Anniversary by Mike James

You spent weeks working to half-repair a crow’s broken wing. She grew to trust. You explained flight would stay in her dreams. You were very young in those once upon days. There are times when that memory is as buried as the loved ones of an old life. You go on. Even as some nights you wonder if every house you’ve slept in didn’t secretly burn down. If someone didn’t come along and rebuild each one while no one was watching. You were never closely watching. You could never guess what was behind door number three even if all the other doors were open.  

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. 

I GOT YOUR BACK BE BEHOLDEN by Colin James

Scratching the earth I
put the dirt between your toes
then you toppled like
a creepy despot's statue.
They left your feet behind
so I continued to play
until a scarfing photographer
became morbidly intrusive.
Death is too good for you t-shirts
available in three sizes,
born, consensualized, died.

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.........

SLACK by Alisa Velaj

In a surfeit of air and light, this tree

by the river flush with crystal waters, has been craving for a season of revitalization                            

ever with the same fervor!

Like scared grasshoppers,                                                                                                                               

winter and fall come and go on its branches,                                                                                            

creeping like shadows on towering mansions 
that have for a roof a star-studded sky!

Rot, likewise,                                                                                                                                         

creeps into the backbone of the surfeited tree                                                                                                 

and keeps its secrets in the dark,                                                                                                                 

like a snuffed candle...  

 

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.

 

 

 

Love At First Lick by John Patrick Robbins

Music has its power.
A sensual magic wicked in design.
And perfect in its ability to connect within seconds.

It's sex, it's pain and misery combined.

It knows no borders and it pushes boundaries with ease.
It will outlive us all and for that I am grateful.

For music is your only true friend when all others leave you behind.

Let your words be like music.
Immortal as the night.

John Patrick Robbins, is the author of the Still Night Sessions from Whiskey City Press.

He is also the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine.

His work has been published here at The Dope Fiend Daily as well as

Punk Noir Magazine,  Fearless Poetry Zine, San Pedro River Review,  San Antonio Review, Piker Press, Sacred Chickens, The Blue Nib, Red Fez, Heroin Love Songs, 1870 Magazine. 

His work is always unfiltered. 

Endless Days by John Drudge

He lay down and stared
At the light feathering of sand
Against the flat rock
High on the beach
Near the coco plumb trees
The ash beauty 
Of the fading day
Setting a mood of blue shadows
On the rolling water
In the bay
And the breeze from the sea
Salty and sad
With the sun dipping down
Below the memory
Of endless days

John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology.  He is the author of three books of poetry: “March” and “The Seasons of Us” (both published in 2019) and New Days (published in 2020). His work has appeared widely in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.

Obviously by Wayne F. Burke

almost get run into by
a silver SUV shooting through the
parking lot--
"where you going?" I shout
"do you know?"
The jackass pulls up
in front of the bank.
I hope he starts something.
I hope not.

Blue sky, lighter above the
ridge line than
straight up--
is this some kind of illusion?

I walk through the smell of
the pizza parlor, halfway
across the street
a truck, nose stuck over the
crosswalk: 'You know you are on the
crosswalk?"
"Tell me the obvious!" says
the joker
wearing a MAGA ball cap.

Obvious or not: wtf?

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.

Cup half full by Ivan Jenson

To seek and to never
find and to wish
without becoming
fulfilled and then
to ask and to be denied
by the powers that be
to look and to never
recognize what
is plain to see
like ignorant bliss
with a college degree
then to try to
exit the entry door
is to know how
my ancestors' lost
cause must have felt
like a terminal patient
walking against
an airport
conveyer belt
in any case
I think you get
what I mean
this is how it feels
before I've had
my morning caffeine

Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and popular contemporary poet who lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled Absolut Jenson for the brand’s national ad campaign. His Absolut paintings are in the collection of the Spiritmusuem, the museum of spirits in Stockholm, Sweden.  

