THE FIRST HYMN by R.M. Engelhardt

The first hymn was sung soft & low in reverence to the animals the forests and 

the rivers, waters of the earth. The shaman's mind was enveloped intertwined with the avatars of the deep earth advised of all the things it knew. This created prophecy and transmission as the shaman fell into a trance among the sticks and bones and the fire that brought forth the divine smoke of wisdom channeled like some proto god and embedded into the human soul and brain. Before words, before scriptures & poetry neanderthal mumblings fur bed sleep cave drawings in the dark deep hollow. The first hymn, still within our genetic matrix written upon our souls conjuring our evolution towards love, respect and freedom. Lost in the moments, the tides of time. It must be retrieved, found once more again. Lest we forget that we are also the animals & their souls. The bear, the wolf and the otter. The hawk and the dove. Lest we forget that we are not all separate but connected to the beating heart of this earth forever. Without it the madness persists, the madness dwells without enlightenment.

The missing hymn unsung.

R.M. Engelhardt writes, lives & breathes in Albany, NY. He is the founder of Dead Man's Press Ink (1998), a small indie poetry publishing firm & is the original founder of the literary community group Albany Poets. Over the last 25 or so years his work has appeared in dozens of small press journals, anthologies & zines  worldwide and he is the author of roughly 16 books of poetry, such as " DarkLands" ( 2019 Whiskey City Press) "The Resurrection Waltz "(Infinity Press 2012) & "The Last Cigarette, The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt" (Dead Man's Press Ink 2007) .  He currently hosts the open mic for poets "INVOCATION OF THE MUSE"  At Lark Hall and is also a supporter of experimental & Pagan poetry as well. 

His new book, " Of Spirit, Ash & Bone Poems*Parables" ( Dead Man's Press Ink) comes out and makes it's appearance in 2022.

www.gentlemanoutsider.com 

In Wine, Truth by Andrew Vuono

Dead flies in the dregs

of weeks old wine bottles

fermenting over 

in the summer baked attic

tell me if the spider

with the leopard print web

and honeykissed venom

doesn't eat you

you'll drown

chasing that sweet dream

in the pale scarlet

of Barefoot moscato

because as they say

in Vino,

Veritas

Andrew Vuono is a poet from Bethlehem, PA. He's a forklift certified art school drop out punk rock poet. He's the founder and organizer of 610poetry, and believes that poetry belongs to everyone, especially the marginalized, disenfranchised, and working class. He has forthcoming chapbook "Under a Bridge of Dreams" from Between Shadows Press

My Lover, As Coffee by Leah Mueller

Espresso eyes:

caffeinated and

intensely rich.

No creamer 

for this java.

I drink it bitter,

straight, from 

a dirty shot glass. 

Daylight awaits us,

a set of fangs

at the end of

sleep’s tunnel--

but at least I am

wide awake, 

ready for another 

cup of you.

Leah Mueller is the author of ten prose and poetry books. Her work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. It has also been featured in trees, shop windows in Scotland, poetry subscription boxes, and literary dispensers throughout the world. Her flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" will appear in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press' "Best Small Fictions" anthology. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.

Marlboro Man by Shelly Norris

You allow clandestine access, leave

the barn door ajar a scoche

just enough to incite our curious minds 

to explore the dark store of man-smelling tack.

From the cold hollow of your absence 

we conjure a language 

to guess at the secret

names of steel and leather parts:

bridle, halter, reign, 

saddle, stirrup, bit, cinch.

Deep in our bones and sinew

we know full well the verb of each object.

Galloping out of the sunset high astride your steed

you look handsome, vague, down upon 

and through us. We could mount wild mares

in heat yet never amount to your legend:

Scofflaw riding herd into the saloon, 

wind roper, Star of the highway mural 

who creates the sixteen-hand-high

ten-gallon hole in the Universe.

Serviceable heifers, we could be

bought and sold. Interchangeable 

with every other broad

you taught us our price.

