the little girl in the hat that says smile keeps turning back to wave at me by John Grochalski

this is no chance encounter for the ages

she looks like she’s three

and i’m forty-five

we don’t run in the same circles

but the little girl in the hat that says smile

keeps turning back to wave at me

while her mother gives me

one of those embarrassed grins

like she’s trying to figure out

whether i think this whole act is cute or not

i don’t

or i don’t know

my interactions with children

run the gamut from non-existent to awkward

most days i don’t like kids

and honestly, i’d prefer

to walk down the street as i always do

anonymous and untethered

an observer not the observed

but i try to play along

i wave and i smile

feeling like a goddamned idiot

hoping that it’s enough to satiate the small beast

but my actions seem to egg the kid on

and she starts waving with both hands

lurching back towards me

as if her stroller is on fire

mom is still wearing

that same stupid grin

trying to keep the stroller from tipping over

jesus christ, i think

watching this business unfold

enough is enough

so i pick up the pace

and pass them as quickly as i can

with the kid

now moaning and whining

huffing, getting ready to wail

and something inside of me feels for her

like i understand her yearning

her need for connection

that feeling of desperation

in trying to find one soul that understands

i think maybe i should turn back

one last time

give her a huge smile

and a wave to end all waves

make her day puppy dogs

and rainbow ice cream sundaes

so i do

but the kid is already turned back around

waving and smiling at someone else

like i never even existed

the co-dependent

little fuck.

About John Grochalski:

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Violets and Violence by Kushal Poddar

Sometimes I feel happy
because I can open a door
with paper sacks in both my hands.

Some nights I smother myself
into sleep with a pillow,
dream- a pond as the direction
to my home. "Turn left
from the pond and pull over."

I open the door with both my hands
shoving their ends into each other,
and I wake up, happy.

About Kushal Poddar:

Edited the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’.

Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), A Place For Your Ghost Animals (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), Understanding The Neighborhood (BRP, Australia), Scratches Within (Barbara Maat, Florida), Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems  (BRP, Australia) and Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems (Hawakal Publishers, India) and now Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel (Alien Buddha Press)

Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

I’m Not Dancing With That Bitch Any More by Judge Santiago Burdon

First time that I met her
I never had a suspicion
when I loved her
she always made me feel so fine
but she'd always leave me wanting more
then I'd find myself begging
back at her back door
I'm not dancing with that bitch any more
every time I saw my face in the mirror
making love to those little white lines
I never thought I was losing control
she did my thinking for me
but baby now I know
I'm not dancing with that bitch any more
There was nothing pure
in her driven snow
Just a whiter shade of darkness
where I betrayed my shadow
She choreographed
every move I made
I’d perform for her my spastic ballet
I'm not dancing with that bitch any more
I was ready to sell my soul for her
if I could find me a buyer
I spent my friends for the lies she told
I just couldn't deny her
she had me under her thumb
my legs could move
but I couldn't run
I'm not dancing with that bitch any more.

About Judge Santiago Burdon:

On an unseasonably cool July morning in Chicago, equivalent to David Copperfield, Judge Burdon was born on a Friday.  The Brontes, Keats, Burns and Dickens inspired his study of English Literature. He attended Universities in the United States, London and Paris directing his focus on Victorian novels and authors.

His short stories and poems have been featured in; The Remnant Leaf, Stay Weird  and Keep Writing, Independent Writer's Blog, Spillwords, The Beatnik Cowboy, Down in the Dirt Magazine, The Raven Cage, Eskimo Pie, Across The Margin, Story Pub, Scarlet Leaf Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Stray Branch and Anti-Heroin Chic. He is presently engaged in finishing his book "Imitation of Myself." A non-fiction story encompassing his experiences as a drug runner for a Mexican Cartel. Judge celebrated his 65th birthday last July and lives modestly in Costa Rica.

Money by Donna Dallas

She’s got me by the balls.
I drag my ass seven days a week

to feel her green hand stroke
my crotch.  I play

pocket pool with her.
I smell my hands—that almost

minty smell that is centuries old.
Tramp.

I use her over and over again.
Then she’s gone and I’m left

with sweaty palms.

About Donna Dallas:

I studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to study under William Packard, founder and editor of the New York Quarterly.  I am recently found or forthcoming in 34th Parallel, Sick Lit Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Beautiful Losers, Chiron Review, Red Fez and Bewildering Stories among many other publications.

Now Hiring by John Patrick Robbins

A woman I was dating at the time called me lazy I ran multiple mags did reviews ran a press.

