The Master Race By Jay Passer

It’s getting on my nerves,
the whole health thing.
Everybody running around trying to get fit,
buying into extending their lives.
It’s a scam.
Think about it;
the longer you live, the more shit you have to buy,
consume,
and throw away.
I don’t like being used.
The oceans are clogged with pollution.
The streets are a filthy mess.
The air is pumped full of poison carcinogens.
If you’re not a celebrity or a cutthroat,
you’re done for;
there’s no idyll in the park for you.
You have to be a monk in the mountains.
You have to be totally forgiving.
But they’ll find you,
root you out,
expose you.
Humility is for houseplants.
Fitness is for animals,
the ones who don’t
build jails,
vote,
or fuck with the lights
off.

Jay Passer's work has appeared in print and online since 1988. His work has been included in several anthologies and he is the author of 10 books, the most recent being The Black and the Blues, from Alien Buddha Press, 2018. Passer lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth.

To Live On The Scraps By J.J. Campbell

It's the cold embrace
of an old soul

a few drinks and
then all the old
stories

escaping death

sleeping with all the
pretty women and
their mothers

you're the quiet, bitter
soul at the table that
knows this is all
bullshit

but the pretty ones
always get to have
the glory

the rugged, grizzled,
the beaten down
and broken ones are
expected to live on
the scraps

and what the glory
whores never find
out is all those pretty
women have diseases
and cost way more
than they are worth

never discount
experience

of course, you only
learn that after it's
too late.

About J.J Campbell:

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves yet still managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Dodging The Rain, Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, Fourth & Sycamore and The Beatnik Cowboy. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Upon A Winter Night By R.M. Engelhardt

In the early hours

The winter light

Is just beginning, gathering

As she breathes in

The cold November air

Tonight has been

Quiet and she does

Not seem to care

For she is young

And does not fear

The sounds from all

The nearby

Empty places where all of the

Men have torn away

The trees

And she has wandered far away

From home

There has been

A light dusting of snow

And through the woods on the darkest night

She goes. No sounds

And only a walk upon the places

Where all the grass has disappeared

And in the early hours

As the winter light

Is just beginning, gathering

She breathes in

The cold November air

The sudden sound

A machine. Curious,

What are you?

“Sleep”

About R.M. Engelhardt:

R.M. Engelhardt is an author, poet & writer whose work over the years has appeared in many journals & magazines such as Rusty Truck, Thunder Sandwich, Full of Crow, In Between Hangovers, Writers Resist, The Rye Whiskey Review and in many others. His new book of poetry is called Coffee Ass Blues & Other Poems published by Alien Buddha Press (2018). He is also the host of The Troy Poetry Mission, an open mic for poets located in Troy, New York.  

Computer By Smokey Dodge

Have you replaced a friend I never truly had?
Or simply kept me from ever having any remote chance ever finding one to begin with?

The battery is low.

Maybe I will just let you die so I can begin to truly live.

About Smokey Dodge:

Smokey Dodge is a poet, Musician, Teacher and drifter of this world.

We may never meet more than today.

But just Incase this is goodbye.

I got nothing but love to share.

Your Trust By Alyssa Trivett

Keep all the thoughts in a room.
Overnight and expedite them.
Put on evening like a pot of coffee,
it can always be shut off.
Compartmentalized in drawers,
hacking off the meaning of hour,
the minute hand chainsaw
chiseling away as days wind down
into another season
and comic bubbles continue
amongst valid conversation.
Let me know what you think
turns into the privilege
of talking in cars.
Thank you for your friendship,
and for your trust.

About Alyssa Trivett: 

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music while chirping down coffee and scrawling lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared in many places (including the trash bin), but most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review.

