Stopping to Take a Piss on a Cross- Country Trek After Being Tailed by a Cop for the Last Ten Miles by Jason Ryberg

This hot night,

beside a country road that runs
roughly parallel to the Missouri River,

leaning against the car
under the light of countless stars
and listening to Sam and Dave on the radio,

passing what’s left of a bottle of Old Crow,
back and forth, after a day of truck stop coffee,
and now only twenty miles to go.

So, you just Zen out and dial down a little.
Sometimes, when the universe says pull over,

you do it.

 

Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,
notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be
(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors.
He is currently an artist-in-residence at both
The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s
and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor
and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection
of poems is The Great American Pyramid Scheme
(co-authored with W.E. Leathem, Tim Tarkelly and
Mack Thorn, OAC Books, 2022). He lives part-time
in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red
and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere
in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also
many strange and wonderful woodland critters

Good Shoes by Sarah Sarai

A horse walks into a bar. Bartender says, good shoes. Pour me a big one, the horse responds. Lowers his head, slightly. They were a gift. Raises his not unmonumental head and through tired eyes studies the bartender, who is staring at him. You want something, pal, the horse asks, adding, Like what you see? Want some of this? You going to pour me one or not. The bartender measures out a whiskey, his best, although it should be noted his best is just good enough. This is not San Francisco. This is the sticks. A cowpoke bar. The bartender has cow-poking in his blood, by way of his father and brothers. Himself? Never poked a cow and sure never served a horse before but these days you can’t say anything or else some libtard’ll accuse you of violating their rights and want to take a punch at someone, the bartender or a lame-ass drunk. Maybe at the horse. No, surely not that. Too risky. This is no small creature. You ever been punched, the bartender asks. The horse reflects. Noses his glass over for another double. Depends what you mean. His eyes roll back and the bartender thinks he might be sick but the horse is fine. A few times some kid has thought to make use of a tree branch snapped off, he says, a sapling. But I can kick. Never touched any kid although I assure you I have scared them off. Generally, all I have to do is switch my tail and the kid thinks like a fly and buzzes off. This horse likes to talk, the bartender notes. He tops off the horse’s whiskey. Have I been manhandled? The horse’s lips pull back, revealing a set of teeth no one would look forward to having visit their person. Stupid question. I’ve worked most of my life. Of course there’s been stuff. What do you care? You a freak? You want to sneak into the stable at midnight to see what could happen? Bring a woman? I bet you hate all of them except your mother and she’s not around to say what a no-good louse you have become. The bartender shudders because the horse’s insights are accurate and offbase. Bring a lady to me for servicing. Please. The horse notes a sudden quiet in the bar which has almost emptied. No one wants to meet the horse’s gaze. I’m a horse and horses are equipped like horses. It’s the way of the world. What do I owe you? The bartender says he is working on a barter system and conversation will be bartered for whiskey. Snorting, the horse carefully turns around. I traveled from the ranch by the old oak to get here, he tells the bartender who responds, Well, then it’s a good thing you have good shoes. The horse shakes his head in agreement and begins his journey home.

# # #

Sarah Sarai saw Gene Autry on horseback when the cowboy and his horse visited her grammar school in Southern California. She writes poetry and fiction and flash. Her most recent poetry collection is That Strapless Bra in Heaven (Kelsay Books). Sarah Sarai is an independent editor of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Join her at https://www.facebook.com/farstargirl

Omnibus Drink Selection Happy Hour by Randall Rogers

Into conscious

mechanization I

pour

into the fluid life

of a margarita machine

solid state

meandering

pulse

free to ripple

surge develop

ice cube

sugar electricity

spark enough

to blow our minds

to smithereens

weeping depression

melancholia

restricting life support

till visions

and breakfast

pull us all back

from the brink

of sanity

still breathing

pure magic.

 

 

 

 

He is Randall Rogers, visionary poet of the prairie. A cowboy, yea, a beatnik; a Beatnik Cowboy. He is an old young, sorry. Here he exhibits new work. More flashes in the pan. I hope the world, nay, you editor, approveth of seeth/something here. (Currently reading "Pilgrim's Progress") Adios! I kind of reworked these to work in booze but they are total virgins (never put out).

