hole-in-the-wall bookstore, saturday afternoon by John Grochalski

they come in
giggle-tripping
down the narrow aisles

fashion scarves
knock-off bags
and designer leather

disturbing whatever viola abomination
the surly long-haired clerk had been playing

fondle everything
like small children

picking up books
and tossing them

schopenhauer and nietzsche flung about

the gangly cadence
of american tourist slang

buddhist chants with chewing gum hymns

and you wonder
how they found this place at all

this hole-in-the-wall bookstore
this small refuge from the weekend crowd

looking for books by george-what’s-his-name

the guy who wrote that book 1983
or 1984

or was it…1989?

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.

Friday Night Basketball at P.S. 217 by Robert Cooperman

In high school, it was the closest court,
always a shock at how small the school
had become: water fountains back-
breakingly low, halls so narrow,
a wonder normal sized kids like us
could avoid walking into walls.

Still, it was open Friday nights,
and those of us without dates
or parties to go to—which meant
most of my friends and me—could,
with frenzied games, temporarily
numb the hormones driving us nuts.

You called “Next,” chose two guys,
waited your turn, and if you kept winning,
you stayed on the court: make-it-take-it
to eleven, and you had to win by two buckets. 

One Friday, one friend dropped out,
then another, smirking, until it was just
Brian and me; then Brian gone too,
me trudging alone to the gym,
until finally, it was my turn

to smile over something other
than a bank shot clean as the shirt
my mother ironed for me,
that first Friday night.

About Robert Cooperman:

Robert Cooperman's latest collection is THE DEVIL WHO RAISED ME (Lithic Press).  Cooperman's love letter to the Grateful Dead, SAVED BY THE DEAD, was published earlier this year by Liquid Light Press.

Loss by Jack Henry

she loved me one line at a time;

in a backseat or front;

parked behind a Seven/11;

up town or down;

she had no preference or discrimination;

some days we took turns being the boss;

banging away to Stevie Ray;

doing things natural & unnatural;

all points in between;

she cried at church on Sunday’s, sitting in the front with the other weeping widows;
she never gave me a chance to be a man;

or be her man;

or be anything other than a one hit wonder;

she took what she took & left me limp & whining;


i never knew the truth of her recalcitrance

& i lost track of her soul late one night

between gun shots & firefights out the blvd;

sirens blast & wail, screaming songs a bit out of key;

when i dream i see her;

bent over a coffee table;

one line at a time;

shaking her ass & singing along w/Aretha;
she tells me stories in those dreams;

tall-tales of hope & mystery & possibility;

laughter, perfection, & something i could never share;

when the cops called i woke with a start;

‘can you ID the body? they said;

they stood at a freezer door;

pulled the handle & wheeled out a frozen form

buried under a mottled sheet;

‘that’s not her, i said’;

but it was;& i left through the back door;

went down an alley filled with broken glass & trash dumpsters covered in graffiti;
turned left;

then right;

then sat down at the curb, eyes filled with tears;


‘that’s not her,’ i said

‘that’s not her…’

About Jack Henry:

Jack Henry is a California based poet just back into writing after a ten-year rehab.  Recently published in Red Fez and a bunch of other places back in the day, including asinine poetry, bolts of silt, clockwise cat, decomp, gloom cupboard, oakbend review, oragami condom, rusty truck, and a few others.  It is rumored that Jack published Heroin Love Songs, a poetry journal, and that it may be coming back in 2019.
...

Knight Rider by John Doyle

We’ll head northwards

as sunlight chokes on moon,

a wedding band stomping its welcomes



to death - AC/DC, Garth Brooks, James Blunt -

a frightened cocktail we leave the dancefloor

at light speed to avoid. At that point where night and morning



tear each other to pieces like a cock fight

behind closed doors in a bar ethnic slurs look for,

we’re a bloodbath of lost opportunity, a bullet-hole



where life somehow missed us, and filled

the merest of mortal farm boys with itself instead.

You’re asleep. You have been 5 hours. What a shame it would be to wake you



after our ordeals. The television’s perched

like a moose-skull with glass-eyes on walls in Vermont bars,

Knight Rider a shell that dust drags itself around - like



flies scurrying to introduce themselves to their latest corpse;

Here is the reality of Sunday - like collapsed walls in

child-labour workhouses, weeping eyes, rubble-torn hands.