Jenson's painting of the “Marlboro Man” was collected by the Philip Morris corporation. Ivan was commissioned to paint the final portrait of the late Malcolm Forbes.  Ivan has written two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists. Jenson's poetry is widely published (with over 600 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. A book of Ivan Jenson's poetry was recently published by Hen House Press titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon. Two novels by Ivan Jenson entitled, Marketing Mia and Erotic Rights have been published hardcover. Ivan Jenson’s novel, Gypsies of New Rochelle is now available on Amazon and at Barnes and Noble.  

Ivan Jenson’s new romantic thriller novel The Murderess will be published in the summer of 2021 by Dark Edge Press, UK. Ivan Jenson's website is: www.IvanJenson.com

Confection by Lauren Scharhag

Summer, and almost two seasons
into the pandemic. Like many,
I’m spending a lot of time 
in the kitchen. At the moment,
there’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer,
peach cobbler in the oven,
my house scented with cinnamon
and sweet fruit and buttery streusel,
and I realize I must not take 
my sense of smell for granted.

I knew a guy once that had a very
poor sense of smell. I don’t know 
if he was born that way or if it
was something that happened to him
gradually. You’d think it would 
hinder his enjoyment of food, 
but on the contrary, he could 
eat anything. Taste is rooted in smell.
Since he couldn’t really taste it,
flavor simply wasn’t important to him. 
He’d learned to appreciate texture.
He could throw any combination
of vegetables and condiments
into a bowl, nuke it, and call it good.
Sometimes, I envy this total lack
of particularness, but he would not
be able to smell this cobbler baking,
and I, having lived sweetness
in full, both the bitter and the pure,
would not give it up, as I would not 
give up coarse ocean salt crusting my bread
or peppers that sting the tongue like nettles,
portobella umami and tart lime. 
The guy I knew also had 
a terrible memory, and memory, too,
is linked to the senses.

I want my nose. I want my tastebuds.
I want my lungs. I want dessert. 
I want yesterday. And tomorrow. 
I eat the cobbler, already dreaming
of future confections.
I am careful not to burn my mouth.

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

Inside the Crackhouse with India LaPlace

1)When you first wore black fingernail polish, what was it like to sell your soul to the Devil and how would you rate your experience? (He totally fucked up my order and gave me a Stephen King book when clearly I can’t read!)

Well, selling my soul to the Devil has always been nothing but a pleasure. He’s a real gentleman. In fact, I think I went onto marry him since I now have a Lucifer cross tattooed on my left ring finger. Just saying. My mom was pretty horrified. She made me listen to Dr. Laura (I think?) on the radio who was explaining that black fingernail polish is “the first sign” and then went on about witchcraft and Satanism. Which is funny because real Satanists don’t even believe in Satan – they’re actually atheists, but whatever. 10/10 would recommend.
P.S. Amazon fucked up your order, but you should learn to read. Lucifer loves reading and hates Capitalism. 
Hail Satan. 

2 )Theoretically, how much would it cost to have a small sample of your DNA that will NOT be used in a highly illegal top secret government project to clone Fat Elvis, who you also totally would NOT fuck?

I won’t even give my DNA to 23 and Me and I WANT to do that. I don’t want the government to frame me for a murder which you KNOW after The West Memphis Three they totally can. 

3)If you could press a magical button for Jackie Chan to fart on anyone in the world at any time, who would you pick and why?

Ivanka Trump because she’s a fake ass bitch. Don’t fucking talk about how you’re going to use your position in the White House to advocate for women when Daddy big bucks is a gross misogynist. Listen, Donald Trump is hilarious. Not a great president, but hilarious. His daughter, however, is a bitch. 

4) So whenever a parent picks up their kids from school, how exactly are they supposed to put them back down? Will they need a ladder or just some encouragement and a WD40?

As a parent, I don’t know anything about how the public school system works. I’m a working single mom. My daughter gives me Father’s Day presents because she says I’m the best mom and the best dad in the world. 

5) Explain to me why I should breathe oxygen instead of Crystal meth and paint fumes? Persuade me. Or if I shouldn’t, then tell me any activity I should do that somehow involves Jell-O? 

