Old School Football by Dan Provost

Three yards and
a cloud of dust only
exist on you tube videos.
 
Old footage of Walter Payton &
Emmitt Smith deep in the I
formation.
 
Seven yards from the quarterback.
Ready to run into eternity.
 
Very few mention Matt Suhey or
Moose Johnston, who bruised their
soul for the movement—first downs,
clock management and touchdowns.
 
Even fewer comment on the war raged
by Revie Story, Jimbo Covert, Larry Allen
and Eric Williams, huge men who sacrificed
broken fingers, ankle breaks, shoulder separations
 
for ownership of a place in sport not bigger
than a walk-in closet.
 
Everything evolves, your values, responsibilities,
 
Mortgage payments.
 
Change is a necessary part of the evolution process.
 
Sport is no exception.  The game of football is
now featured by names like Mahomes, Lamar Jackson,
DeShaun Watson…athletes who can cock the rock
and fly into endzones across the United States.
 
Being sentimental is not an evil trait however, closing my eyes
for a second, remembering how individual battles were
fought in the pit.
 
Triceps bulging, legs churning—running backs finding creases behind
stout fullbacks and massive offensive lineman…
 
Stares into opponents’ eyes…A silent agreement of
who would have loved to play for another quarter.
 
And who wouldn’t…

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.

When My Mind Decides To Eat Itself by Kevin M. Hibshman

It sets a lovely table.
It breaks out the fine china and expensive cutlery.
You might say it's a “soiree.”
I'm never informed about the guest list.

When my mind decides to eat itself, it's a real event.
The recipe varies from depression to torment.
There is never enough wine to make me forget why we're all seated together.
When my mind decides to eat itself, it wishes to gorge and it is always sure to leave no crumbs behind.

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).

Washout by Jonathan Butcher

A cover slipped, that grim smile,

that expands as acceptance grows.

A mild washing of thoughts cleanses

each person of the dust that lead to false

liberty; it's now blown into clouds of denial.

One by one, each item falls like faded leaves,

almost expected, due to the grace of that one

offering, that blinkers judgment, and would

excuse starvation if carried far enough.

Their message flashes in multi-colour,

with each view that changes in their favour.

Pockets stripped empty by blood-clotted 

fingers, that never seem to reach the bottom.

Again, they hold court over thousands, 

the blank crowds that soak up each word

like torn sponge, that leaks out over decades,

and creates a stain we can never seem to remove.

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.

The Twelfth of Never by Lauren Scharhag

Your third marriage was surely 

still in its honeymoon phase

when Johnny Mathis crooned 

about unending love.

I never knew whether to 

admire your commitment 

to finding The One 

or to shudder 

at the desperation

casting a pall 

on this time’s charms.

By the time I came along,

full of the questions children ask,

Will I be rich?

Will I be famous?

Will I fall in love?

You had an answer ready:

Sure, kid. 

On the twelfth of never.

When the last husband up and left,

people asked if you thought

he’d come back.

You told them the same.

You said it so much I thought

you’d invented the phrase.

Yet, you kept his picture

under your pillow,

and quit leaving the house

in case he returned.

Twenty-two years of

hovering by the phone,

watching the road for his car,

stopping all the clocks

at the hour of his departure. 

And then, 

three months after you died,

the letter came.

He, too, had racked up 

another divorce or two.

He was just out of prison. 

If you would just take him back,

he swore, this time, 

it would all be different.

This time, it would be forever.

It was the impossibility 

you’d always dismissed:

the bloomless bluebell,

the scentless clover,

the mute scribe.

The twelfth of never 

was finally here,

but there was no one 

to tell him that 

you weren’t.

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com

Rye Seed by PW Covington

For the 2nd day in a row
I find myself incredibly mentally altered
Not disturbed
Before noon
I know this because
At some point I recognize the Native American
Call in talk show
On the public radio, inside
And that show ends at noon, on weekdays

If the worst thing they can say
About me, when this is over,
Is that I spent most of it
Sitting stoned alone
In my garden
Feeding mountain finches
Rye seed from my faded red feeder

Then,
That’s exactly what they can say…

   PW Covington writes in the Beat tradition of the North American highway. He's riding things out, in a hidden adobe, somewhere just off Historic Route 66, in Northern New Mexico. Follow him on Insta @BeatPW.

