The Great Masturbator By Manny Grimaldi

 

I am the very model of a modern major radio star.

I’ve information. I am a Pooh Bear. I puff Gauloises

and my poesies are on demand 

with a much venerated mustache to boot.

I topple high society reaching dizzying Olympus Mons.

I think I bring war’s hammer to the world 

with every word from my silky, sensual honeyed lips,

my slips and heels and lipstick too.

But my tease does not serve you.

I could stand atop a bar waving my hairy hips

over your bourbon and Coors Light,

and flavor your beverage with such delight—

that you’d reject me.

Instead I cling to a stripper’s pole, descend,

whirring a hole to China where the rice is warm,

and the birds are cold.

They will watch me make changes divine.

I am rose of May. I am MacBeth. I am most anyone

to impress.

Strip this artifice what do you find?

Leave with your questions, close the curtains, 

none of this is mine.

manny grimaldi is a kentucky poet and editor now celebrating the release of his first poetry book RIDING SHOTGUN WITH THE MOTHMAN, available on Amazon.  he is managing editor at YEARLING poetry journal in its 4th year of publication.  he lives in an uncharted area of the ghetto with two insane birds named PETEY and CORNPOP that wake at 4:45 a.m. and sing melodiously to the tunes of LANA DEL REY and MY MORNING JACKET.  the dishes are never done. 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DKTWLSRC?fbclid=IwY2xjawGPRA5leHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHcf-x-cUZ4xHOV2unFF1WiP86QwsPuAIaVq5Gt9fLmClIwVjHEcABBUOzg_aem_9jC1PS6hGVynKZdM6ruz6Q

Last In Line By Daniel S. Irwin

Yeah, ain't nuttin' new.

I always been kinda slow.

Now here I am, again,

Just last in line as usual.

My daddy always said

That I needed to get

My lazy ass in gear.

Weird situation here.

All us dudes lined up

Total butt ass naked.

It seems to kinda creep

Along but with these

Hot babes movin' up

And down the row,

Big tits and sweet ass

Rubbin' up against us,

Every one of us bozos

Got rock hard salamis.

This ain't so bad, but

I could use some relief.

Okay, finally, I'm next up

After this guy in front of

Me. What the heck is

That choppin' sound?

Satan with a meat clever

And..! Whoa, Nelly! How

Do I get outta this line?

Daniel S. Irwin, native of Southern Illinois (such as it is).  Artist, writer, actor, soldier, scholar, priest among other things.

Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals worldwide.  Has appeared in over one hundred films. 

Speaks fluent gibberish when loaded.  Not much into blowing his own horn as you are only as good as your latest endeavor.

Once turned to religion but Jesus just walked away. 

Bacchanalia By Manny Grimaldi

after reading William S. Burroughs

When you arrive, my soul hears your heart ringing- 

tangled the canopy amidst spiders and butterflies to rest 

our minds, bells to carry mourning doves peaceful 

fish and amphibians swimming 

in ponds under the ever-ancient moon adrift of freshet Earth, 

who is said was pummeled by comet trails. 

Now everything, everywhere is satellite rubble,

and my spirit explodes, the light the dark, the dark the light

with old Ron, earnest and praying for his woman infirm,

with Ron who crumples—a laundry heap to wake 

with a start again—in his ram shack, lit by oil lamp, lifting 

off a circus floor. Horses hover. Clowns by letters learn them use 

defibrillators—but it’s late. It’s over. Everyone’s arthritic.

So forgo CPR and let Ron die in peace.

The doctor arrives drunk, complains 

that someone cut his Propofol with non-fat dairy vanilla 

creamer at the clinic.“What do I know?” he grumbles. 

He’d rather be dead, and it pisses him off. 

We stare in shock, he rants, “Can someone explain 

the world we live in, when Cadillac highs are sought 

at rock bottom prices?” and he cuts adrift of freshet Earth,

explodes in clouds and tumults of light in dark in dark in light.

Manny Grimaldi is an editor and writer and musician from Kentucky.  He manages Yearling, a Poetry Journal for Working Writers.  Publications credits include Moss Puppy and Disturb the Universe Magazines, Pegasus, and Jerry Jazz Musician.  He has a forthcoming poetry collection with Whiskey City Press in the near future.

Hooker on Fifth and Hennepin asks me for a handout by Alex Stolis

Her eyebrows are painted on, slightly angled

in a Catwoman cartoon kind of way, fishnets 

torn straight across her thigh, she's holding an 

unlit Pall Mall, skinny purse banging her hip. 

