The Procession by R.M. Englehardt

Morphic Resonance

Eternal world

　

“Repeats”

　

The Transmission

Of Repetition

Machine Primitive

　

And Yet The Same.

　

With All Your Insights

Unknowing,

Messiahs Of Paper Mache

　

Who Seek?　

A New World To Come, Voices

　

Where Rilke’s Angels Shall All Say;

Love

Live　

Be Silent.

　

For His Eyes Have Seen

All That His Heart Could Give

　

More Than His Voice

Could Say.



The Procession

Now Or Someday

Passing Your Life By

As Well

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.  

6th and Market Street by Joanne Olivieri

Used needles
coagulated blood carpeting
line the streets.
Hookers turning tricks
on a dime
homeless, begging for food
Sax man plays the blues
outta tune
and morning unfolds
Same old
recycled scenario, the city streets
lonely existence

   About  Joanne Olivieri:

Joanne has been writing for 50 years. She is a published poet and photographer. Her works have appeared in numerous in print and online

publications such as The Parnassus Literary Journal, Westward Quarterly, The San Diego Arts and Poets Magazine, Nomads Choir, SP Quill, the Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press, just to name a few. She was awarded a round-trip ticket to Hong Kong in 2007 by Cathay Pacific Airways for her winning entry in their poetry contest. Joanne is the founder and editor of Stanzaic Stylings

Literary Ezine.

Joanne enjoys reading, writing, collecting old poetry books, live music concerts, roaming art galleries and museums, leisurely lunches with

friends in diners, getting out in nature with her camera and making toys for and playing with her feathered companion, Sammers

You can learn all there is to know about her by visiting her website/blog

at http://poeticshutterbug.blogspot.com

The Dope Dealer by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

he said
he didn’t deal
to kids
because that was
against his morals
even though I was pretty
sure he didn’t have
any of those;
he had plenty of drugs:
uppers, downers, over the counter,
under the counter, little black ones
that did who knows what…
and his girlfriends always worked
in pharmacies or hospitals
stealing the pads or the drugs
themselves
and the rest of it he got
and moved on the street
with all these numbers on his phone
and I remember asking him once
how many of those numbers
were really narcs
which he didn’t find funny
at all
and when he got pinched
with enough to be charged
with intent to distribute
and his girls all played dumb
and testified against him
to save themselves
he found it even
less so.

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

Each Drop Of Rain by J.J. Campbell

misery comes
with each drop
of rain

pretty soon

this room will
be nothing but

spoons

lighters

and hopefully

relief

About J.J. Campbell:

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, wondering where the lonely housewives are. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Fourth & Sycamore, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, The Stray Branch and Red Eft Review. You can find him most days bitching about something on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Neighborhood Threat by Mike Zone

D-Kong just threatened to beat me
 to death
“if I see you in the hall…I’m going to beat you to death…if I see you outside, I’m going to beat you to death…if I see you on the stairs, I’m going to beat you to death.”
throwing barrels on the floor above
bouncing up and down
on the creaking floor
squeaking bed
sounds like a mattress on a pile of sticks
springs sticking out
not with some plumber’s girl
but not with his own either
every toss and turn
there’s a splinter and spring
sound bar soldiers going off
late at night
just about got PTSD
from all these video war-games
invading my dreams
D-Kong’s voice booming “I should be there!”
yeah, they don’t hand you pizza rolls and skittles during war
He pounds, he screams, threatens
“Your move! Let’s get it on! Come up here motherfucker!”
just trying to read about Gauguin, syphilis,
amid tropic death island lust
trying to take in moonlit sonata
stabbed by cackles and dumb boisterous search for words
pounds on chest
my muscles tense
not turning green like some comic-book rage machine
no purple pants
but I’ve got blue striped pajamas and something not quite as lethal
radiating in my blood
I’ll lose my sleep
go to my 4am warehouse job
the credible hulk
an inch below average height
he’ll wake up, heart pounding, drenched in sweat
just as nervous all morning
waiting for the nine to five to start
sitting in his cubicle
waiting for this dance
to start again
where I tap that hollow point in the ceiling
and the fucking moron
in his tie with the son he never sees but loves to tout
won’t learn a thing

About Mike Zone:

Mike Zone is the author of Void Beneath the Skin, Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings and Better than the Movies: 4 Screenplays.  He is the co-writer of the graphic novel series American Anti-hero from Alien Buddha Press.His poetry and stories have been featured in: Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl, Rasputin Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, Triadae Magazine and Your One Phone Call. He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI.