Michael Knight tangles my entire lifeline

in retro-denim, scuff-mark leather jackets, as you sleep

with dreams of jazz-bands in Milan,



weddings few can attend.

Let’s make this our song, baby; Michael Knight's about to sing -

I want us to listen

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.

Genius by John Patrick Robbins

Who needs children when you deal with writer's everyday?
I had a poet ask me.

"Hey dude are you that same guy who writes all that shit about drinking and losing your mind?"

I didn't bat an eye.

"Yep that's me."

"Wow man your a writer too? I just figured that was some other dude."

I didn't reply I just poured a drink.

If you have to question why then this write is dedicated to you.

John Patrick Robbins 

Is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers.

He also runs Whiskey City Press.

His work has appeared here at the Dope Fiend Daily, The San Pedro River Review, Red Fez, Punk Noir Magazine, Ariel Chart, As It Ought To Be Magazine.

Both his poetry and fiction has been nominated for best of the net this year.

Neptune by Ariel Chart and Southie Unbound, here at the Dope Fiend.

His work is always unfiltered.

Inside The Crack House With Bruce Hodder

Question 1
As an Englishman how often do you like to tea bag strangers at an airport?

Answer: I had to look tea bagging up to answer this. It’s well known I would put most things in my mouth in the search for personal gratification, but rarely at airports. I am afraid of flying.


Question 2
What is your advice for starting up a nudist colony at a modest budget in Peru?

Answer: Make sure you take plenty of sun cream. Be mindful of local sensibilities and wear clothes when you go to market. Not everyone wants to see your penis, however proud of it you are.


Question 3
Can you hop on one foot and punch Shia labeouf at the same time before he takes over the sweaty/delicious planet of California big titty knockers?


Answer: I tried this on my alcoholic Elvis-obsessed neighbour Ted before I answered,  just to see if I could do it, and I fell flat on my arse. Ted loomed over me laughing and said, ‘That’s karma for all the poems you’ve written about me, you fucking overweight dole-bludging nancy-boy hippie.’ On the whole, not one of my prouder moments.


Question 4
How do you like to mark your territory in the yard what is your secret?


Answer: I don’t have a yard, but I give off a particular and very distinctive smell. It’s a combination of patchouli oil, nag champa incense and poor hygiene. Usually that alone is enough to keep away badgers, foxes and friends.


Question 5.
What is your sacrifice to the family entertainer GG Allin and how does it taste?

Answer: I must admit, I had never heard of this man, being the gentle hippie soul that I am. Now I do know about him, I think I’d sacrifice a day of complete solitude in the country with occasional rain showers and a light, refreshing breeze. After all, he sounds quite grumpy. And how does that sacrifice taste? Better than chocolate.

Question 6
Do you have any thoughts on the space aliens probing me in the back of a white van and how they can do a better job?

Answer: I’m  puzzled as to why they’re doing it in a white van for one. Don’t they have a space ship somewhere? I’d also like to know why they’re probing someone involved in the poetry world, especially if the point is to get a better understanding of humanity in general. We’re nothing like that lot.

Question 7
How do you stay so damn sexy at 50? I could have sworn you were 29.

Answer: Who are you confusing me with? At my best I look like a rubbish bin full of cigarette butts and food waste turned upside down on an unmade bed.

Question 8
Is it true that people from England have 2 heads speak Spanish and break into homes at 3 am to perform strange satanic rituals with Ringo Star?

Answer: Actually, it’s rare for English people to speak more than one language, although I speak a smattering of French and know how to say ‘two beers please,’ in Spanish. I once asked Ringo to perform a strange Satanic ritual with me. He had me dragged into an alley and beaten savagely by two muscle men.

Question 9
Why don’t people love me after I sniff their butts and bark at them in the park?

Answer: Weird that, isn’t it? What happened to our sense of community? Don’t give up, Scott. One day somebody will want to sniff your butt too.

Question 10
If you could describe your book in 3 porn titles or less what would it be?

Answer: It took me nearly two weeks to think of the actual title. When I try to think of three more I feel dizzy.