Angel By Kevin Martin

Smell like oak barrels
old smoke and charred
from inside comes hope and a new dream
She smells of peanut butter after sex as she talks in sleep of old dreams forgotten names written angels wings over smooth shoulders surrounded by cold steel and concrete suffering madness

My art is visceral life unfolding beautifully as rust falls from the ceiling of my soul splintered heavenly glory out of reach  blow to the temples is a lump of enlightenment mix of bad blood and good intentions

I
was

outside
smoking

pot

when you

came through
truly sorry i
didn’t see you
Face to Face
these bones do not
believe my knife is sharp
show me your kerosene veins
i will show you the truth of my words
drafted by bloody words turned to
stone that cannot feed nations at the table of the Lord
In America I keep a pint of whiskey

in my back pocket where secret dreams are filled with nothing but blues
I sing out LOUD silent sometimes nations fall as eyes blink abandonment
DOLLARS are for wedding songs roses that blacken sunburnt moon as someone loves you always ready to die as clean immaculate scapegoats will come back in style soon live on the edge of a razor gods tongues thoughts that never made a sound

Once there was a paradigm shift where mothers milk was spilled blood which leads into today's Phallic empire no longer pagan one god is enough as we all die alone This room I sit is flooded full of decaying matter inside your mind is hot dreams still cold i dropped my pen into this muck got lead belly bone black eyed blues she says fuck yes when entering the room wants to see It now writhes in own special language sips slowly sings softly anything should notice her dreams movies everyday showing behind clouds of eyes that are seen staring back at me as ghosts that move my picture on the wall want to touch your lotus
Remember good words died slowly this Sunday morning at first light as always the way death walks sideways down the street looks in windows and makes sure you are watching T. V. worshipping one god microwave your dinners let kids eat m$ms drink coca-cola beside pyramids walk to the store which is the valley of death in the lower 48

About Kevin Martin: 

Kevin Martin resides in North Carolina and is a regular contributing poet to The Arrival Magazine, Winston Salem, N.C.

Cooking Time: Ten Minutes By Mendes Biondo

the ragù was boiling in the cooking pan

what will be about us?

you asked me

are you talking about future
our life?

I asked to you and you nodded

I took two dishes of fresh pasta from the table
covered with a red and white cloth
old glasses full of chianti on it

I awaited the water to boil
then thrown the pasta in the pot

do you remember the first time we met?

I asked

I was unable to watch your eyes
I was so scared of what was happening to me
but you took my hand in that park in Milano
under a weeping pillow like two statues
something coming from Greece or Rome

you smiled while playing with a taralluccio

sì
I remember you were a kid
we are grown now

pasta softened slowly
it changed her shape
it became as soft and wrinkled as the white and red cloth
and our hands entwined as cooked spaghetti would do
as the wine of our vino did before being squeezed

so what will happen in your opinion?

your eyes were chestnuts in fall
the mouth matured by the summer sun
when you answered me this way

let the branches grow
let’s see what will happen tomorrow
let’s face dry wind and rains
let’s things flow as fishes in the river

pasta was ready and we ate it
but exactly then
in a second
in a lovely glimpse we understood
we were changed from the first time we ate it together

]

About Mendes Biondo:

Mendes Biondo is an Italian journalist and author. His works appeared on Visual Verse, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Literary Yard, Angela Topping Hygge Feature,  Indigent A La Carte, The BeZine, Scrittura Magazine, The Song Is, Poetry Pasta and other magazines. He is one of the editors of The Ramingo's Porch along with Marc Pietrzykowski and Catfish McDaris. His first book of poems will be published soon by Pski's Porch Publishing.

Bad Cats By K.W. Peery

Kosher
Kush
on a
Coltrane
night...
just eatin'
my smoke
in the
blue
moonlight...

There's a
cone top
two slat
in clearspring
green...
next
to Mama's
old sewin'
machine...

It's
already
Autumn
n' this
flannel
feels good...
sippin'
three fingers
Blanton's
from some
charred
oak wood...

Been ridin'
big waves
in this
blue livin'
room...
where all
the bad
cats jam...
then
leave
too
soon

About K.W. Peery: 

Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. Peery is the author of seven poetry collections: Tales of a Receding Hairline; Purgatory; Wicked Rhythm; Ozark Howler; Gallatin Gallows; Howler Holler; Bootlegger’s Bluff. 

Tales of a Receding Hairline was a semifinalist in the Goodreads Choice Awards – Best in Poetry 2016. 

