T H E • A M E R I C A N • P O E T by J.C Hawkes

So I read some raw pieces 
of American poetry 
written from 
the backbone
 of the American life. 
As I taste this autumn air, 
with a roll your own cigarette 
as the world only ever sees 
a dystopian Hollywood 
these days, in the form 
of long legs, hips up 
to here and the 
justice for all 
band of youths, 
all fighting 
brave 
doing 
it clean, 
showing the 
world how to 
breathe it in 
again 
and again 
and to build 
it all mean 

I admire the REAL American Poet, 
the writer who reports it 
from the ground. He 
speaks freely, 
without a 
GOD - 
whom many 
and they 
do not trust, 
in a city where 
struggle meets the 
pavement and truth rears 
it’s authentic head to contradict the 
Hollywood Hills romance death scenes. 

So, I absorb their thoughts 
the account of truth, 
and heed their 
warning and 
find myself far from
The Wonderland projected 
Broad and Wide on the T.V screen 
and while snoop dog is Calling it real, 
on the radio to Nikki Sixx - 
who says it’s all ok, 
down in L.A

I read the REAL Poet 
to feel the world 
behind the 
news, 
behind 
the movie theatre, 
Behind the halls of justice 
and the sickening high school 
love stories told from the hearts 
of an America claiming to be: 
The Strong and The Brave. 

I read the American Poet
And I am assured 
that we all have 
the same 
blood 
and organs, 
we all dream and 
we all hope 
and we are 
all brave - 
here on 
the ground 
in the world of the REAL
and here the Poet lives 
and feels, down town, 
where real 
struggle 
meets the 
pavement 
and real love 
fills our thoughts
With Real Hope, given by 
the American Poet 
who writes the 
truth of how it 
happened. 

J.C Hawkes  - is an alien who arrived on this god-forsaken planet in the territory  of AUSTRALIA - in the middle of the decade he’d have preferred to been of age as to party with the poets he admires to this day. The Burroughs’ and the gorgeous Patti Smith, the Ferlinghetti’s and the David Bowie’s ( in his Coke Daze) - yes! the dirty filthy 1970s always suited his fantasies.  He was of age in the 1990s instead and somehow survived, the day that fuckin’ Kurt Cobain died! By discovering Jim Morrison, he never did care for teeny bopping lights. 

Now in his later years, he is approaching 50 and he is quiet and reflective and writes pages of poetry daily about his memories he actually lived. While on the inside he only ever wanted to write books, grow an old man beard and live in the mountains in a cabin built for one.   Grow old and die there - this would be fine  - by me. 

homesick by Brian J. Alvarado

hitched a belated carpool, 

escaping the city yet again,

this time to suck down some fireballs

and drawl my carelessly wistful way 

through a forgettable homecoming,

no longer concerned with losing you

in the foam again, for I missed the

hodgepodge awful in complete, still

waking up inevitably in your bed,

ahead of my only friends left 

to graduate from Xanzibar,

burping up synthetic cinnamon

and smog from a voided core,

registering an unholy jolt behind 

the wrong ear, as it rubbed up 

against an imperfect circle on a

bargain zebra-striped bandana,

and recalling nothing but where

that straggling cowboy killer had

overstayed its earnest welcome, a

premonition of a homesick mourn.

Brian J. Alvarado is a Puerto-Haitian Bronxite with pieces published or forthcoming in Squawk Back, Trouvaille, Alien Buddha, Beliveau Review, Cajun Mutt, and The Quiver Review, among others. He holds a B.A. in Creative Writing from Susquehanna University.

Racking Paint on Acid by Jonathan Butcher

Between each city, the slow trains 
that would halt at each stop. Our bags
of pens and paint rattling like wind 
chimes, as we dodged teachers and conductors;
each station always mirroring the last.

And racing from each outlet, as you filled your 
briefs with paint, my fear of capture now
enforced by this shield of airborne cling
film, that smothered our eyes; the mismatched
colours now blended in our rucksacks.

As we roamed each city, unaware of the surroundings
that we could easily claim with our mark, 
but resisted under this oppressive day light, 
that restricted us from fully forming, but allowed
our blood to run with positive poison. 

And back home on those lines, under that
imposing bridge, etching walls with what's
left of our time, before coming down, and realising
protracted phases of ones youth should never over
stay their welcome.

Jonathan Butcher has had poetry appear in various print

and online publications including Drunk Monkeys, The Morning Star,

M58, Mad Swirl, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Popshot, The Abyss 

and others. He edits the online poetry journal Fixator Press, through which

his third chapbook, 'Corroded Gardens' was published. 

Cosmic Upchuck by Leah Mueller

Datsun back seat, winding

northern California road,
I hopped a ride
from Planet Camp
to San Francisco

after spending a week 
in a pine forest
discussing astrology
with wealthy nerds.

My four-year-old son
had given all his Legos
to a smooth operator
two years his senior.