Question 11
As the Philosopher Mike Tyson once said “Cogito ergo sum” so do you also agree with the idea of pissing on your neighbors carpet and then running into Starbucks naked to preach the word of Mr. Rodgers to hipsters?

Answer: I must say, I don’t really approve of going into Starbuck’s for anything except to protest against the strangulation of small businesses by corporations and the homogenisation of the high street. I don’t know who Mr Rodgers is. I don’t know if hipster means the same thing in the US either, but if it does I’d preach against beard sculpturing. Let your wildness express itself! As for urinating on carpets ... well, at my age, it’s an occupational hazard.


Question 12
Ron Murphy has a question.

Since my recent vanishing into the jungles of Indiana and capture by Somalian pirates.

How has you life been effected and is it difficult to get through the day.

And does it bother you to know Ron Murphy may still be alive somewhere in some prison camp.

And what is your plan of action in freeing run Murphy.

And do you plan on using you're wizard powers to form a rescue team and making this into three films?


And how does this effect production of you and Ron's new poetry tour across Europe?

And who is the opening band?


Answer: Ron, my thoughts often turn to you and distract me in social situations, like at supermarket checkouts and crossing roads. The thought that you are alive keeps me going. The possibility that you may be suffering is unendurable. Almost. But I manage. I can’t reveal my plan here, Ron. This is the technological age. They have internet in Indiana. Those pirates may be watching. Again I mustn’t say too much. But the movie deal is signed and we both have guaranteed walk-on parts in all three films like Stan Lee in the Marvel flicks.Don’t worry, Ron. We’re still good to go. I’m going to use my magic powers to revive Celtic Rasta from Northampton. Or the Scrumpy Bastards. I still say that’s the best band name ever. They were fun.


Also if you liked the interview please check out Bruce's book:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/bruce-hodder/the-journey-home/paperback/product-24163986.html

CAN WE JERK OFF TO THIS? by Brian Rihlmann

I’ve been on a documentary kick
for a couple of weeks
(this happens sometimes...)
and there’s no shortage of them
let me tell you

you can find any
and every possible position
defended, justified, championed

I notice I tend to seek the ones
that reinforce my belief
that things are basically fucked

so now I know....
I mean REALLY know
we’re running out
of fresh water
our food is poison
the soil is toxic
and the oceans are plastic

and our politicians
and business leaders
are reprehensible
immoral scumbags

knowing the magnitude
of the problems
gives me an excuse
to sit back and enjoy the show
it’s all one big snuff film now

About Brian Rihlmann:

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Under The Bleachers, Cajun Mutt Press, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.

Master Of The Medical Thriller by Ben Newell

The local gynecologist

is having a signing

at the independent bookstore.


His third

or fourth novel.



He fancies himself

the next Robin Cook—



The guy can’t write

worth a shit

but I’m still jealous.



He’s loaded,

lives in a big house,

drives a Porsche.



And sees more pussy

on a Monday morning

than I’ll see in a lifetime.

About Ben Newell:

Ben Newell dropped out of the Bennington Writing Seminars during his first semester, eventually resuming his studies at Spalding University where he earned an MFA.  His first full-length collection of poetry, Fuzzball, was recently published by Epic Rites Press. 

https://www.amazon.com/Fuzzball-Ben-Newell/dp/1926860667/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=fuzzball&qid=1563733227&s=books&sr=1-2

Giving Thanks by David Boski

My sister asked about one of
my exes during thanksgiving
this past year. I told her that
she had gotten married and
that’s when my mom interjected
and said: “what is it that you
do to these women? that every
time you break up with them
they move on so quickly and
can’t wait to get married!”
My sister and I began laughing
hysterically and I answered:
“I don’t know, they’re crazy.”
“No, I’m beginning to think
you’re crazy and that it’s you
and not them!” my mom replied
as she began laughing too.
It was our first thanksgiving since
my nephew and her first grandson
had been born, and I was thankful
for the laugher, and the moment.

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. 