Hi, in Utah our state dessert, or whatever, is green Jell-O. Which makes me an expert on all things Jell-O related and what I can tell you is this: It’s gross. The only thing I ever used Jell-O for was when I had deep in an eating disorder and I would drink sugar free Jell-O water for days to avoid eating anything. (10/10 would NOT recommend. If you’re thinking about doing this, get a therapist and a nutritionist.) 
Um, as far as the other question goes.. probably don’t do anything with Crystal meth and paint fumes. If you’re going to do drugs, choose better ones that don’t destroy your brain. 

6) I went to Shipley’s Donuts and I was wondering, what is your secret to being both delicious and filled with jelly? But more importantly, what flavor jelly is it? I need to know because, like, I’m totally not judging your for it.

First of all, is this secretly a comment about my ass?
Second, jam will always be better than jelly. 

7) So if you had to get somebody out of the bathroom, would you rather use a shovel or a Justin Bieber album? 

One time, my sister and I were driving in a blizzard in the middle of nowhere in south central Utah and we went over a bridge and the car started fishtailing and it was terrifying. So I was white-knuckling the steering wheel with these silent tears just STREAMING down my face and my sister was sobbing and she grabbed my leg and was like, “If we don’t die, will you go to a Justin Bieber concert with me?” 

8)How can I pass out on your neighbor’s lawn naked after New Years while still being tasteful and sexy about it?

Oh, this is Mormon country. We don’t like anything about being naked or sexy. 

9) If you could waste someone’s time in the most elaborate way possible, how would you want to do it? Please tell us your plans and, more importantly, who you’re really working for because if you’re a cop, you’re legally required to tell me if I ask my mom. 

I would just show them TikTok video after TikTok video and I’m working, in the vaguest way possible, for the universe. You could call me a cop. Or you could not. Define cop. What is a cop really? Are we all not cops, as well as robbers, in the grand scheme of things? Ask yourself, what are you policing and why? Now let go. Breathe. 

10)  I once drank water and I also like kittens. How do you really feel about that? 

Kittens are cute for like 10 seconds. Mostly they’re assholes because things that are babies are assholes. Cats, however, are great. Also, stay hydrated, bitch.

11)Also, why is belly button fuzz always blue? 

I think that’s a question for your doctor because I do not share in this experience. 

12) If you had to make up the meaning of life, what would it be and what would it smell like? The world must know the answer to this question before those bastards find my cheese. 

There is no meaning to life. It’s all random, senseless chaos that we create meaning for because we are all just monkeys that have evolved juuuuust enough for our brains to torture us with our emotions. 

For Art’s Sake by Michael Adubato

You can be a van Gogh 
paint a sunflower 
or a whole jar of them 
cut off an ear 
and fall in love  
with a whore 
your art can only 
get better 

MICHAEL ADUBATO is a native New Jerseyan currently residing in southern Belgium.  He's been writing poetry for a very long time and was recently published in the literary journal, Ariel Chart.  He is currently working on his first book of poetry that will be released in 2021.

Chicago by Glen Armstrong

Chicago is mostly wind.
Dotted lines divide neighborhoods.
People arrive
 
by midsized sedan.
When a baby is born,
 
it is assigned its own radio station,
but most of the stations
go unused.
 
The phrase “I trust you about as far
as I can throw you” started 
in Chicago,
 
as did “there ain’t nobody here
but us chickens.”
 
It’s a joy to be stirring
shit up downwind
 
from the wind itself.

Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three current books of poems: Invisible Histories, The New Vaudeville, and Midsummer. 

 

The Chief vs. Kareem by Dan Provost

Dribbling into the
lane and floating that
skyhook of his…
 
While the Chief jumps
as high as he can to defend.
 
Parrish lures Kareem out of the paint
with his eighteen-foot jumper.
 
Nothing but net…
 
Theirs was the unheralded
rivalry of the 1980’s…
 
While Brent Musburger
was drooling over Bird,
McHale, Magic, Worthy…
 
The Celtics/Lakers annual
basketball war.
 