FIRST DATE by India LaPlace

He has a way with words
And I have no sense of delayed gratification,
Which means that for the last half of our time at the bar,
I fantasized to the sound of his voice
And forgot that I had decided not to sleep with him on the first date.
And I remember nothing
But the way he looks when he smiles
And the thought of cumming to that laugh.

Anyway,
I went home with him.

Previously published at Horror Sleaze trash and 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. 

Hollywood Blows Part 2 / Sequels Vs Prequels by John Patrick Robbins

The ride over to Monument studios was a silent affair.
Being that Simon felt like death warmed over and largely wanted to kill Frank.

And as they sat there waiting for Mrs Phelps to arrive, Frank couldn't resist twisting the knife at least just a tad.

“So can I get you two gentlemen anything while you wait?”
The secretary asked.

“Hey sweetheart, any chance you could get us two bloody Marys?" 

 My agent here really likes a little hair of the dog if you know what I mean.”

Simon just shot Frank a look of pure disdain hidden behind a pair of borrowed sunglasses.

“Hey sweetheart don't be fooled by his silent act, this guys a total wildman I mean you should have seen him last night .”

“I’m sure Mr Murphy , well sir feel free to help yourself to the bar over in the corner Mrs Phelps should be with you shortly.”

The secretary said and quickly made her exit as if second hand hangovers were catching.

“Well she was friendly, I do believe I will enjoy that open bar. Hey kid, what are you having?”

“Dude are you trying to get us kicked out of here! This isn't a goddamn bar asshole !”

“Wow so aggressive, hey you think that chick has an instagram? I should send her a friend’s request. I mean sure she left like she was grabbing a quick ticket off the Titanic and all. 
But I really think we had some chemistry.” 

Simon put his head on the table.
“You don't have an instagram, you asshole.”

“True that, but I just figured being I have your password and all Being I sent your dick pic all over the net, maybe I’d do a little networking. I mean it's the least I could do.”

Frank said as he sat down next to his very hungover agent.
As he placed a bloody Mary in front of him.

The smell of the vodka, damn near made Simon want to hurl all over the glass top table.
As bad as Simon felt he wondered how anyone could bear this feeling on a regular basis. Let alone his seldom sober client  who although he drank far more than himself the previous night seemed to show little to no effects.

“Hey dude, look at this shit, people really seem to love your dick next to the Eiffel tower.”

“Give me my damn phone you fucking klepto, and this isn’t my dick it’s your’s, you fucking bastard!"
Simon snapped as he shoved his phone into his pocket.

“Hey how would you know thats my dick, I mean that's kind of strange wouldn't you say young sir?”

“Because you sent me a video of you with that girl I had just started dating.”

“Hell I totally forgot about that, how are you and Wendy doing?”

“She canceled out on a date saying she was sick. And instead went and blew my client! So yeah we're not on speaking terms!”

Frank busted up laughing and kicked backed his cocktail.
“Ain’t love grand kid, hey she really didn't appreciate you. I mean  sure, she gave great head. But dude,  you need someone who truly appreciates you and doesn't sleep around for some spare change or film these precious moments and share them with you.”

“You sent me the video you dick!”

Finally just then Mrs Stacey Phelps entered the room.
“Gentlemen I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Glad to see you made yourselves at home.”

Mrs Phelps said as she took her seat.

“Mr Murphy, I have to say I really love your book. Honestly you had me cracked up so many times.”

It was always good for Frank to hear his words connect, even if it was total bullshit . Being this was coming from the same studio executive that brought us superhero and talking car movies.

I mean if you tried to dive into this deep intellectual film studios pool.

You would probably snap your neck.
But Frank was at least mildly amused by the fact she had what looked like a straight from book store copy of his most recent scribblings.

She was on the hunt for something with the one thing all these high dollar films lacked. Substance and some balls and Frank knew it.
This was a dance to get the other in the sack and although he knew Simon had his best interests at heart. These were truly uncharted waters for them both.

“Mr Murphy we want this but there are some issues.”

“Aren't there always, so what are the issues Mrs Phelps.”

“Please call me Stacey, and well honestly Frank I mean maybe if we could tone down some of the womanizing. I was thinking maybe change it a bit, does the writer have to be based in the South? Why can't he be from New York? Or even on the West Coast.”

Frank slightly laughed getting up to mix himself another drink.
He held up his glass.

“Anyone care for a refill?”