The smarmy older boy
had coveted them
and promised eternal friendship,

only to dump my son’s ass
after the transaction was complete.

My progeny: brooding and
Lego-less. Me: almost broke,
ready to take the train home to Seattle.

As the car corkscrewed
along the serpentine highway,
my stomach began to churn.

Suddenly, my son vomited
copiously on the seat in 
front of him, then reared his head 
and puked a second time. 

An odor of rancid tofu,
brussels sprouts and lentils
filled the interior of the small car.

“Oh shit!” 
  I whimpered.
“My son threw up.”
“I can see that,” 
said the driver,
who didn’t see it at all,
but could detect the aroma.

“There’s some newspapers
on the floor. Use as many 
as you need, then throw 
them out the window.” 

I tried not to look at the puke
as I scrubbed it with copies
of the San Francisco Chronicle,

but this proved impossible, and
my stomach turned over again –
fast and sharp, like a
newly awakened wild animal. 

I heaved my own lunch 
onto the seat, conjoining 
my puke with my son’s.

“I’m so sorry!” 
I said, after I finally 
raised my head.

By then, the driver had achieved
a sort of Zen tolerance.

“There are plenty
of newspapers. Use as many
as you need. I’ve already read them.”

I mopped and mopped,
threw entire sections of newspapers
into the damnable road, 
then puked again and swiped
the pages across my newest bile.

“Only ten more miles until
we can finally leave this highway,”
the driver assured me.

“People throw up here a lot.
Really, it’s no trouble at all.”

I managed to toss every chunk
onto the highway – which is
was what that road deserved,
and never felt so glad to see

a city in my life, as
when the lights of the
San Francisco metro area
gleamed above the dashboard,

but probably not 
half as glad
as the driver was to 
deposit us on the sidewalk 
in downtown Oakland
and drive away, saying,

“See you next year.”

Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Bisbee, Arizona.  Her most recent books, "Misguided Behavior, Tales of Poor Life Choices" (Czykmate Press), "Death and Heartbreak" (Weasel Press), and "Cocktails at Denny's" (Alien Buddha) were released in 2019. Leah’s work appears in Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.

The Things the Devil Can Give You by Steve Passey

Love 
and light 
and rain 
but not rehabilitation, 
(and never another drink) 
but there is man who used to come here 
and he said he’d seen the devil come as a red-haired woman 
who must have been beautiful when she was younger, 
but she looked hard now. 
She brought another man drinking alone in a corner a newspaper 
and in that newspaper was the obituary of the man’s ex-wife. 
The devil, 
she led the guy out by the hand 
while he cried and laughed and then cried again,
and neither of them looked back. 
The devil can bring you love and light and rain 
but never another drink 
and shit man, it’s wearing her out too.

The End

Steve Passey is from Southern Alberta. He is the author of the collections Forty-Five Minutes of Unstoppable Rock (Tortoise Books), Cemetery Blackbirds (Secret History Books), the novella Starseed (Seventh Terrace) and many other, individual things.

Check-out Line by Greg Clary

Ducked into the Dollar Store
for a couple of things
 I could not live without.

Scanning-out ahead of me was an unmasked dude
who I recognized as a bartender I had
tangled with some 40 years ago.

I glanced at his purchases:
bag of chips, quart of milk, Mountain Dew, and
Bed Bug Killer.

The person behind me was an unmasked woman 
I had drunk beer and shot pool with 40 years ago.
In the bartender’s beer joint. 
I glimpsed her basket containing
paper plates, duct tape, Mountain Dew, and
Preparation H.

I was masked-up with dark glasses
under a camo hoodie. My pandemic look.
They didn’t seem to know me.

I thought of the serendipity of all this.
 Standing between a guy who once threatened to kick my ass and
 a woman who once ran her fingers through my hair. 

On the same night in the same bar.

Our 40 year reunion.
Him with Bed Bug Killer. Her with Preparation H.
Me with Little Debbies.

Greg Clary is Professor Emeritus of Rehab and Human Services at Clarion University, Clarion Pa. His poems have appeared in The Watershed Journal and North/South Appalachia.

His photographs have been published in The Sun Magazine, Looking at Appalachia, and The Watershed Journal.

He resides in Sligo, Pennsylvania and is a Son of Turkey Creek, West Virginia

 

Red Envelope by Christiana Sasa

She folded all his clothes
with the tenderest care
she could accumulate

every crease on every shirt
now filled up with the
essence of her breath

the phone rings,
he is on his own.

At the doorstep, 
she doesn't welcome him inside;
only hands over the bag to him,
full of his stuff,

and a red envelope 
carrying a little ring inside.
the pearl has been scooped out
of the oyster

Christiana Sasa has been writing poetry for three years. Her work has been published in a few literary magazines (Poetry Life and Times, Literary Heist, Eskimo Pie etc.), and recently in two E-zines called Dark Poetry Society and RavenCage.

Besides poetry, she's interested in painting, music, short films, and comedy.