Pound Of Flesh by Kevin Martin

pricked my skin

a gun face

look through wind

breeze

glances over my head
bullet ricochet

brainpan

no witnesses
back up

i used to live
near railroad tracks

now miss whistle blowing ground waiting in abandoned warehouses shook with the noise and vibration of it all
all at once waking me up at night can't do this
freight train fracturing my crystal heart right now a soul upside down painting life blood streaked across lusty skies

generous
amounts of crimson

yellowy lemon fires

southern comfort

piss on
my grave
when
leaving
flowers dying

look at
begonias
appetite
my eyes
are
a
brown flower
that will
eventually
fall
to the
ground
no
matter how
colorful
was once
carefully
treated tender
nurtured
loved
even if you
never failed
to look
into my eyes
before
languidly
walking away
i
will still
fall
to the earth
in time
as
a rose
doesn't
fair
any
better

chipped
a
tooth
gnawing
on dreams

i
read
poetry
in the
hallway

i
love

you

alive
asleep dreaming

fuck
if only
touch you
again

feel you close to me
a hundred miles of flesh
with my thousand yard stare

eyes not going anywhere
die a better death

slow death that felt horror
supernova shines
right now before destruction

a soul laced up
bound with
bad tattoos
solitude skulls

awaits closed eyes
open

prayers
without birds of prey

a
hollowman

made of straw

a soul
dialectic space travel

soul mad journey
the way the world ends
doesn't scare me
at all

a diamond bullet through me genuine whole i am not a monster without strength without morals utilizing dystopian scarecrows

judgement and worry

defeats us all

in the void night chasm

About Kevin Martin: 

The Wolfman Kevin Martin is a photographer and poet from North Carolina now residing in Pittsburgh, PA.  Contributing images and poetry to: The Arrival Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Under The Bleachers, Cajun Mutt Press, Alien Buddha Press, The Pangolin Review and Rust Belt Press.  The Wolf's first poetry collection "My Head Fits Through Your Noose, Let Me Swing Awhile? is published through Alien Buddha Press and was released in January 2019. 

Futility by Amit Parmessur

A dusty postbox, in eternal wait.
A bottle of Pepsi someone has left
behind. A stairway leading to a lit
up window, with peeling paint on the walls.

They toss my mind into nostalgia. They
remind me of what I could not finish.
Of how failure is a building full of
dark, cramped dens. Of how lunacy is the


right journey in the wrong direction. I’ve
been the blind worm finding its way through damp
earth, slick and sure, until the robin plucked
and pulled me out like a red rope, naked.

I thought love would be having burrs stuck to
my sleeves. And I would later pick them off
and turn them over in the light with a
broad smile. I didn’t know it would be a few

broken bones, or crying like a baby
over three spit-stained words, or a bottle
someone has left behind in the fierce sun.
How can I fall for someone’s nonchalance?

How can I fall for someone’s good morning?
How can I fall for someone’s blank, white smile?
How can I fall for a stranger, and be
a dusty postbox in eternal wait?

About Amit Parmessur:

Born in Mauritius, Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. His writing has appeared in over 160 magazines, namely Galaktika Poetike, WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He loves to pick off past experiences and turn them over in the light. A one-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Web nominee, he nowadays edits The Pangolin Review.

No Toque Left Behind by David Boski

We had been drinking in the market,
and as we walked out onto the street after last call,
a woman with short black hair who looked like
she was high as shit looked at me and said:
“you, you’re coming with me!”