Jabber and Parrish were
conducting physical, private
battles down in the paint.
 
Jockeying for position to do
the dirty work—rebound, picks,
 
defend against each other’s
seven-foot frames.
 
The faint of heart had
no business being between
these two behemoths.
 
The stakes were high for
both-- on a professional and
personal level.
 
Winning championships is
the measure of greatness in
their chosen profession…
 
Very few get one opportunity
to win the ultimate prize
 
in any line of work.
 
So, as Lebron, Chris Paul,
Stephen Curry and the rest
Of the 2010-2020 decade
continue to bomb away from the
three-point line…
 
Find an old VCR tape boys,
see how the game was played
when bodies were spewed on the court…
 
A black eye was a combat medal…
 
And how every spring in the 80’s—
Chief and Kareem took their game
 
to hoops immortality…

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.

 

Reagan by Andrea E. Lodge

 

Andrea E. Lodge resides in Philadelphia with her husband and two disabled cats; Budgie, with only three legs, no tail, constantly drooling, and Loki, AKA Poki, AKA, Pokapotamus (because he weighs 20 pounds), a Scottish fold with only one folded ear.  She studied English/Secondary Education at Holy Family University and taught middle and high school Writing and Literature after graduating. She is now a full-time Writer and something resembling an artist.  

She has had several poems featured on Spillwords, two pieces included in an anthology by Havik, several poems and some prose in different issues of Alien Buddha Press’ Feminist Agenda, The Alien Buddha’s Block Party: Blackout Poetry, Alien Buddha’s Zine #11, #12 and #21, her poem, Screaming at Tiffany’s, was in the 12th issue of Voice of Eve magazine. She has also had some work featured in Danse Macabre’s Entrée DM 123 and DM 125: Fete de Noel.  She has also been featured in the Winter edition of Soul Lit’s online ‘zine, 2019.  As of late, Andrea has written reviews for the books Evocare (Ayo Gutierrez, Eileen Tabios, Brian Cain Aene) and The Tears I Never Told You (JinQue RD).  Andrea has also edited The Tears I Never Told You and Are You Ready? (Ayo Gutierrez, Gigi D. Sunga, Ph.D.)  She has most recently had her poetry featured in the anthology, Scentsibility, a book of poetry related to the senses.

An Evening Storm by Jonathan Butcher

A slow step through that callous riot;
a calm stroll through splinters that spray
forward like blunt darts, fists fly which break
tables and reflection-less windows; a frustration
never fulfilled.

At each table these actions are carried out,
acted with the most badly written scripts; 
phrases slung back over tiled floors and bars,
too low to offer the usual support intended.

Those cocktails of abuses, watered down 
with the weakest of punches. The same diatribes
repeated in bathrooms and beer gardens.
Again, we walk through with impeccable calm,
another evening perfectly weather worn. 

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.

Fragmented No. 24 by DAH

Everything never holds
breaking its breath
Songs are voices listening  
The crazy luxury of
glass ears that shatter  
The one-armed woman
fingering a cello
near hovering blackbirds  
Little by little
her hair floats with each
measurement
She lowers narrow blind eyes
impatiently
the thin shadow of one arm
against the wall
Loneliness is everywhere
Near the backdrop
dirty windows are anxious
In the streets
the heaviness of crowds
with heads turning
to stare at the shadow
A detuned singalong starts
everyone’s mouths cannot
find the lyrics  

DAH’s poems have been published by editors from the US, UK, Germany, Italy, Spain, Canada, Poland, Singapore, Philippines, Ireland, Africa, Australia, Mauritius, Japan and India. He is a multiple Pushcart nominee, Best Of The Net nominee, and the founding editor for the poetry critique group, The Lounge. DAH lives in Berkeley, California where he is working on the manuscript for his tenth poetry collection, and his poems have appeared in Poetry Now!, Otoliths, The Cape Rock, Straylight Magazine, Acumen Journal, Sandy River Review, Indian River Review, Harbinger Asylum, Junto Magazine, Mad Swirl Magazine, New Mexico Review, KNOT Magazine, Setu Journal, Fishbowl Press, Tokyo Poetry Journal and many others. He is also working on his first collection of short fiction. DAH does not hold degrees from any university writing programs, nor from any writers workshops.