Getting Even at the 19th Hole by Mikki Aronoff

Your eyes welcome the dark, the soap suds that cling to the backs of the bartender’s hairy hands, their slow wipes of the glasses as his brown eyes flirt with you for tips. He slides your beer across the bar, his gaze never leaving your parted lips. Soon that muscled buck curves around the bar, glides his hunk towards you, hungry as that sonofabitch roving husband of yours. He perches on the edge of the barstool next to you. His knees brush yours as you drink him up from boot tips to hips. Your tongue lathers as a low chuckle bubbles up from your throat. Your eyes fix on his, his on yours. Yours signal right, his left, both to where the His and Hers doors are, a dimly lit hallway with framed, glossy black & whites of swingers of the golf variety. You move there linked like conjoined twins. A long whiff of musk sends you stumbling back and up against the wall. He presses into your ready acceptance. You teach music, play country on your Gibson. Rhythms are second nature to you. You tilt and grind to his desire, and he to yours, not a word between you and two minutes tops. But worth a repeat, you suspect. Then act. You hoof it over to the bar two nights a week, then three, then four. At five, your husband blanches at the tally. When you’ve advanced from lag to level to eclipse, he grumbles to you at the imbalance, at unpressed work shirts and the uncooked chicken-fried steak limp on the linoleum kitchen counter. You reach for the cast iron skillet, squeeze out a sorry tear. This won’t last, you pinky swear, knowing it will.

Mikki Aronoff’s work appears in New World Writing, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Tiny Molecules, The Disappointed Housewife, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Mslexia, The Dribble Drabble Review, and elsewhere. She has received Pushcart, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction nominations.

a list by Gabriel Bates

it's the caffeine,
the nicotine,
the early mornings
and late nights.

it's the bad knee that slips
and the lower back that aches.

it's the stained work jeans
and the old steel-toes.

it's that co-worker
who acts like the boss
and that boss
who acts like God.

it's the daily chores
and screaming kids.

it's the same argument,
over and over again.

it's the question
of what's for dinner tonight,
and who's making it?

it's the lack of free time
and silence,
the abundance of to-do lists
and bills to pay.

it's the dreams
that were forgotten about
and the nightmares
that came to life.

 

it's all just a part
of the American way.

 

 

 

 

Gabriel Bates is a poet living in Tiffin, Ohio. His work has appeared in several publications, online and in print. Keep up with him at gabrieljbates.blogspot.com.

1962 Channel 9 Windsor by John Harold Olson

When Lord Athol Layton held
The mic on Big Time Wrestling
The world was steady and good.

Agents of darkness,
a home coming apart
No matter as
The Lord had a steady hand,
Always.

Lord Layton
Ensured an hour
on Saturday afternoon
was a time
to sort out the
heels and
Issue an invitation to
see the night card at Windsor Arena
With plenty of free, well
lighted parking.

“And , mark you, I’ll see
to The Sheik,” Lord Layton said.

 

 

Retired Las Vegas teacher now a hospice volunteer.

 

Notepad poem No. 4 by Alex Salinas

 This is not an endorsement—it’s self-inflicted
tunnel vision. God, how some books are on
fire. We were driving down Wurzbach during
the witching hour when she said James
Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice was written
in gasoline. I said, “Yes, and nothing is left
of that world.” I have secrets not even
Death will pry out of me. I seized this pen
only because my nerve endings tingled—the shark
is swimming thru my heart. The difference between
prose & poetry is the brash moon or the shy host
on the Black Spandex. I was born to die
in myself. I live to exhaust extant ink
under my feet which do not always carry me home.
I own the words that own me. The letdown
is that people fill in their ghosts like Magritte’s
Pilgrim. The letdown is that legends are boiled
into words. (This is a good problem to have.)
Some of my gasoline lives in a Nike shoebox;
I wear a 10 when I’m not fleeing from my life.
The last night of the Earth means it’s still
night. Whether you die or not, always hit ’em with,
“Cool invite.” When Frida said, “I hope the exit is
joyful,” & left us w/ her appetite. I’m here for it. I
am part blind but my wings work just fine. Coming? Alright.

 

 

 

 

Alex Z. Salinas is the author of poetry collections WARBLES and DREAMT, or The Lingering Phantoms of Equinox. He is also the author of a book of stories, City Lights From the Upside Down. His third collection of poems, Hispanic Sonnets, is forthcoming through FlowerSong Press. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University.