Being that I was well past drunk, I happily obliged
and we headed down the street towards her place.
upon arrival, we walked past the living room
and into her bedroom. she took my toque off my head,
put it on, and told me to wait as she headed
to the bathroom:

I heard the shower turn on and I waited for 5 minutes:
10 minutes: 15 minutes: then finally I decided to knock
on the door, but she didn’t answer. I thought of leaving,
but she took my toque with her and I didn’t want to leave it
behind so I continued to wait, and then finally after what felt
like forever, she walked out with nothing but a towel on,
her eyes the size of dinner plates:

“what the fuck were you doing in there?” I asked
frustrated, drunk, and tired of waiting:
“shhhh come errrree” she slurred before grabbing
me and trying to stick her tongue in my mouth:

She was terribly dehydrated but we fell towards the bed
and I removed the towel to take a look at what
was underneath. I put my hand on her pussy and she started
moaning with pleasure. I brought my face down south
and the moaning continued shortly, until it abruptly stopped,
and I suddenly heard her snoring:

I got up, looked for my toque, and eventually found
it soaking wet on the bathroom floor. that angered me,
so, for some stupid fucking reason I decided to throw
a gigantic, decorative bar of soap into her toilet:

I walked out, took a drink from the open Jameson that I saw
sitting on a table in the living room, and I went home all alone,
holding my wet toque, which I would lose shortly thereafter.

About David Boski:

David Boski lives in Toronto: His poems have most recently appeared in: Under The Bleachers, Horror Sleaze Trash, Duane's Poetree, Winamop, Beatnik Cowboy, Rusty Truck: He has forthcoming chapbooks being released by Analog Submission Press and Holy&Intoxicated Publications later this year. 

No Guarantees by K.W. Peery

There’s crust
on my coffee cup
this mornin’
that looks like
the Copenhagen
chew residue
Tommy
refuses to
clean from
the splattered
cup holder
in his brand new
F-250

And I’m still
tryin’ to
convince myself
that this
goddamn job
isn’t gonna
negatively
affect my
short-term
health

Because
I know
all too well
when a
raggedy-ass
man like me
eclipses forty
there are no
money-back
gold plated Cadillac
guarantees

About K.W. Peery:

Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. Peery is the author of eight poetry collections: 

Tales of a Receding Hairline; Purgatory; Wicked Rhythm; Ozark Howler; Gallatin Gallows; 

Howler Holler; Bootlegger’s Bluff; Cockpit Chronicles. 

His work is included in the Vincent Van Gogh Anthology Resurrection of a Sunflower, 

The Cosmic Lost and Found: An Anthology of Missouri Poets (Spartan Press), 

Best of Mad Swirl Anthology 2018 and the Walsall Poetry Society Anthology, Diverse Verse II & III. 

Peery’s work has been published in The Main Street Rag, Chiron Review, San Pedro River Review, 

The Gasconade Review, Big Hammer, Blink Ink, Rusty Truck, Mad Swirl, Veterans Voices Magazine, 

Outlaw Poetry, Mojave River Review, The Asylum Floor, Horror Sleaze Trash, Ramingo's Porch, 

From Whispers to Roars, Culture Cult Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only Magazine, 

Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily, Stanzaic Stylings Literary Ezine and Apache Poetry. 

Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than twenty studio albums over the past decade.

Website: www.kwpeery.com

The Cannery by Holly Day

The heads line the wall of her basement
like pickles or tomatoes in clear glass jars
tiny strips of paper scotch-taped to the lids
first and last names covered in a thin sheen of
sticky dust. Sometimes, she arranges the jars

 alphabetically, sometimes by last name, sometimes
by first, a confusing mix of ancient and newer loves
young faces mixed with old. Sometimes
she lines the jars up by date, from the very first kiss
to the last bad blind grope in the back of a car

 but that arrangement always makes her sad, reminds her
of how hard it is for an older woman
to find love.

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).

Dwelling Place by Jim Bourey

Today I visited the old
neighborhood. Most of the time
it’s a place I avoid;
it is darkness,
it is empty
it is shadowy
and full of regrets.

And really, who wants to drag all that out
again? Now we want reassurance
and inspiration and happy memories -
the good stuff.