Peery is a regular contributor in Veterans Voices Magazine. His work is included in the Vincent Van Gogh Anthology Resurrection of a Sunflower and the Walsall Poetry Society Anthology, Diverse Verse II & III.

In 2018, Peery is scheduled to have poems published in The Main Street Rag, Chiron Review, Big Hammer, San Pedro River Review, The Gasconade Review, Blink Ink, Rusty Truck, Mad Swirl, Outlaw Poetry, Mojave River Review, The Asylum Floor, Horror Sleaze Trash, Ramingo's Porch, From Whispers to Roars, The Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers and Apache Poetry. 
Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than a dozen studio albums over the past decade.

Leper Skin By Tony Pena

Once pitch black,
leggings sheer grey
from one too many
cycles in the cum
washing machine.
Still piqued, my palm
grazed your forbidden
hip like it did so many
times before but now
you flinch and snarl
as I have grown uglier
in the shadow of a young
Turk whose cock lasts
longer than my vow
of taking you to the healing
waters where the worst
of sins wash off our bodies.
I’ve done the math, though,
and it seems patience was not
your virtue at all as I’ve found  in
a long shower a gift from your lover
to remember him intimately as well.

About Tony Pena:

Tony Pena was selected as 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York.  

A new volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available now at Amazon.   His publication credits include   "Dogzplot,"   "Gutter Eloquence," “Hudson Valley Transmitter,” “Misfit Magazine,” "Red Fez," “Rye Whiskey Review,”  "Slipstream,"  "Underground Voices," "Zygote in my Coffee,"  and others as well as a self published chapbook, "Opening night in Gehenna."

Colorful compositions and caterwauling with a couple of chords can be seen at:

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry

Approval Rating By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Living near a church,
I thought I could do without
the bells at ungodly hours,
but once I moved away
into a quiet place
across town
there was no spontaneous
celebration
when I remembered to flush
the toilet
or checked the mail
or simply walked
across the room.

Without such surprise eruptions
of joy
and celebration,
without those bells and whistles
of affirmation,
my life suddenly felt cheated
and incomplete.

And like a first-term president
I obsessed over my approval
rating.

Until I had to hire prostitutes to stand
in the corner
and clap for me
as I made
dinner.

About Ryan Quinn Flanagan:

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, The Dope Fiend Daily, and The Oklahoma Review

The Boy With The Guitar By Holly Day

By the side of a quiet stream a young boy
is torturing a tree with a song about a girl
he met that morning and will someday marry
and have babies with she
holds the key to his heart to his
brain and he wants to die every time
she walks by.


Overhead the spreading branches of the tree
quake and shake with the unending
horror of it all pulls vainly at the roots
buried so far beneath the ground wills the dirt
to loosen wills the water to rise up
screams silently of freedom.

About Holly Day:

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press),  In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press).

Can I Borrow Some Sugar By: Scott Thomas Outlar

I had a neighbor
that came to my door
one day.
He started the conversation
with this:
“If you hear gunshots,
 call 911.”
My response was something
along the lines of,
“Uh, OK.”
He went on to explain
how his visiting niece
had gotten involved with
a cocaine dealer,
stole some of his supply,
then skipped town.
But she’d been using
my neighbor’s phone to call the dealer.
So caller-ID betrayed the address
where she’d been staying.
Now my neighbor
was being threatened
by the dealer.
“Don’t worry, me and my brother
will be holed up in the living room
with our shotguns ready.”
This news didn’t make me
feel any better about the situation.
I wondered what would happen
if the dealer drove through
the cul-de-sac and opened fire
on the wrong house,
namely mine.
The dealer did drive through
sometime later, screamed threats
at my neighbor, but never opened fire.
My neighbor called the police;
they showed up a short time later
along with the sheriff
to take down his account.
My neighbor moved out
that same week.
I never saw him or
his family again.
A new group of people
moved into the house.
But, thankfully, they were more into crank.

About Scott Thomas Outlar:

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His recent work has appeared in venues such as: The Rye Whiskey Review, Ethos Literary Journal, Setu Mag, The Pangolin Review, and Dissident Voice. 

           Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

Bring It On! By Ian Copestick

me this is it!
This is What it's all about!
The actual writing, the physical
Act of banging it out
You know how the French
Call an orgasm, 'le petit mort. "
The little death, because you
Forget the pain, the boredom
All of the niggling, little
Problems of being alive
When you are in the throes of
Passion?
Well, that's what writing does
For me
When I am in the midst of it
Nothing else matters
Nothing else even exists
Just finishing the line
And the line after that.
And if death is like writing
Or an orgasm, then
Bring it on!
I can hardly wait!

About Ian Copestick: 

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer from Stoke on Trent England, so far he has published 45 poems in 10 different ezines. He intends to keep going for as long as he can, and hopes that someday soon a publisher will take a chance and bring out his first book.

Smoking At The Gas Pumps Book Review From Scott Simmons

Smoking at The Gas Pumps By John Patrick Robbins has a somber yet life like tone to it along with a highlights of his unique sense of humor. This book has many quick writes that packed a punch such as "She Called It Love", "Do You Like Spiders", and "Better Than Dead" that portrayed very dark themes in an extremely realistic manor. There are several works in the book where fact and fiction are blurry without any kind of unnecessary romanticization to detract from the readers immersion in the book. However beyond the themes of addiction, heartbreak, and the scars of a hard lived life there are a few humorous stories such as "My Devil With The Devil", and "Hello Mr. Cook" which added some much needed comedic relief to the book. Smoking at The Gas Pumps is a quick book that gives the readers a lot of diversity inside of a small package. On a technical level the formatting is excellent, it has good grammar, it's easy to read and there are a few visual elements added to a few of the writes.This E-book is also available on many different formats such as Amazon, Walmart, Barnes and Nobel, and Google Play.

My Opinion:
I would highly recommend this book to anyone looking for a small book with a very big impact and it also is very competitively priced.

If you would like to check out this book here is a link to Soma Press:
https://www.somapublishing.com/2018/11/smoking-at-gas-pumps.html?m=1&fbclid=IwAR0CzohLYaYtXJwh15ji-iKr2GI_UPbG-jz8ZWNnjrXbpISpC4aE62K67Ds

What it is (Or that's what I'm talkin' about!) By Jason Ryberg

It’s a feather from the wing
of a naughty Halloween angel.

It’s the hot, boozy breath of Kansas;
early evening, late July.

It’s flashing red lights waiting for us at the end
of the underground Chunnel Of Lust.

It’s the compounding absence that so often
facilitates the eye’s reckless wandering,

the drunken sleep of reason
breeding monstrous nightmares
and wicked hangovers of feeling,

the darkness of the deep
Missouri backwoods after sundown
and cellars in abandoned houses
on the edge of town.

It’s that high-test grade of silence
that deadens whatever meaningful
thought and speech that might
feasibly arise between us.
It’s the fabled philosopher’s stone in the soup.
It’s bones hauled up from the bottom of a well.
It’s snow in the desert (like you would not believe).

We’re talking about kickin’ the front door in.
We’re talking about takin’ the back door out.
We’re talking a little body and blood of the Lord, baby.
We’re talking dreams that sparkle and shine
like a tinfoil sculpture or a Roosevelt dime,
like the Czar’s crown jewels,
scattered and sewn
out into the backyard
late one night,
like seeds,
like stars,

so they might take root
and grow into whatever it is
they were meant to be.

We’re talking about that half-empty glass
of water you brought me

when you know I asked
for gasoline.

About Jason Ryberg:

Jason Ryberg is the author of twelve books of poetry,

six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,

notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be 

(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry 

letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. 

He is currently an artist-in-residence at both 

The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s 

and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor 

and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collections of poems 

are Zeus-X-Mechanica (Spartan Press, 2017) 

and A Secret History of the Nighttime World (39 West Press, 2017). 

He lives part-time in Kansas City with a rooster named Little Red 

and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere 

in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also 

many strange and wonderful woodland critters. 

Go Fuck Yourself A Love Story 69 Version Part 1 By Gonz

“Honey why don't you ever write me something romantic?”