I never cared to work at something I hated.
Maybe it's why I continually remained single.

I had holes in my shoes my glasses were held together with super glue and on my best day I looked disheveled.

I was great at everything that didn't pay me a dime.
And a first rate fuck up on every other level.

I did a radio show where the host off air said to me.

“Man you're a full time editor, you have written two books your the man.”

His view of success was seriously a bit delusional but I didn't shatter his illusion of my greatness.

Newsflash Santa isn't real and writing is nothing but for the most part unrewarding work.

I'm a lot of things and a total prick but least I am an honest one.

About John Patrick Robbins:

    John Patrick Robbins 

Is the author of Sex , Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press .

He is also the editor of The Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers. 

His publications include , Ariel Chart , The San Pedro River Review , The Mojave River Review , Piker Press , Punk Noir Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy , Fixator Press, Blognostics and here at the Dope Fiend Daily .

His work is always unfiltered. 

Unconditioned by Dan Provost

Watching a dog
being fed scraps from
a homeless man…

You see this and cry—
Leaving the empty street
hating the human condition.

A vagabond on his last legs.
Only companion a feeble mutt…

Sins of nothing but
awful survival.

About Dan Provost: 

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for many years.  He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura--and their Bichon Frisce...Bella.

Born Of Genius by El Bastardo

The senorita spoke endlessly to Bastardo of his greatness dis very normal for woman lost in the greatness dat is me.

She asked me to read poetry to her.
But I tell only sissy man read poetry when could be receiving El blow jobico.

Dis ultimate truth.
She learn the hard way chocking upon my chimichanga.

Ole.

               

      

About El Bastardo: 

El Bastardo 

Is new editor and chief of the Rolling Stone Magazine and linked to may big breasted senorita's. 

He currently is touring Belgium mining for chocolate.

He enjoy finger painting and creating modern art he loves everyone accept.

Puta Scott Simmons who owe Bastardo for his last beautiful work he commissioned yet has of yet to pay him.

Scott Simmons is total prickico. 

Just Like You by David Boski

We got into an argument, after dinner,
at the bar, and as we were walking home
she looked at me and said:
“your father was probably a piece of shit,
just like you.”
I was immediately filled with rage, I felt
the whiskey in my blood begin to boil,
my head started spinning, emotions began
stirring, and my eyes began to well up.
She had struck a nerve, she knew exactly
what she was doing; just two months earlier
she had been at my father’s funeral with me,
crying, and trying to provide support.
Now she was making a comparison and
voicing her opinion about a man she had
never met; which is funny, cause she had
never met her father either.
He ran back to his other family after he
found out her mother was pregnant.
I made sure I told her this and when we
arrived home, things were thrown, more insults
were hurled, and I threw her shit on the back
porch before telling her to get the fuck out;
so, I could be sure I lived up to her accusation.

About David Boski:

David Boski lives in Toronto. His poems have appeared in: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Under The Bleachers, Down in the Dirt, Beatnik Cowboy, Winamop, Ramingo’s Porch, Cactifur, North Of Oxford and elsewhere. His chapbook “Fist Fighting and Fornication” is out now and available through Holy&intoxicated Publications. 

No Marimbas in Tokyo by John Dorroh

noodle vending machine

dispensing cheap dreams 

thin on content like temporary support

for muscle contraction. legos eliminating

plastic bricks that mock the real thing.

wood for marimbas disappearing within

10 years. meanwhile I pull cold sushi 

from metal boxes and wonder how 

I will find my way back to the hotel

About John Dorroh:

Whether John Dorroh taught any high school biology is still up for grabs. However, he showed up every morning at 6:45 with at least two lesson plans. His poetry has appeared in Suisun Valley Review, Dime Show Review, Rat's Ass Review, Sick Lit, Walk Write-up, Indigent press, and others. He also dabbles with short fiction and the occassional rant.

A-Hem by Wayne F. Burke

On a Hemingway kick
lately and
finally
coming to the end of
ISLANDS IN THE STREAM
posthumously published
1970 novel
flat for 200 pgs then
picks up slack
the next hundred
but then
Hem puts out the drag line
again
at sea
Part III
and drifts
along and
to some sort of finish
(soon,
I hope).

About Wayne F. Burke:

Wayne F. Burke has published six full-length volumes of poetry, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019).

