Amy by Wayne F. Burke

wearing her tie-dye t-shirt

into the meeting

and crying, and

said "he died!"

And someone said "who?"

And Amy said "Jerry!"

Jerry? Jerry who?

Jerry with the cowboy hat?

Jerry from Barre?

"No!" Amy said, sniffling, wiping

strands of strawberry hair from

her eyes:

"Jerry Garcia!"

Wayne F. Burke's poetry and prose has been widely published in print and online (including in THE RYE WHISKEY REVIEW). He was nominated for a Pushcart by THE DOPE FIEND DAILY in 2022. He lives in Vermont (USA).

Out Cold By K.G. Munro

The bar feels like home

With dead flies in the corner

And a mist of cigarette smoke  

Floating beneath the dingy 

yellow light that flickers 

Over a creaky pool table 

As the TV hums in the background

Each glass of dark amber relief

Carries me further into 

A numbed state as I retreat

Away from the call of a

Broken life beyond the heavy metal 

Door that symbolizes my mind

As I briefly chat with the barman 

To sate my loneliness for a while 

Before I sip the final glass

Out cold I become across

the sticky bar stools.

K.G. Munro is an author and poet. Here are a few of her writing credits: Indian Periodical, Ink Pantry, The Wombat Post, Pawners Papers, Reformed Journal, FreshOutMag, Spillwords, Scottish Book Trust, Mad In America, Earthly Comforts and Humans Of The World Blog. 

A Hard Slap of Rain By Michael Minassian

You once said I was better 

than

your favorite whiskey;

back then, the rain 

tapped on the windows

like a typewriter

in an endless paragraph

we wrote together.

Last night, each drop 

of rain sounded

like pebbles we threw 

in the lake:

a hard slap before 

they sank to the bottom—

The last thing you said 

as you poured another drink

was how you hated the rain;

maybe that’s why I left, 

climbing out the window 

to make my escape.

MICHAEL MINASSIAN is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing as well as a new chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information:
https://michaelminassian.com

The Bloody Mary Moon By Sharon Waller Knutson

is lighting up our yard

and my memories.

I can see my grandmother

in her curlers and housecoat

pouring V-8 Juice, Vodka,

and Worcestershire Sauce

into a mason jar and stirring

in salt and pepper before drinking

it down as I eat my Cheerios

with milk and drink my orange

juice in my pajamas. When I ask

what she is drinking and if I can

have some, she says, Bloody Mary.

Only for adults. One time I take

a sip when she turns her back

and it tastes so nasty 

I decide to be a child forever.

Sharon Waller Knutson has published eleven poetry books including The Leading Ladiees in My Life ( Cyberwit 2023) and her twelfth book, My Grandfather is a Cowboy is forthcoming in 2024. Her work has also appeared in more than 50 journals including One Art, Poetry Breakfast and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily.

Frisco Street Poet by Curtis Blazemore

for Zach Houston

sings like tequila for dollar a poem

slinging words like idiot street-corner savior

that he is

just sings it

for chrissakes works out a genius eight-liner on his

sunlit typewriter right

before my sunday morning eyes

crowds edging around his vaguely turdly smell but

I keep forking over bills

witness to poetic will I covet more

purely than any woman I’ve ever seen

knocking out little diamonds any topic

or theme

answers questioned

surprises reversed

structures built and designed in

rhythm with meter & slanted rhyme…

dude can make a bowl of meaning anywhere

& that’s it that’s the bravery

parking yourself on a corner imagining

poems for any random dick or jenny &

doing it man

I mean really doing it then just

shooing poems & people away like dirty orphans

Curtis Blazemore has been on the planet far too long, publishing various works in between having bad luck and making people rethink their faith in humanity. No matter. He sees sentences in the exhaled smoke and scribbles furiously. He hopes someday to be able to afford a Greyhound bus ticket to Graceland.

Internal Riot by Jonathan Butcher

All it took was a misplaced word

to ensure the sparks flew, 

and where they fell, the fires 

quickly created backdrafts. 

This entire city was under our palms,

our hands, however, struggled to hold a drunken 

balance. 

The concrete blocks slowly eroded,

almost in tandem with the surrounding

trees now surrendering to October.

The leaves of dry paint and rot created

a snow scene amongst the tagged 

and broken fences in our wake,

our lazy hands now grateful for the labour. 

Our feet hammered upon the pavement,

the shadows of closed shops store 

our yells that drench out the falling

glass, which splintered our fingers

for decades to come; the sirens

fail to deafen us, as it became apparent 

guilt is the last and the only emotion we lack.

Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, The Abyss, Cajun Mutt Press and others. His fourth chapbook, 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press.

He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press. 

Onward by Jeff Weddle

Every hot day, hot night, 

all the beer and pool, 

even the bowling, 

every minute spent talking stories 

and poems, 

barrooms, cigarettes, 

the spectacular vulgarity 

of bright youth, 

everyone in blue jeans and t-shirts 

or those all in black, 

the ones hiding 

in back of the classroom 

and the loud ones in the street, 

friends, enemies, neighbors, 

the cheating girlfriends, 

the backstabbers, the saints, 

the as-good-as dead,

the punks and hippies and bums, 

the good dogs and shifty cats, 

the drugs and the jails 

and all the nights 

spent beneath 

the rain, the stars, 

or the beckoning moon, 

all of it gone. 

Sure, write it down. 

Take a picture. 

Paint it in oils. 

Nothing works, 

so there’s nothing to do. 

You can’t go back 

and it’s not 

like you thought it was 

anyway. 

So forget it. 

Move on. 

To hell with everything. 

Keep burning.

Jeff Weddle is a poet and writer living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. His most recent books are Driving the Lost Highway (Uncollected Press, forthcoming) and a volume of selected poems in Albanian translation, VRITMË NËSE KE KOQE (Kosovo: Sabaiumbb 2023). His work has also appeared in Spanish translation. Jeff teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at The University of Alabama.