My barely legal wife at the time asked me
as those beautiful eyes stared at me.

 In that same way whenever I knew I better cave or the fun time factory was going be closed for awhile.

“Well honey you know that's not really my style, and especially after getting back from the war and all it just seems like something inside me died.”

“But you weren't ever in the service.”

“Yeah I know that's what's so fucked up about it.”

“What?”
She replied looking slightly confused.

Once again my use of choice yet altogether confusing bullshit had worked. Kids they’re so easily impressed with bullshit  no wonder those fucking Twilight books sold.


“Blowjob.”

“Huh?”

Dam you Jedi mind trick you never fucking work!
Screw you George Lucas for mind raping me as a child not that I watched those films.

What do you think I am some kinda dork who posts shit all over the net for cheap
laughs because he has no true life?
Okay that was a bit harsh I have a life well kinda.

“Gonz!, Are you listening?”

My demented little hooker with a heart of gold asked.

“Of course I'm listening, duh you know I'm a artist I'm like always deep in thought
about serious shit.”

“Okay like what?”

“Well if your a hand model and you book a gig is it called a hand job?”

“Are you fucking nuts?”
She replied

“No sweetheart I'm a drunk.”

“Seriously?”

“Your right I've always been insane with a chance of brilliance and some misspelled ideas.”

“Look Gonz I'm not joking just listen okay.”

My little nympho just went on speaking and like any good man I paid no attention and just shook my head in agreement.

It's a trick I learned from my grandfather.
Course now it's no longer a secret being I've let all the chicks know dammit.

She kept rattling on all the while I thought pure sweet thoughts while staring at her boobies.

I was lost on a sunny meadow where all was soft and gentle.

I'm kidding it was more like a porno involving Jennifer Aniston, Rihanna, and that total slut who was all the rage you know that former kids star Betty White.

It was all going pretty normal well aside from the pool of ranch dressing and Justin Bieber’s head on a goat's body.

I always knew he was into devil worship.
I just hate we have something in common.

I couldn't take it anymore so I ran I ran so far away.
But still I couldn't get away.

“So we have a deal?”

“Yes”.

Dear Lord what had I agreed to?

Fuck you Betty White that Hannah Montana shit sucked.

“Oh thank you baby so much  I just know it'll be great.”

“Yes it will.”

I had no clue what this strange little female was speaking of for once I was truly lost.

 I felt all naked and vulnerable to bad no hot stripper rapist were in the vicinity.

Yeah I know that's a big word for me thank you Dora the explorer.

Sure I was disappointed when I found out it wasn't a porn, but you really have broadened my horizons.

That just sounds wrong but enough with the foreplay kids.

I was silent deep in thought and finally before I could ask.
My semi faithful nympho spilled the beans once always beats cutting them yeah girl farts they just take all the fun out it.

“Baby I can't wait to read your new romantic write.”

What dear lord!
It was a nightmare from which I couldn't wake it was impossible task
A myth like if you take yoga you can blow yourself.

Gonz cannot write romance.

It just doesn't happen hell I'm Gonz and even I know that.

“Baby after I read it  I'm going to give you the best gift ever.”

“It's something you always wanted.”

My mind went spinning as to this want that would be worthy.
Hmm lets see.

“So you mean were going to murder Justin Bieber and bathe in his blood?”

“No baby even better.”

What could be better than that I thought to myself.

My mind was working overtime dammit I hadn't thought this much sense
that old teacher asked me what I wanted to do with my life.

Course then I realized when he asked me to find his candy bar in his pocket that he was just a perverted janitor.

Yeah it's a long story don't ask.

“You know baby you me and my friend and her other friend, and this time you'll actually get to join in.”

It was like Christmas for a pervert.

So looks like I was going to be writing a romantic story.

I could do this especially for some twisted freaky sex hell its what are country was founded upon.

Duh I mean bribes people!
They didn't invent freaky sex until the 60's.

You know right around the great depression.
Yeah I bet whoever invented the blowjob put a smile on someone's face. 

See not only in my long winded writes do you get perversion you get culture and that history shit.
yeah I know your welcome high five to blowjobs.