“No but please help yourself,'' Stacey quickly replied.

Stacey leaned towards Simon.

“Tell me, does your client always hit the sauce, so heavy this early in the day?”

“You have to forgive him. I think he’s just a bit nervous.”

Simon was fighting his urge to start puking all over again and he wasn't even sure why.
And although he knew there was nothing he could do to keep his client from screwing this up, still he was determined to try.

And if he could resist his urge to puke in the garbage can he figured that might just help his odds.

“So Stacey are there any other issues?”

Frank asked as he joined them both with his fresh cocktail in hand.

“Well I’m glad you asked, I mean I was thinking. What if we changed direction and focussed in on the relationships between the writer and his young editor? I mean the LBGTQ market is hot right now.”

“You know Stacey, you really have a point but I think the real tensions lie between these Scott and Ryan characters. I mean you can cut the tension with a knife.”


Stacey lit up like a Christmas tree as even though stone cold sober she was clearly drunk on something.

 
“I am loving this but what if it was a love triangle between all of them.”

Frank could sense Simon's blood boiling because even though he was having fun with this clearly delusional woman.
Simon knew his client like the back of his hand and knew he would eventually screw this up on purpose.

“You know Stacey,  I think it makes as much sense as doing a big budget version of Flipper and instead of using an actual dolphin casting Adam Sandler instead.”

The women looked at Frank with a sense of shock.

“Wait who told you about that? Have you been talking to Disney I swear I'll match whatever they offered.”

Now it was Frank and Simon who were both silent.
The discussion went on for awhile and as Frank grew annoyed as their host, with his refusal to budge of raping his story and basically being paid off to use it in title only.

“Mr Murphy, this is a good deal we can both end up making some real money from this.”

Frank didn't bother to reply; he simply stood up and reached in his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table to which Stacey Phelps looked at him strangely.

“You don't owe me for the drinks Frank, let's just take a break on this. Why don't we meet tomorrow?”

Frank just looked at the executive with a sense of disgust and replied.

“I’m curious, in that whole Flipper film, does Adam actually get caught in a tuna net and killed?”

“Jesus Christ! Of course he doesn't you loon!”

“Shit well that sucks. I thought kids movies were all about happy endings. Oh well, films aren't what they used to be that's for sure. Well my dear, if ever you need someone to write that scene drop me a line, otherwise au revoir it's been interesting.”

Frank was out the door and almost to the elevator before Simon caught up with him.

“You fucking dick! What was that man?"

"C’mon at least let's try to hear what she has to say tomorrow.They really want the rights to this book man”

“Yeah you write books kid?”

“No but-”

“Then shut the fuck up! And book us the first plane out of this asylum. before over inflated egos and the weight of million dollar mansions causes this fucker to fall into the ocean.”

Simon knew the argument was pointless but he was far too hungover to press it. He turned his phone's notifications on and the damn thing was going off like crazy.

“Jesus dude, seems you're really popular.” 

Simon looked at the notification on his newly installed Grinder app.
It appeared Antwon, was single and looking to more than mingle in the studios restroom.

Frank just looked at his best friend and agent with a shit eating grin.
Sometimes Simon  had to question why he hadn't become an accountant instead.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review  and Black Shamrock Magazine.  His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine, Fearless Poetry Zine,  The Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press, 1870 Magazine, San Pedro River Review,  San Antonio Review , Herion Love Songs, Romingos Porch and Schlock Magazine. 

His work is always unfiltered 

Inner by Dan Provost

I’ve tried to understand

what the inner is.

 

Rummaging through

emotions and escapes

 

That were both destructive

and enlightening…

 

Although it is so

simple to label one as

a prince or the

pauper.

 

Christ, it’s easy to

label anyone today.

 

Can someone try

to save a suicide today?

 

A simple gesture

on the sly will suffice.

 

Letting me know you're

more in the loop,

 

than

me.

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.

ADDRESS-FREE by Alisa Velaj

I was address-free until yesterday,

living in my own universe

between the sky and the earth,

under the same roof as valleys,

mountains, clouds, and trees.

 

One later day the sky emptied out,

andI suddenly found myself

naileddown to a roofless earth.

 

There, no one found me anymore.

 

The partnership with motionlessness

turned out a much better deal...  