We don’t need to be reminded
how close we were to falling
off the edge, how we screamed
while little ones looked on,
how backs were turned,
how speeding away
was sweet punishment.

The road to rebuilding was there,
I suppose, though hard to find then,
and still just as elusive.

Jim Bourey is an old poet who lives on the northern edge of the Adirondack Mountains. His chapbook “Silence, Interrupted” was published in 2015 by the Broadkill River Press. His work has appeared in Mojave River Review, Stillwater Review, Gargoyle, Broadkill Review, Rye Whiskey Review and other journals and anthologies. He was first runner up in the Faulkner-Wisdom Poetry Competition in 2012 and 2016. He can usually be found reading aloud in dimly lit rooms.

Inside The Crackhouse With Mike Zone

Question 1: How does it feel to be the love child of Christopher Walken and Robert Denero?

Answer:
Like walking with dollars in my shoes, not sure if I should have a gun to my head or in my head...obviously I'm the a Travis Pickle on foot in a balls of fury sort of way.

Question 2:Where do you hide the bodies and how can I get away with it too?

Answer:
I don't exactly them as much as I utilize them in the workplace , in fact that's why the advice I give to most young write alongside stay out of the court system is...get a job as a cook in a dive bar...you can stuff or make those burgers with ANYTHING.

Question 3: Is it true that you are actually a supper hero named “The Masked Cuddler”?

Answer:
No, but I once put on my ex-stripper girlfriend's sequined panties and  purple feather boa, paraded the room proceeding to call myself "The Purple Marauder".

Question 4: What are your thoughts on the Todd Crillio solo album? I think its dreamy.

Answer:

Haven't given it a chance, I assume it's a place where dreams go to die.

Question 5: Do you also think that reading is lame?

Answer:
Hell yeah it's lame give me a picture box with ripped dudes in tight clothing rapidly moving and huffing and puffing...reading is for guys that like guys, give me some MAN-tertainment.

Question 6: I’ve recently heard that you are working on ultra project in an ultra secret location with an ultra secret pen name could you tell us about it?

Answer:
The pen man is Linus DuChant, I'm really writing in a Panera Bread and it's a heavy metal version of Lord of the Rings.

Question 7:Who is a better rapper kris Kristofferson or Waylon Jennings?

Answer:
Waylon Jennings all the way...he blew the devil out of Georgia...know what I'm sayin'?

Question 8:Wings Stop or Panda Express which do you prefer to rob when low on cash or in need of some comfort violence?

Answer: 
Panda Express, less resistance and always a chance you'll be able to meet a mysterious yet modest woman of the East who encompasses the wisdom of the ancients and you are just...you.

Question 9: I need a hero  I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night, do you qualify?

Answer:
No. I tried the hero thing once. It didn't take.

Question 10: I have a problem at the office I recently killed my secretary . And was wondering if you knew of anyone I could call upon to help fix this situation I really have problem when I mix my meds and fantasy football league and who is the best tight end in basketball?

Answer: 
Just get that actor in Shield who gunned down his wife, he also played a sexually confused cop...what could go wrong?

Question 11: Can you explain how you will defeat Dr.Robotnik in his underwater lunar invasion?

Answer:
Up, Up, Down, Down, left, right, left right, a, b, start.

Question 12: Do you dare take the pop rock and Pepsi challenge the same challenge that took great writer Ernest Hemmingway from us?

Answer:
Hemingway was a hack, I'll show you once I write the great American novel, I'm going to buy the gun he blew his brains out with and blow my own live on a podcast.

Question 13: How much do you charge for your milkshakes? 

Answer:
As many boys as I think they bring to the yard.

Question 14: How does Swiss cheese get its holes? And is it difficult being a Amish and a poet? And can I have your number?

Answer:
There are some doors that should not be opened, exposing the holiness of Swiss cheese is one of them. Amish? No but being a half Jew, working class poet with a pelvic hernia which is constantly mistakenly for a third testicle...yes. As fir my number, I won't give it to you but I can give you an address so you can leave a six pack at the door.

Better Than You by Smokey Dodge

He takes time to view people he hates.