I was selling my soul but it's okay it wasn't anything I hadn't done before.
To create this masterpiece I had to get alone with my thoughts.

 Yet still have a good internet connection duh! How else would I write this dumbass?

What do you think I am some dinosaur that writes on paper.
Do I look like I'm Amish?

Yeah that shows about as real as my crystal meth operation
I have in the garage.

I'm kidding I don't have a garage but my grandmother does yeah like I'm going to blow up my own house.

I was off to my secret hiding place to be alone and write the greatest romance story off all time.

It would surpass all the greats of the past.
Like Gone With The Wind or that story of those two butt pirate cowboys you know
they made a movie about it called Wayne's World.

Will Gonz be able to concentrate for more than a half second.
Avoiding booze and freaky things on the internet like.

 I didn't know you could fit that up there dot com.

Will anyone actually get to the end of this without falling into a coma or getting more weed not that my readers smoke weed.

Will little Timmy make it out of that well to find grandpa and lassie having a quality
peanut butter session don't ask.

All this and more will be answered in the next exciting  and even more long winded
episode of Go Fuck Yourself A Love Story. Part 2 coming soon to poetry site near you.

Yeah I know I'm not right.

Stay crazy kids.

About Gonz: 

Gonz is full time drinker all around train wreck that probably shouldn't be standing let alone writing.

His work is always humorous and at times brutally honest.

He makes the occasional appearance in publications like the one you are reading today.

Hard living and tall tales are his specialty. 

Thanks for reading.

Stay Crazy.

Adios 

Who Said Marijuana Isn't Addictive By Robert Ragan

Here I am quick to call someone out on their bullshit 

But don't call me out on mine

Most degenerates claim they don't give a fuck 

Me I really don't give a fuck 

They say marijuana is a gateway drug 

Yes it's led to other things but I always come back to it.

With not a shred of hope and no goals in life

I'm smoking the finest loud

Whether I cop a sack or steal blunt roaches out of your ashtray 

About Robert Ragan:

Robert Ragan, from Lillington North Carolina, enjoys writing, reading, listening to music and abstract painting, which he recently began. Robert, who has been writing for 18 years, writes poetry and short stories. He has four stories published at Vexed Magazine. Alien Buddha Press just published his first short story collection, "Mannequin Legs and Other Tales".

Thighs By Smokey Dodge

I place my hand between them it's
magic every time.
Some things never go out of style.

About Smokey Dodge:

Smokey Dodge is a poet, Musician, Teacher and drifter of this world.

We may never meet more than today.

But just Incase this is goodbye.

I got nothing but love to share.

Approaching 70 By John Yamrus

at
this
point in the game,

I guess
I’m supposed to
be writing things like:

“sands at 70”;
“the end is near”;
and “ode to my lost and misspent youth”...

but,
I get the feeling
that I ain’t done yet.

not
by a long shot.

so,
give me
what you got.

I’m
tough.

I
can
take it.

go
ahead.

I
double-dog dare you.

About John Yamrus:

since 1970 John Yamrus has published 25 volumes of poetry, 2 novels and one volume of non-fiction. He has also had nearly 2,000 poems published in print magazines around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into several languages, including Spanish, Swedish, French, Japanese, Italian, Romanian, Albanian, Estonian and Bengali. His poetry is taught in numerous colleges and universities. His latest book, MEMORY LANE, a look back at his childhood growing up in a Pennsylvania coal mining community in the 1950s, is a highly anticipated addition to his published work.

His website is: http://www.johnyamrus.com

The Search By Joan McNerney

We are the lost who have
climbed hillsides...gathering
innumerable and unnamed
stumbling over sharp rocks
searching for our long shadows.

Tracing darkness with
vagrant fingertips
tasting the disdain of dust
we are long shadows
moaning with open mouths.


Eating bitter food grown
on the wrong side of this moon
our hearts caged in fear
fearing we have been cast off
fearing we have no destination.


Sands burning our feet
whipping our unnamed faces
we are long shadows crossing
this dessert longing for
an end to our thirst.