Still, with a flick of ash, the toss of a butt

crushed beneath the heel of your boot

you set us snarling against

each other like barroom bitches

while in a cloud of smoke you vanish 

leaving a trail of dust impossible to follow.  

Leaving the wind smelling of Canadian Mist, 

Corinthian leather, wild yellow roses. 

Shelly Norris ripened in the wild west on a farm in Wyoming. She hails from a long line of post-Civil War migrants, pioneers, scofflaws, and illegitimates; wherever there is a “bastard” break in the lineage, that’s her line of people. She currently resides in the woods of central Missouri with her husband John, two dogs, and seven cats. Please, don’t judge. Working in the shadows grading sub-par college essays, advocating any 12-point font other than Calibri, and editing for other writers, she has been slow to send forth her own writings into the cold world of rejection and possible publication. Her poems appear in Verse-Virtual, Uppagus, Spillwords, Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Drabble, vox poetica, The Cabinet of Heed, and several theme anthologies by Sweety Cat Press, as well as The Owen Wister Review, Open Window Review, Blood, Water, Wind, and Stone: An Anthology of Wyoming Writers, and The Writer’s Club/Gray Thoughts.  She currently wrestles with several manuscripts trying to strongarm them into telling her what they want to be. More recently, she has begun to publish short fiction. 

No one asked me, but: By Greg Clary

Don't believe everything you think.
Never buy a car with a bent frame...or one you can't push.
Anxiety is a liar.
Opinions are not facts.
Worry about yourself.
Never let a day go by.

Life is all attitude and timing

If you own a piece of ground, you can make it.

Lipstick letters on the mirror are never good.

Ditch the velcro wallet.

Passing out is not going to sleep.

Better to sing a good song bad than a bad song good.

Greg Clary a retired college professor who was born and raised in Turkey Creek, West Virginia, and now resides in the northwestern Pennsylvania Wilds. 

His photographs have been published in The Sun Magazine, Looking at Appalachia, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Watershed Journal, Hole in the Head Review, Dark Horse, Change Seven, Detour Ahead, Bee House Journal, Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel, Trailer Park Quarterly,  Tobeco Literary Journal, and many other publications.

His writing and poems have appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review, The Watershed Journal, The Bridge Literary Arts Journal, Northern Appalachia Review, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Waccamaw Journal, Rusty Truck, Anti-Heroin Chic, Sterling Clack Clack, and North/South Appalachia: Poetry and Art, Vol 1.

your goddamned cheap beer By Ben Newell

I’m at the self-checkout machine

hoisting a six-pack of tallboys into my cart

when a defective can bursts.

Natural Light sprays the floor, 

sprays my leg,

even sprays the woman at the next machine—

“Just great,” she says with much disdain.

“Now I smell like 

your goddamned cheap beer.”

A major improvement, 

I want to tell her.

But it’s early.

And I haven’t started 

drinking yet.

Ben Newell recently turned 50. He dropped out of the Bennington Writing Seminars during his first semester, eventually resuming his studies at Spalding University where he earned an MFA. He taught high school English for one day.

The Cops Called at 4 a.m. Because I Was Playing Black Sabbath Full Blast by John Doyle

Brother groans into a street

of ash, of dust, of pine-green smog,

sister chases a priest

of cotton-smock, of impending rapture, automobiles

double-parked nowhere near them. Two people stand-out in this shadow,

they rub its surrounds, clean as a colonel's brass;

forgetful of their priest, they leave him dangling to his confessor

on that shadow's underworld,

a place gamblers hid cigars from, the children knew everything about,

these were days of wine and roses

in a movie theater every sweet Saturday.

How could I fit l'il ole me into their systems reports?

Two cops, brother and sister, called to my door,

4 a.m., me the immaculate manchild

playing Black Sabbath at full force ten.

I died some time before this went down,

death in hunchback muck

behind the condos,

Nescafe-coloured stone, windows heavy, bored sometimes,

the needle-poke finger held the tv button down,

horses galloped across California,

death a brand new millionaire

John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.