Newborn by India LaPlace

It seems so wrong to call such an old soul

A newborn.

I mean, when she was born, 

She didn’t even cry, but I did. 

The heart in my chest felt too heavy

And so I sobbed like this birth was a death.

She was covered in blood and guts and gross

And I was covered in blood and guts and gross

And I thought that the lump

Of emotion, guilt and fear in my throat

Would choke me.

Newborn was first published in Sad Discoveries

India LaPlace is kind of like if a dive bar and a dumpster fire had a human baby. She is a poet from the United States and a single mom who is aspiring to be a person with self discipline. Associate Editor at the sensational Horror Sleaze Trash. Generally pleasant, naturally cynical. Easily won over by a good book and a twisted sense of humor. You can find her on Instagram: @indiabrittany

She still loves Louis C.K. 

junk mail by Ben Newell

I insert my key,

reach inside the box

and pull out a pornographic magazine.

 

This and a letter from the

St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital

asking for a donation.

 

I toss the letter into a trash bin

filled with junk mail

then walk back to my apt.

 

Kids with cancer

are a major downer—

 

But this photo

of a barely legal brunette

playing with her shaved beaver

helps me forget all about them. 

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

DOG CHASING CAR by Colin James

Fatalism or Determinism?
Witness reliability is dependent on
the type of car and dog.
The dog ran like a Subaru
the car rode similar to a Boxer.
I felt more empathy for the car
always confined in a garage.
The dog had acquired some rust.
Turn those mirrors, that's an ear pointing.
If growled in a low guttural voice,
we may have a breakthrough or both.

Colin James has a couple of chapbooks of poetry published. Dreams Of The Really Annoying from Writing Knights Press and A Thoroughness Not Deprived of Absurdity from Piski's Porch Press. He lives in Massachusetts.........

THEY CALLED HER SHITBAGS by J. Archer Avary

she was a 

giantess

towering over me at 

six feet three

maybe taller 

I was after her friend

Katie 

but Katie hooked up

with my friend 

Jonny

so the giantess and I

ended up 

together

sort of a consolation 

prize 

at a Vietnamese 

restaurant 

north of Dodge 

where we ate 

heads-on shrimp

she told me about the

car crash 

the multiple surgeries

the colostomy bag

she showed me her 

scars 

Nazca lines across

her midsection 

some punks from her 

school

taunted her

her name was Melissa

but they called her 

shitbags

I was too weak and 

fearful 

to stand up for her 

but I saw her

wince with 

inner pain

we sat on my front 

porch 

with a bathtub full of 

ice and beer 

drinking the night away 

she sat on my lap

and kissed me 

our combined weight 

broke the chair 

we tumbled to the floor

and went to bed

together

it was like climbing

an oak tree

without saying a

word 

we knew it was 

over

what an easy 

breakup

I dropped her off

at school 

the next morning 

and never saw

her again

years later I heard 

she was awarded a 

large 

cash settlement 

resulting from the 

car crash

the giantess is now 

a millionaire 

nobody 

calls her shitbags

anymore

J. Archer Avary (he/him) lives on a tiny island in the English Channel. His work has appeared in Rye Whiskey Review, The Daily Drunk, Mad Swirl, Rejection Letters, Ariel Chart, and other esteemed purveyors of poetry and short fiction. Twitter: @j_archer_avary

Let the Fools Be by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I have been known to be too kind
to fools and their tedious advice.

I do not like arguing with fools
or giving them advice in return.
It gets old walking on eggshells 
and walking around them as well.
This may be my last time giving fools a chance who don’t know
better. In the future I will keep a
distance and let the fools be. They 
are often doling out advice on whims.
It is futile to make fools see beauty
in its simplest form. I will continue 
doing things my way without fools.

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.

Ask Me Tomorrow by Terry Norton

Why are you still gazing upon the page?

I made it clear when to ask for my reply.

What, can you not read?
People are really dense these days.
Hey can you give me a lift to the store?
Figured you had nothing better to do.

Reading is fundamental and I'm just fractured in my logic.
I'd offer you a banana but it appears to have already split.

Terry Norton

Is a poet and distant cousin of someone you probably know.

He spends his time watering the lawn of somewhere he doesn't live anymore.

He has many bad habits.

Replace by Susan Tepper

The house has spoken

its final words—

no complaints about

dust and disorder

the grimy kitchen sink

rumpled unmade beds

the unmentionable

bathroom conditions.

It’s the shoes—

tossed everywhere.  

I try explaining they 

replace the missing people.

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her most current titles are CONFESS (poetry published by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a funky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019) that was shortlisted at American Book Fest. Tepper has received eighteen Pushcart Prize Nominations, and other awards and honors. She's a native New Yorker. www.susantepper.com

Another Day Sesh by Riley Hood

A gotta mind to squeegee out and hold accountable

the actions of the past affecting the future, forgetting the present.