We are losing our shadows
entering empty caves
now listening for echoes
now finding wells of memories
innumerable and unnamed.

About Joan McNerney:

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Three Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky and she has four Best of the Net nominations.  

A Thousand Yards Away By J.J. Campbell

broken souls
rambling down
yellow brick roads
full of discarded
survivors

the frailties of the
human existence

it's the cold lips
of a former lover

the death stare
from a thousand
yards away

all the while,
the love of your
life is six feet
under

patiently waiting
for something other
than worms to visit
her each night

About J.J Campbell:

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves yet still managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Dodging The Rain, Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, Fourth & Sycamore and The Beatnik Cowboy. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Burrito’s Way By Mendes Biondo

a slow hot blues was playing
and the room was full of smells of
beans
meat
sour cream
pepper
we were dancing while the meat was seething

so you want to eat Mexican goodies huh?
you asked me
yes it would be fine
I like spicy flavors
I said

a sad trumpet sang its part when you kissed me
it was a calavera dance out of the kitchen
a dark windy october night
the lights in the house were suffused
and your hands were cold

so be my spice
make my skin glow like those peppers
hot and lustful
let my labias kiss your lips with fire
this mexican dinner could await
but I can’t do the same for your sour cream
you said

I took the bottle of wine and we went in bedroom
I drunk a sip and then shared it with your pussy
you closed your eyes and
veracruz was a place near to you
so the sands of Mexican beaches
and the ocean
that flood coming and going like your hands on my head
that wind blowing through the palms like my tongue on you
I found the spice of life inside you
a postcard from  a place we’ve never seen
but we were there

at the end you’ve been still hungry
what about those hot burritos?
you asked
let me give them a warmth
I said and the sad music changed into
a hot fiery ranchera

About Mendes Biondo: 

Mendes Biondo is an Italian journalist and author. His works appeared on Visual Verse, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Literary Yard, Angela Topping Hygge Feature,  Indigent A La Carte, The BeZine, Scrittura Magazine, The Song Is, Poetry Pasta and other magazines. He is one of the editors of The Ramingo's Porch along with Marc Pietrzykowski and Catfish McDaris. His first book of poems will be published soon by Pski's Porch Publishing.

Shared Laundry By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The landlady at the Fairfax Apartments
always left her underwear
behind in the dryer
and blamed me when they
went missing.

She also lost her socks
in a similar fashion
but never seemed to blame me
for those.

Now
I hate to point fingers,
but there was a convicted sex offender
living right down
the hall
at the
time.

But somehow
I was forever the depraved panty sniffer
in 4F,
behind on rent
and keeping
trophies.

And I could never seem
to change the landlady’s mind
on that
one.

Even after
the sex offender was arrested
with enough women’s dainties on him
to outfit the People’s Republic
of China
and Polaroids
under his pillow
which can only be described
as incriminating.

About Ryan Quinn Flanagan:

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, The Dope Fiend Daily, and The Oklahoma Review

When You're Strange By Ezhno Martin

She laughs to herself
across the park lawn,
and mumbles a tagline
staring into the empty space of the sidewalk stampede

I find her strangely sexy for carrying on the conversation
and wonder how she'd feel if I tried to make myself a part of it

wither I'm staring down a soulmate
or a just lady going over her grocery list
will remain unknown
  cause I'm a social cripple and a coward to boot
the kind of person that wonders about these things aloud
on the way to have breakfast 
insulated by and isolated within ideas

but god, though
it would be nice

what a perfect way for two crazy people to break the ice

I was talking to myself, and saw you talking to yourself, and thought, I dunno, maybe both of us could benefit from having someone else listen?

the two of us could fill a room with a thousand dissenting opinions,
to rival the collective of all unwitting contemporaries,
on Roanoke Parkway,
this afternoon.

We'd have a whole hell of a lot to talk about
that is
if I was any good at talking to other people,
that's for sure...

About Ezhno Martin:

According to Bob Phillips -- Toledo's Best Poet, and an old man who knows every prostitute between Flint Michigan and Cleveland Ohio -- "Ezhno's does what Ezhno does and goes around fucking up everything."