I’m Dylan with his hands jammed in pockets 

shoulders hunched, both of us seriously under

dressed for winter, her hair dyed black chopped 

short but still hiding her eyes she catches my

attention with a wink, asks for a light, I tell her 

I quit smoking, gave it up for Lent, she nods 

says babes I only need your fire, she’s sincere 

in that real as shit street life worn down but not

out kind of way. I ask to bum one from her, she 

hands it to me, nails a chipped champagne pink, 

I give her a five, brace for the incoming rain.

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Jasper's Folly Poetry Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024. http://www.louisianaliterature.org/2024/04/11/new-release-announcement-alex-stolis/ RIP Winston Smith is forthcoming from Allen Buddha Press. He has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize. 

Blues Hotel by Sterling Warner

Two Jacksons or

Four sawbucks

Up front—$40.

No credit cards, no I.D.;

Beyond, beneath,

Battered neon lights

The Blues Hotel

Weathered time’s ravages

Struck cords of commerce as

Hookers dispense advice

Like ATM machines—

Service for a price.

Soiled linen, wafer thin sheets,

Feel and look like pillow drool on flax

A ceramic throne, standard toilet,

Sits on splintered two-by-fours,

Wax ring resembling a smashed plum

Sinking like a rock in thick mud when seated.

Yellow halos ripple over textured ridges,

Plaster summits, on the

Sparkling stucco ceiling where

Snow seeps through the roof

Dripping tears into a closet

That seldom houses luggage.

Here on Colfax, cops draw down on

Wendy’s customers—mistake naive

Travelers as “King’s Table” players—

Denver’s whorehouse clientele,

Crack den magistrates.

One’s next-door neighbors’

Fists pound paper-thin walls like

Meat tenderizers pummeling flesh or

Jack hammers cracking concrete;

Rattling door handles twist, turn

Voices chant incantations, grunt outside

Demand immediate admittance—

Ready to fix a need, a place to

Tie down before daylight resumes

Kickin’ flop house reality,

The Blues Hotel’s legacy, above,

Below, and on all sides of every room.

An award-winning poet, author, educator, Sterling Warner enjoys writing, fishing, boating, and hosting/reading at open mics. Widely published in literary magazines, journals, and anthologies such as Anti-heroin Chic, Gleam, and Synchronized Chaos, his poetry/fiction collections include: Rags & Feathers, Without Wheels, Edges, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light, Halcyon Days, Abraxas (2024), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories.

Will I Even Recognize the Music by Merritt Waldon

Thoughts slide down the wall behind me

Slowly moving, drying to the wall

Sky percolates with rain

I take a piece of paper & wipe the thoughts off

The wall

Once dried they will be the perfect

Song for boredom sang by birds,

Television, traffic, & of course

Blown out thoughts

I now think of finding the page years from now

Will I even recognize the music

Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,

The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.

At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.

I am Spitballing and a Huckster by Mark James Andrews

I am riding shotgun playing 

second fiddle in a season in hell.

There once was love lost and lust

for any man, woman or beast.

I am far gone into Rimbaud madness

having a heart to heart with Satan.

I am gallivanting all over town

arm around the hip of a Tristessa girl.

There once was druggie romance

that put a spell on you in the streets 

of Cholula with hushed promises 

to never tell about that winter week.

I am hamster-wheel spinning

rat racing in factotum days.

There once was nights blotto

malt liquor and Tuinal capsules

half reddish orange

half turquoise blue.

I am swaggering for no reason 

down and out in Paris and London.

There once was a day spent 

with tramps in the workhouse 

sporting as half diamond dog

flexing as half man.

I am tapping out near the end 

deep diving in the Book of Job.

There once was a man in the land

of Uz and you might say born under

a bad sign but still the final word

was always supreme with Yahweh.

I am spitballing and a huckster 

with my final play to trick the dust.

There once was gamble and chance 

carp fishing on Xanax in a lava lake

I am done with being nickel and dimed

with rope burns still fresh and hook baited.

Mark James Andrews lives and writes in Metro Detroit. He is the author of five chapbooks. The latest is At The Ice Cow Queen On Mack from Alien Buddha Press. His poetry has appeared in Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Hiram Poetry Review, Slipstream, Respect: The Poetry of Detroit Music and many other spots.