When I Need You by Brian Rihlmann

where’d you go, kid?
you, still a teenager
with a few hundred bucks to your name
setting off to make a life
you who drove that junker across country 
over black ice bridges in February
you with the piss and vinegar
running through your veins 
the world by the shorthairs
you with the smartass mouth
the big brass balls
the faith that knew
you’d make it somehow
seems like when I need you
you're never around
then you show up
at exactly the wrong time
and I either turn my back, or say—
do I know you?

Brian Rihlmann lives and writes in Reno, Nevada. His poetry has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and The Main Street Rag. His latest collection, "Night At My Throat," (2020) was published by Pony One Dog Press.

Bar Fly by Joan McNerney

At Jewel Box Tavern
lights are always dim
so you can’t look closely.
 
Wearing stiletto heels, she
traipses along followed by
billows of cheap perfume.
 
Dressed in a second skin of
electric blue velveteen
covered with silver glitz.
 
She looks for a mark, some
clown who carries thick wads
of cash and a stash of coke.
 
Tapping the shoulder of
the willing joker with her long
lacquered fingernails.
 
First she must meet him
in the back alley to pay up
with her pound of flesh.
 
Showing its age, her face
is coated by pastes, crèmes,
thick rouge, blazing red lipstick.
 
Her brown eyes encrusted with
liners, mascara and shadow
revealed a certain sadness,
 
Secreted in the dark and dank 
women’s room, she snorts
that magical white powder.
 
Nothing matters now.
There is no despair
only this embrace of bliss.

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

 

Kafkaesque by Ken Allan Dronsfield

I listen to the fucking rain falling
drinking my coffee,
seeing and speaking to no one!

I haven't seen anybody in weeks.
My life is the TV, computer, and window.

No one walks by in the daylight,
only in the dark of night;
I hear their footsteps,
running, always running.

Music sounds wicked strange today;
it's the thunder rumbling in the background.

I ran out of milk this morning
Where's that damn mask?
I can't find my mask!!
The store says I can't come in without it. SHIT!!

Why does my cat keep staring at that wall?
Is there a secret world hiding in there? A mouse?
A squirrel? A dreaded Rat?
Or have I been in this apartment for so long,
I'm going freakin' nuts?!

Oh shit, I hear a flute playing in the room upstairs.
I don't have a flute, and there's no one else here.
Oh great, so now I have spirits in my house.

That explains my weird cat staring all day,
or maybe he's dead, "Tigger, look at me", "TIGGER"!!!
Dammit, he won't move; now what the hell....
oh look, the pictures over the mantle are crooked again,
fuckin' ghost!

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize winning poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. Ken loves writing, coin collecting, thunderstorms, watching the stars with his telescope and spending time with his rescue cats Willa and Yumpy.  

High Desert Blue (Bold and Fleeting) by PW Covington

We must be generous with the things we have

For, naught is earned by solitary effort

So too, the spoils and decadence and virtue

Held in each of our coffers

Is transient and fleeting

As bold and fleeting

     as vapor-trails over Santa Fe

You dance in my dreams

Dreams of things unmanifest

On diaphanous and shimmering wings

Holy homes and fall-out shelters beckon

Floods of quicksilver, rapid, river

Etch your eyes, your heels

     your lips and cigarettes

Into my mind

When we camped beside the Jemez

New moon sky above the pines

The only roof we knew, seeing through

Smoky cloud vapor masks

Mist, fog, steam

Hundreds of words for the

     next best thing

Prisms of promise swirl from

Our delta-wing aftermath

And, after that

Back to high desert blue

Bold and fleeting

   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.