Before Big-Pharma by PW Covington

Look to the corners of the cage
The spaces between stacked sticks of pining
Curing

Look that stash right in the eye
With dynamite glow
Down Miracle Road in Decaturville
And Texarkana never tastes the same

Shut down all those alibis, aligning
And learn the sacred freedom
Of the blame

1987 won’t return
Until we learn
To look into the corners of the cage

Regret and cowardice remarketed as virtue
You were all born more evolved than I
Why then, your generational anxiety?
Your crushing self-doubt and anathema fatalism

Rearview mirrors are only there for safety
They’re not designed for navigation
Paralysis is not the same as patience

So what, then, if I end up the last
Chain smoking, dope shooting, shop lifting
Asshole tragic troubadour at the truck stop?

What then, If I end up steering the last
V8 – 5 speed, red rag-top, Detroit gasoline machine
Down the
Last open Interstate to be found?

What if I am the last one lurking
In your safe space that can roll a decent joint
Or kiss you in the way
You’ve never been
Honest enough to admit
That you know you truly need
To be kissed?

Will there be a warning label
Will there be a trigger warning
3 steps ahead of me, at all times?

I already have an attorney on retainer

All your fears and fantasies
Like Percocet and Benzedrine
Get flushed down motel toilets
In the corners

You asked to see what life was like
Before Big-Pharma

PW Covington's writing is inspired by the grit and greatness of the North American highway.

he has been invited to perform across the hemisphere, and his short fiction collection North Beach and Other Stories was recently named a finalist in LGBTQ Fiction by the International Book Awards.

Follow him on Insta @BeatPW

Death Rattle by Tony Pena

Scrolling through images
of pixel perfect women
in the find sex sites,
smiling with amazing
enamel genetics
or quality veneers,
advertising themselves
as cougars though a good
score younger than I,
prompts me to rewind
my old man’s vintage
black leather strap Bulova
given to me when his time
stopped making sense,
light up a stogie saved
for special occasions,
and reread the obits
in the local rag
to better gauge just
how many good years
I’ve got to kill before
I turn the gun on myself.

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

A Quart a Day by Hugh Blanton

The feature article said that Lemmy drank
a quart of Jack Daniels a day.
I just assumed a quart was a lot without
even trying to think about how much
a quart really was.

Then the 1.75 liter bottle of whiskey
I bought two days ago is already gone.

Check the metric conversions
on the inside cover of your
Tops composition book.

I'm almost up to Lemmy's level.

About Hugh Blanton:

Hugh Blanton lives in San Diego, California and combs poems out of his hair during those moments he can steal away from his employer's loading dock. He has appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey.

The Road to Hell is Paved with Writers Review by Scott Simmons

The Road To Hell Is Paved With Writers is by no means a small book but due to Ryan Quinn Flanagan’s signature sense of wit and humor he is able to capture the readers attention from cover to cover. Ryan Quinn Flanagan has successfully captured quite a bit of his personal life into this book and highlights many interesting moments with those around him. In writes such as Among Friends (page 52) and How Canadian Babies Are Made (page 10) he accurately depicts humorous discussions that we personally had and truly brought them to life.

However outside of the laughs Ryan also weaved in some truthful criticisms about writing and the writing community which is demonstrated in Blurbs And Forwards (page 246) and the titular write The Road To Hell Is Paved With Writers (page 28) as both of these writes show the truly consuming nature of writing poetry in the current times/literary circles.

The good blend both of fun and critical tones throughout this book offer the reader quite a bit of variety and makes this long book feel as if it’s much shorter than it truly is. This book is an excellent addition to Whiskey City Press and a great collection for any fans of Ryan Quinn Flanagan. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for a laugh and that wants to read an honest outlook on both life and the pains that are involved with being a writer. The Road to Hell Is Paved With Writers is a definite must read for any true fan of Ryan's work because it will not leave you disappointed.

Link to Ryan Quinn Flanagan's book:

https://www.amazon.com/Road-Hell-Paved-Writers/dp/1074748654/ref=olp_product_details?_encoding=UTF8&me=

Lunch At Larrys Loveshack Dancing For Dollars by Judge Santiago Burdon

I didn't come for the food
But the Ham on Rye tastes great
Go dance on your pole and smile
Does every Titty Bar
play the same worn out songs
I'll  kill the DJ if he plays Born To Be Wild
Get up on the stage take off your clothes
Don't waste time with the tease
I only have an hour
Before I gotta pick up da wife
Let me give that fine ass a squeeze
Come here and stick your tits in my face
How much for a table dance
Don't tell me you can't remember my name
I'm not here looking for romance
Don't wanna a massage can't afford a date.
Let me stick a dollar in your G string
I've gotta frog in my pants come ere sit on my lap.
I'll give you some cocaine but I  won't buy you a drink
Where you going get on back here
what the hell is your problem
Not enough money to buy your company
You're  just a Titty Dancer you should gimme da respect
I'll be back tomorrow
You can apologize to me

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.