Checking news reading posts.

For a man who claims to not concern himself with the opinions of others he always seems to do just the opposite.

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.

Pieces Of Paper by Ben Newell

The co-owner/chef

is out today,

attending class in order to renew

his ServSafe certificate.

The health dept.

requires this credential. 

The health dept. doesn’t require

my credential;

they don’t give a flying fuck

about my MFA—

Nor does anybody else

for that matter.

I guess

that’s why I’m the dishwasher.

About Ben Newell: 

Ben Newell, 46, works as a dishwasher in Jackson, Mississippi.  His chapbook, You Are Being Detained, was published by Epic Rites Press as part of its 2017 Punk Chapbook Series.  

The Hero's Song Sung by John Patrick Robbins

I spent hours learning my craft.
I can paper my walls with rejections.

Have spent hours wasting time and losing track of others in hopes to connect.

I decided to write a manuscript for a adult film.

It was quick and easy.

And a raving success.
The lead had a great rack and huge ass.

It won several awards and nobody gave a damn who penned this modern day masterpiece of smut.

Unsung heroes are in a group all their own.

I penned fifteen more and could afford my bad habits and keep the lights on.

When a friend asked.

"Hey man how do you stay afloat these days only writing?"

"Poetry and selling my ass."

I replied

I never let anyone know my truth.

And as I saw a guy at a video store checking out one of the works I had penned I took great pride.

I just tapped him on the shoulder
And told him .

“You're welcome.”

Looks like I had saved another lost soul from a depressing empty night.

A heroes work is never done.

About John Patrick Robbins: 

   John Patrick Robbins

Is the editor of The Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers and Drinkers Only.

He is also the Author of Smoking At The Gas Pumps by Soma Publishing and A Cold Beer Beats A Warm Heart by Alien Buddha Press.

His work has also been published here at the,

Dope Fiend Daily, Ariel Chart, The San Pedro River Review, The Mojave River Review, Stanzaic Stylings, Blognostics,  Red Fez,  Punk Noir Magazine,  Blue Pepper, Angry Old Man Magazine, Spill The Words, Academy Of The Heart And Mind, Piker Press, A Beautiful Space.

His work is always unfiltered 

Voyeur by Victor Clevenger

all
the street
lights
shine
while
the
grasshoppers
make
love
&
I am
now
drunk
with
envy

About Victor Clevenger:

When not traveling the highways across America, Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry.  He lives with his second ex-wife, and together they raise six children in a small town northeast of Kansas City, MO.  Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print magazines and journals around the world, as well as at a variety of places online.  His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology, as well as the Pushcart Prize.  Victor’s most recent published collections of poetry include a split book with Tom Farris titled Ginger Roots Are Best Taken Orally (EMP, 2018), A Finger in the Hornets’ Nest (Red Flag Poetry, 2018), and On The Tip Of Our Tongues (Analog Submission Press, 2018).  He can be reached at: facebook.com/thepoetvictorclevenger 

Cheers

I Don’t Want To Die by Austin Davis

I want to live forever

as a talking head in a jar

like Nixon does in Futurama,

except, I’d rather not

be carried around

by Spiro Agnew every day.

Upload my mind

into a keychain

before I die

and you can keep me in your hand

and listen to me read you poems

until you become a keychain too.

Then we can live together forever

clipped onto the side of some

4th grade girl’s backpack

or in the left pocket

of some angsty kid’s jeans

and we can help him

make better decisions.

I feel like baby Superman,

launched into the bottleneck of space

while my world burns to its core.

It’s a shame I can’t fly

on the planet I landed on,

so all that’s left for me to do

is to rip out those thin pages from the Bible

and roll my last joint.

Everyone knows God

catches flame faster than the Devil.

Austin Davis is a poet, spoken word artist, and student activist currently studying Creative Writing at ASU. Austin's writing has been widely published in dozens of literary journals and magazines including Pif Magazine, After the Pause, Philosophical Idiot, and Collective Unrest. Austin's first two books, "Cloudy Days, Still Nights" and "Second Civil War" were both published by Moran Press in 2018.