Alisa Velaj was born in 1982 in Albania. She has been shortlisted for the Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in 2014. Her works have appeared in more than 100 print and online international magazines. Her poetry collection, With No Sweat At All, will be published by Cervana Barva Press in 2019.

Art by A.S. Coomer

 

A.S. Coomer is a writer and musician. Books include Memorabilia, The Fetishists, Shining the Light, The Devil's Gospel, The Flock Unseen, and others. He won the Thelma's Prize in 2016 for his poem "I'm not sure how I feel about the sound," which was judged by Catfish McDaris. He was commissioned a Kentucky Colonel in 2019. He runs Lost, Long Gone, Forgotten Records, a "record label" for poetry. @ascoomer www.ascoomer.com www.ascoomer.bandcamp.com

Inhalation by Puma Perl

Your mother really did a job on you,

said R, noting my panic

at unanswered text messages,

my tendency to think anyone

who didn’t respond

must be dead or disabled,

my inability to separate

feelings and actions

 

My cataclysmic thinking,

he called it

I understood why

he took off,

although it wouldn’t

have killed him

to say goodbye

 

I even understood

when he hooked up

with the girlfriend

of a younger friend

I don’t know what

bothered me most,

her age, or his betrayal

 

Wait a minute…

I’m lying again

I understood nothing

except his need to leave

once he recognized

the nature of the damage

 

He wrote me a letter,

said he’d call

Luckily, he never did

I might have answered

 

Love isn’t about bandages

or alcohol poured

into open wounds

It’s not even about

understanding

Just clean up your mess

and let others

inhale and exhale

without direction

or critique

 

Control your breaths

and leave everyone else

the fuck alone.

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.

Luck by Joan McNerney

Wearing designer clothes

and sleek jewelry,

she traipses along willy nilly

throwing  golden kismet

wherever  whimsy calls.

 

Some think luck chooses their

goodness or hard work. Perhaps

they were blessed at birth?

 

The wise know luck wears a

visor tripping over herself

favoring  both mean and lazy.

 

Luck has a toxic twin called

Misfortune covered with

gloom.  Dressed in dusty

rags, stupor-like he selects

unsuspecting victims.

 

Stomping helter skelter

clutching the throats of

both meek and mighty.  

 

Everybody who gets in his way

will be pushed down, their

muffled cries barely heard.

Joan McNerney’s poetry is found in many literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Journals, and numerous Poets' Espresso Reviews have accepted her work.  She has four Best of the Net nominations.  Her latest title is The Muse in Miniature available on Amazon.com and Cyberwit.net

 

 

Sorry by Wayne F. Burke'

I am standing in front of a building
downtown
waiting for the meeting
to start
a fat guy
with beer breath
melon-face
stops, asks why I stand
in front of his building
I say, "none of YOUR business,"
he says, "I live here, have a right to know
who is out front,"
I say FUCK OFF
he mounts the steps
slowly
to the top
calls back
over his shoulder
"I feel sorry for you!"
Yeah
well,
I do too
some
nights.

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.

The Grim Reaper by Bob McNeil

 

Bob McNeil, writer, editor, illustrator, and spoken word artist, is the author of Verses of Realness. Hal Sirowitz, a Queens Poet Laureate, called the book “A fantastic trip through the mind of a poet who doesn’t flinch at the truth.” Among Bob’s recent accomplishments, he found working on Lyrics of Mature Hearts to be a humbling experience because of the anthology’s talented contributors. Copies of that collection are available here: https://amzn.to/3bU8Loi.  

Long Distance Call by Matt Amott

He sits at the bar
having one too many 
and thinking about her.
Wondering 
if it's truly over,
he hears
Muddy Waters 
on the jukebox sing
"You say you love me, darling
please, call me on the phone sometime."

He grabs his cell
and starts to dial,
but then
he sees her walk in
on the arm 
of another man.
Pausing for a moment,
he hangs up the phone,
finishes his whiskey
and slides out 
the back
while Muddy sings
"There's another mule
kicking in your stall".

Matt Amott is a poet, musician and photographer who rambles around the Pacific Northwest. He is co-founder and co-editor of Six Ft. Swells Press and has been published in numerous collections as well as three books of his own, THE COAST IS CLEAR (Six Ft. Swells Press), GET WELL SOON and THE MEMORY OF HER (both by Epic Rites Press).  He can be reached at sixftswells@yahoo.com and purchases can be made at Amazon and www.sixftswellspress.com