Delicatessen Tray by James Kenneth Blaylock

saying goodbye to anyone is always hard,
especially whenever you gave everything

feels like taking your heart and putting it upon a delicatessen tray, choose slivers

whatever remains once they leave, in time,
is what you’re supposed to survive with now,

so don’t allow too many butchers to make
mincemeat appetizers out of your innards

About James Kenneth Blaylock:

James Kenneth Blaylock is a author/poet/lyricist/writer/spoken word and recording artist. He was born and breed in Dallas, Tx. He has been blessed to published stateside and abroad. He has 2 books (“Born With Our Clocks Running “ & “We Wander With Our Candles Lit” )available wherever books are sold online. He adores his children. His hobbies include, but are limited to, listening to music and watching movies. Also, let’s not forget reading, he loves to read other human being’s thoughts and feelings.

At My Childhood Home by Bruce Hodder

I once laid on my stomach here, outside this house,

where now there's gravel spread,

looking in the grass for four-leaf clovers.

The grass got really long back then.

Our neighbour, Mrs Bean, would mow it

sometimes, Mum being too depressed.

I know I never saw the old man mow

the lawn. He lived away most weeks.

It saddens me, coming back this morning,

to find the grass all gravelled over

like it is. It looks like a graveyard now.

Who dug my garden up? Was it him,

my dad, before he sold the house?

He might have, to fatten up the price.

Or perhaps it was the woman I can see.

She’s looking at me as I look at her.

I'm a strange man with a long grey beard

staring at a stranger in a Primark dress

There's forty five years and a lawn between us,

a lawn I used to play in when I was six.

I worry her. Perhaps she’ll call the police

from the front room where my mother died

of heartbreak first, then cancer.

About Bruce Hodder:

Bruce Hodder lives with his wife Michelle in Northampton, England, the most statistically average town in the UK. He has been published in many magazines and online, most recently in ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’, ‘Under the Bleachers’ and ‘The Rye Whiskey Review’.

Please check out Bruce Hodder's book The Journey Home:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/bruce-hodder/the-journey-home/paperback/product-24163986.html

Poem for a Bag Boy with More Pimples than Sense by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I understand that the pay is crap
and that no one really cares about their job anyways
and that you are trying to get with the cashier
who can’t make change for a twenty
but good lord, just let me bag the damn things,
hell, I had your job twenty years ago
and even back then I knew you didn’t put the detergents
in with the produce
and that you double bagged the meat and fish
and now I am a forty year old man
and there will be a new poem to write
when I get home, this poem for a bag boy
with more pimples than sense,
and almost no one will read it which is fine
and if you get the girl, please do not ever procreate
as that will just make things worse
and I can’t even begin to imagine the spawn
of you two geniuses, though I feel for you
concerning the job and that asshole super;
I’d like to say it gets better, but I won’t lie
to you like all the others.

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.

Please check out his book The Road to Hell is Paved with Writers:

https://www.amazon.com/Road-Hell-Paved-Writers/dp/1074748654/ref=olp_product_details?_encoding=UTF8&me=

That Dylan Moment by Daniel W. Wright

The drunk never stood a chance
as he tried to get sober
The usual crowd cajoled him
and bought him rounds
trying to get him
to be his former self
what they called
his usual self
as it dawned on him
in that Dylan moment
that they preferred him
in two dimensions
instead of three

When they got him
three sheets to the wind
they began to point
and laugh at him
as they always had before
That was something
they could understand

About Daniel W. Wright:

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.

