.
 
Sometimes, I also feel a touch
on my shoulder during a 37 Miller Lite
binge.
 
…A ghost that
whispers in my ear,
 
Saying--
 
And even if you could, so what?
 
I raise my bottle…
Toasting the invisible,
quiet hero…
 
Hoping he could
hop the gate around
my fence
 
…and tell me
 
if I should or not?

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

 

Make Me Feel Something by Lisa Reynolds

I tell him I want more 

not too much

just enough to make me feel something

like this crazy world we’re living in is worth the effort

you know – 

and he nods like he understands

but I don’t think he does

cuz his hand shakes when he pours

just pours -

mouth closed with a tight knit smile that says

this will make you feel something even if I don’t.

Lisa Reynolds is a writer of poetry and short stories, known for her reflective writing style. She is published in numerous online and print publications. She lives in a small community east of Toronto, Ontario.

Buzzing by Carrie Magness Radna

When we were younger, I kissed you by a Marshall amp
after the guitars of your band stopped all of their buzzing,
& did you feel the same electric buzz 
when we laced our fingers together,
when we stepped away from the microphone?

That same night

I read a poem by a recent refugee
at the makeshift punk club in an abandoned strip mall in OKC—

No one cared to listen at first,
until I screamed out loud: “Shut the fuck up!”
People began to cheer; I can hear fights starting outside—

(Hey, it was the ‘90s)
I don’t need to be high to feel alive. I’m already there—

As the chords died from your guitar,
you motioned me over,
& mouthed: “Sing some words with us, Babe”

So fucking nervous—I kept my eyes closed
as I stumbled over my consonants
& turned my words around

as you strummed out your broken chords
while the others danced & sweated for longer moments
without really listening to us—

& when the amps went spotty suddenly,
breaking down the simple dichotomy too easily,
you sighed & pulled me aside,
& kissed me under the lights—

Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves traveling. Her poems have previously appeared in The Oracular Tree, Mediterranean Poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Shot Glass Journal, Poetry Super Highway, Polarity eMagazine, Walt’s Corner, The Poetic Bond (VIII & IX), First Literary Review-East and Jerry Jazz Musician. Her first chapbook, Conversations with dead composers at Carnegie Hall (Flutter Press) was published in January 2019, and her self-published chapbook, Remembering you as I go walking (Boxwood Star Press) was published in August 2019. Her first poetry collection, Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press) was published in December 2019. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, she lives with her husband in Manhattan

My Uncle from Pottsville by Mark Tulin

Uncle Leo liked country music
in a town called Pottsville
He played Cash and Merle 
on a wood-grained clock radio
in a warehouse full of red potatoes
His old rump sat on a spinning stool 
as time passed slowly 
with each cigarette and phone call

He lost his balance in a dumpy bar, 
his life sucked inside of an old coke bottle
and a whisky sour
He chased the ragged night 
in his Oldsmobile
and never got a moving violation
or arrested when he punched a cop

His fingers browned with nicotine 
and feet turned a nasty shade of green
His Bic Pen bled from his heart
and left a big hole in his shirt pocket 
Some days he ate an Italian submarine
and a bag of barbecue chips
and imagined being a monkey in a cage
playing the tambourine. 

Mark Tulin is a former psychotherapist who lives in California. He has a Pushcart Prize nomination and authored Magical Yogis, Awkward Grace, The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories, and Junkyard Souls. He appeared in numerous publications and podcasts. He can be found at https://www.crowonthewire.com.