Last Call By Michael Minassian

Alone at the bar,

I tap my foot

to a Roy Orbison song,

something about sorrow

and a woman from long ago.

Tonight I couldn’t write

anything longer

than what fits

on the beer coaster,

making up excuses:

I’m hungover,

have a headache,

a woman I slept with

had hairy armpits.

Not that I cared—

I thought I was in love

but she loved women more.

Is that all there is?

she whispered

when we woke 

up in the morning,

kissing me once 

before she got dressed.

The bartender interrupts 

my reverie:

Closing time, he growls

slapping a wet towel 

on the bar in front of me.

I search my phone

for her number…

Last call, I think to myself.

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

 

Where Are the Sonnets? By Steven Bruce

She said, None of your poems rhyme

and where are the sonnets?

Oh, but life’s rhythms

aren’t written in syllable counts.

Nor is our iron forged

by trite rhyme schemes.

At worst, man’s form

is a hurricane colliding

with an erupting volcano.

At best, it’s a night of music,

libation, and a partner he adores

climaxing at the end of his tongue.

Man is a simple beast grazing

in fields of dissonance.

He never stops

to appreciate the flowers

because they never stop

to appreciate him.

And his mind’s a gun chamber

loaded with infernal reflections.

Steven Bruce is a writer and multiple-award-winning author. His poems and short stories have appeared in numerous international anthologies and magazines. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing.

Taking Up Space By Bruce Morton

Elbows planted
Firm on the bar
Holds down his place
He contemplates space
Black holes and voids
Thinking—
About everything
He avoids here
Sipping just one more
Beer calculating
The elasticity of red light
As it stretches in the night
And the difference between
A gigayear and yesterday

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His collection, Planet Mort, is just published (FootHills Publishing, 2024).

So, I Moved To This Strange Town To Die (DRINK UP!) By Kevin M. Hibshman

...or perhaps, not.

DRINK UP!

Lately I view death as a friend waffling about among the blind and belligerent who are sorely afflicted , helplessly addicted to lost causes.

DRINK UP!

I want to simply close my eyes and drift, slipping mortality's rusted chain from my ankle.

If I cannot fly, I just might try to swim.

DRINK UP!

I just want to rest, to ease the pounding in my head and in my chest.

DRINK UP!

No drugs, no sex, nor the desire to perspire.

DRINK UP!

I realize that I can't check out just yet.

Something great might lie ahead?

Find me a bar and a best friend to rent because liquor is expensive and my check's already spent

DRINK UP!

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

His current book Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press is currently available on Amazon. 

Battle of the Bands By Robert Donohue

What happened to those bands you once saw live

Back when the scene was really underground?

You know the ones, who pioneered the sound

Yet somehow never managed to survive.

It could have been they were too cool to strive

And sabotaged their chance at being found.

It’s possible they might be sill around,

Content to play a warehouse or a dive.

What if you were the one who could decide

Which rocking bands find purchases on our shore

Instead of being swept out on the tide?

What would you use this special power for?

Would you enlighten us, or just deride

Our taste? Would you be right, and nothing more?

Robert Donohue's poetry has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Better Than Starbucks, and Oddball Magazine, among others. He lives on Long Island, NY.

Closing time By Alex Stolis

We’re a deadly crash waiting
to happen, emergency room
doors closing fast,

tonight is one of those
nights, the kind that never end,
the last of the bombast,

we are unarmed
and unprepared
for what comes next,

but I love how your hair falls
over your eyes when you smile
that smile that smolders,

fingertips a breath away
from my forearm, neon blaring
jukebox howling,

bartender knowing,
the crowd thinning,
and closing time

looks like longing, feels
like a whisper
before the end of the world.







Alex lives in Minneapolis.

The Cumulative Effect By J.D. Isip

The power had been out for days.
Bottle of cheap whiskey, a third gone,
my brother hadn’t even got to her death.
My little dog shivered under the covers.

Eyes bloodshot, “You don’t know how hard it is,”
what he tried to put into order, the difficulty of it
plain on his red face, “What do you know anyway?”

Before I could make my case, if possible,
the dog went still, a warm stream of urine
pouring over my leg, “Oh shit! Oh, goddamnit!”
My dog leapt to a corner, eyes wide on me.

“It’s okay,” I said, “It’s okay. You’re just cold.”
My brother began to cry in starts, like hiccups,
“You’re right, you’re right. I don’t feel anything.”

J.D. Isip’s full-length poetry collections include Kissing the Wound (Moon Tide Press, 2023) and Pocketing Feathers (Sadie Girl Press, 2015). His third collection, tentatively titled I Wasn’t Finished, will be released by Moon Tide Press in early 2025. J.D. lives in Texas with his dogs, Ivy and Bucky.