The Great Thing About Millennials by Alex Z. Salinas

“at least he didn’t die,”
says one of the
twenty-thirty-somethings sitting
in Starbucks watching a man
writhe on asphalt
after he just got hit by a car

“at least he didn’t die,”
parrots another, crystallizing
their new tagline,
their new sympathy cards,
their new self-esteem methodology,

their new iPhones in hand
with Instagram pulled up
instead of dial pads

About Alex Z. Salinas:

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His poetry has appeared in the San Antonio Express-News, Shot Glass Journal, The Rye Whiskey Review, Duane's PoeTree, and in the San Antonio Review, where he serves as poetry editor. His short fiction has appeared in publications such as Every Day Fiction, Mystery Tribune, Red Fez, Schlock! Webzine, Nanoism, escarp, 101 Words, and 365tomorrows.

Detox by Debra Sasak Ross

I am not a tool
I cannot be used
I will not be your enabler
I am not a bank
I am not made of money
I can barely support myself let alone you
And your addiction
When you’re out of your mind
With your addiction, paranoia and OCD
Don’t come running to me
You had a paycheck
Your priorities are out of this world
You chose this life
You cannot flop from place to place
And expect people to put up with your madness
You need help
Deep down you know you need help
Do you really want to drop dead from cardiac arrest
With a meth pipe hanging out of your mouth?
I love you,, but I cannot help you
Until you help yourself
I wish you well

Debra Sasak Ross is a published poet from Chicago, Illinois. Besides reading, writing and listening to music, she loves thunderstorms, blizzards and gardening. Her work can be found in the anthologies, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses. Her work can also be found online in The Poet Community, Inquisition Poetry, Nature Writing,, Haiku Journal.  Best Poetry, Duanes Poetree. and Spillwords.com She has also published her first book, “BELIEVE” in 2018. She now resides in Iowa.

Fake It Until I make It by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I’m going to fake it

until I make it.

I’m the Mack and I

will not be cornered.

I don’t believe in cash.

Give me some credit.

I’m dope until things

start to go wrong for me.

When I get suicidal

I check myself in.

I don’t want to go back

to the penitentiary.

I’ll go to the hospital.

It’s much better there.

All the pretty nurses

are in love with me.

I am a registered

lethal weapon. I’m

getting too old

to deal with this shit.

Give me immunity

and I will tell you stories

that will make your head

come off at the neck.

About Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal:

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, lives in Southern California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His poetry online and in print has appeared in Ariel Chart, Blue Collar

Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Magazine.

An Old Friend by Dan Provost

He is about to die in front of me; former friend,

an important man once in my life—now, just another

guy who found this existence tasteless,

worthless…

 

Too strong to proceed…

Too weak to observe…

 

I took the knife from his

bloody hand, wrist bleeding,

stomach drenched in final pursuit.

 

He was trying to say something—

 

“Worth, worthless?” I

 couldn’t make it out.

 

Staring at the blade

Wondering if I should

put it to my wrist.

 

Scared?

Sacred?

Faceless?

 

I stare at my demise a lot

these days—

 

One step.

One dead friend

at a time.

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.

Flesh and Company by David Boski

After my father’s suicide
it was all a blur. days, weeks.
and months passed, all of them
wasted; my focus went to shit,
my depression and anxiety were
high, and I too was drunk and high.
many nights were spent alone on
the couch, staring at a blank ceiling
of nothingness, especially after my
relationship had ended. other nights
I spent time with people I didn’t like
or women who were nothing more
than flesh and company. other nights
were spent playing poker, winning or
losing hundreds or thousands of
dollars at a time, never really letting
the magnitude of any big win or large
loss hit me long enough to feel much.
the distractions didn’t change anything,
but sometimes it’s what we need to keep
pushing through.

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. 

Cannibalize Poetry by Zechariah Savage

She penned the lines and flashed her tits played the games like a well trained brainless slut bucket often does.

The old losers gave likes and the limp dicks all agreed she was hot.

Empty in thought dead inside.
We all dreamed of nothing and waited to die.

And feasted upon her soul spread like her legs upon the table.

It tasted salty with a tinge of cotton candy and self absorbed shit.

She pukes poetry like the brain dead often do.
Fuck death cause the living seldom truly are.

About Zechariah Savage:

Anarchist poet and truth speaker at any cost death is not to be feared the fake bullshit of society is.

Abandon all hope!!!!