I gotta rinse it out and throw it back into the fire

Of living

Breathing

Touching. A mind to rise above

The dirt it bleeds on. A new kind of mud

For the ants to crawl through, this mind.

This mind is mine

And I gotta see to it that it doesn’t drown

From dirty thirties cracked open under the sun,

Another day session starting.

I gotta mind, my friends. I hope you don’t

Care my leaving it with you.

Keep it for me until it’s through.

I’m gonna lie in the dirt with the ants. I don’t need it

But I know you do.

Born in the meth, corn and aliens state of Indiana, Riley has always known he was a fool. He now resides in the hills of New Zealand, somewhere

I Wonder About The People Who Wander by Kevin M. Hibshman

I ponder those that know they are never coming back.
How long of a last glance behind themselves do they take, if indeed they look back at all?
Such cruel certainty in the act of departing that no lover's cooing memory, no child's innocent gaze
could stop them in their tracks.

Perhaps there are louder voices booming through their heads?
A wounded animal will often choose death over being discovered.
There is pride in survival yet there may be a quiet dignity in leaving when you realize it is time, Choosing not to bemoan to others who are also hurting in their endless struggle to keep alive.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems, reviews and collages published in numerous publications world wide. Most recently, his work has been published by Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only, The Crossroads and 1870. In addition to editing his own poetry e-zine, FEARLESS, he has authored sixteen chapbooks including: Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011) and Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000).

The Young Man on the Park Bench by Mike James

                after Richard Brautigan

His hands are small
but his thumbs
are large. 

His thumbnails grow 
larger every day. 
He keeps them gleamingly painted 
with a broad brush. 

He is, “reading a copy of Flight Handbook
as he dreams 
of bird-like mannerisms.”
The bird-like mannerisms, 
a bit part of who he is. 
He loves to read and dream. 
He wants to catch a ride somewhere. 
Those thumbs, 
half of what he needs. 

Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee and has published widely. His many poetry collections include: Red Dirt Souvenir Shop (Analog Submissions), Journeyman’s Suitcase (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), First-Hand Accounts from Made-Up Places (Stubborn Mule), Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog), My Favorite Houseguest (FutureCycle), and Peddler’s Blues (Main Street Rag.) He served as an associate editor of The Kentucky Review and currently serves as an associate editor of Unbroken. 

Space and Time by Puma Perl

It’s not the end

of the decade

Just another year,

steamrolling

the ones

that came before

 

Nothing is ending,

nothing is beginning

 

You’re never going to see

the ocean like you did

the first time,

dragging your towel

behind you,

waves reaching

the sky

standing in the endless

sandbox

Coney Island

all around you

 

No first time

for the Beatles

or the Ramones

 

No first time

for love

 

In our space

and time

some moments

march on,

steadfastly refusing

to line up

with the rest,

breaking through

the tedium

of experience

 

For a minute,

we stand

on the beach

in the wonder

of everything

that was always

ours.

Photo credit goes to Dina Regine.

Puma Perl is a widely published poet and writer, as well as a performer and producer. She is the author of two chapbooks, Ruby True and Belinda and Her Friends, and three full-length poetry collections, knuckle tattoos, Retrograde (great weather for MEDIA), and Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque.) She is the creator, curator, and producer of Puma’s Pandemonium, which launched at the Bowery Electric in 2012 and brings spoken word together with rock and roll. As Puma Perl and Friends, she performs regularly with a group of excellent musicians. She’s received two honorable mentions and one first place award from the New York Press Association in recognition of her journalism and was the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing; she lives and works on the Lower East Side.

Almost Closing by Jonathan Butcher

That light drizzle appeared later

than anticipated. The outside yard,

where we were disciplined four times

this afternoon collects the rain like 

a nest of barb-wire, it's silver thorns

puncturing each hour that passes.

That single bar, perfumed with stale

drinks, allows the space between 

us to to widen; I only stand this close

to relieve the itch, which keeps our 

hands and eyes dancing, but in

opposite directions.

The day draws it's curtains of 

dust and stained wood, that block

out any chance of last minute light.

Your arms brush against this inertia,

held easy by your smile, as we drift

outwards, and stand in shallow puddles.

Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England.

He has had poetry appear in various publications including:

The Rye Whiskey Review, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, 

The Morning Star, Popshot and others. His third chapbook

'Corroded Gardens' was published by Fixator Press.

5$ by Wayne F. Burke

she comes across the
parking lot calling 
to me: "Sir! Sir!"
Sunglasses on pancake make-up
face (to hide the zits?)
she says she out of gas
her kids miles away
her husband pissed
her ATM card rejected by the machine
won't I give her five dollars for
gasoline?
A little too hysterical for
believability, but
not a bad acting job, if that...
Actress with a crack problem?
Crack-head with an acting problem?
Hard to say.
Oh well, only five dollars, a drop
in the bucket
for a rich fuck
like me.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print. He has published six full-length poetry collections, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019). He lives in the Pine Tree State.