A link to the book:

             https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/192644924X/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

Neil by John Doyle

Triptych schizophrenic,
drinks are on me,
thank God it's Friday,
ho, ho, ho,
speak up, Neil,
we can't hear you,
behind the iron curtain
your desk forbids us entry -
you are one of us Neil,
we really love you,
dining with the staff,
strangest shapes of accent
that bring carnage,
screaming
and lots of thick,
evil-coloured smoke -
you are one of us Neil,
sitting in the fickle corners of The Ferryman,
last train to Greystones
carries a choose and select menu
of day-time heroics
from which you fit your life -
aran sweater,
deck-shoes,
sunset-stained slacks
and a whole lotta hard-coded bullshit.
Oh Neil,
maybe we will miss you
when you're gone,
talking
to
yourself
in
the
fucked-up
corners
of
The Ferryman

About John Doyle:

John Doyle is at present watching Rocky V and wondering why he could have been at such a loose-end to be reduced to this, I mean, seriously... 

He accepts all major credit cards, but will start dancing a whole lot sooner if you just point a gun at his feet and fire at will.

Brand New Day Go Away Come Again Another Day by Anggo Genorga

The dawn breaks come the third
rooster crow,
the same time
the young wife was doing it
w/ his impotent father in-law.

Atop a fridge adjacent to my room
laid rest a corn bit-shaped rock
lying on silver
& straw, waiting
for some flame to burn down below;

I had to stop pulling down the drapes.
This dawn is gonna be a long night.

About Anggo Genorga:

I'm from the Philippines and working as a manager of a local band called Wonder Woman's Electric Bra. Recent writings can be found at Outlaw Poetry Network, Devote.se, Paper And Ink Zine, The Odd Magazine, Piggpenn and the now defunct Dead Snakes. Also at Empty Mirror, Mad Swirl, Guide To Kulchur Creative Journal and Silver Birch Press Bukowski Anthology and Verses Typhoon Yolanda, a book for benefit published by Meritage Press

Furries Jump In by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There was this new gang that
scared the shit out of all the others
because they dressed up in various animal costumes
so that you didn’t just get stabbed but rather
stabbed by a panda bear, a raccoon and a fox
with giant dead cartoon eyes that betrayal nothing
as they walked the streets and sliced people to pieces 
and like any gang, they were recruiting all the time,
and one afternoon some kids came upon some Furries
jumping in a new member; a duck turtling up with its
beak kicked in while an otter rained down punches
and a lion and a tiger and a kangaroo stomped the duck
right there at the part in the middle of
the afternoon.

About Ryan Quinn Flanagan:

Ryan Quinn Flanagan guards the Northern Wall for The Frat with his army of horny unicorns and 4/5ths of the Village People.  His private jet is a tax write-off and most of his first edition moose dulaps as well.  He is Scott's Simmons' father and wants Scott to know that he has been a very naughty boy and to get the spanking paddle out of the closet.

California Feelin’ by Daniel W. Wright

Sunset Boulevard hopefuls
all want discovery
Let the ocean
wash them all away

Smoke splits blue sky
Gatsby eyes look down
A million musics
blend together
as a million languages laugh
with each other

Books passed like peace pipes
to sidewalk squatters
Don’t you understand?
We’ve found the main nerve!

Sundresses in winter
dance to what remains
of free love
Puppers only want to cuddle
No one understands
unconditional love
like dogs

Falling for flapper hat wearing
hipster pixie dream girls
that seem to be everywhere
Typing away on Apple computers
drinking tea
whilst I drink a mocha
I could swear
is actually
just heated chocolate milk

The restless and derivative
sell themselves
and the Great American script
in elevators
to anybody wearing a blazer
with a decent haircut

Sunshine states don’t know
what to do with themselves
when the sun goes down
Tired tears prep second wind
Daily grind soundtracks in mono
like a one-track mind

California vibrations grow the world
Drink yourself drunk at Vesuvio
and stumble down Jack Kerouac Way
Empathic hearts take blame
and kiss with kindness
all the same

Without love
the world is just another place

Daniel W. Wright is a mid-western son who loves and loathes the red brick town that surrounds him. A poet of the no collar work force, Wright’s work has appeared in the Gasconade Review, Bad Jacket, Acid Kat, Crappy Hour, Eleven, and The Rye Whiskey Review. His previous works include Rodeo of the Soul, The Death of the Ladies Man, Small Town Blues: Early Lyrics and Poems, Portrait, Murder City Special, and Working Bohemian’s Blues. Wright currently lives in St. Louis, where you can usually find him in a bar or a bookstore.