Arranged by Dan Provost

I am not needed
to decipher a memoir.
 
Nor do I have to
tell my tale of
disgust and disdain
in an attempted fashionable
                          wordplay.
 
I hate Pollack.
I hate disarray.
 
Because I have lived
that lie for 58 years.
 
Buck the system?
Damn, why?
 
Just sit—hands folded
in lap… and
watch “it” destroy itself.
 
No more will I be
ashamed of being a coward…

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.

 

UNIVERSAL DEBRIS by Scott C. Kaestner

I wanted to write a poem
but instead

opened a portal to the universe
where I saw perceived truth
for the lie it really is

no destiny or divinity - only
infinite stars exploding in space
stardust floating randomly

in the vacuum of time
earth, sun and moon

no greater good other than
reflecting light

humanity, universal debris
given the gift of life.

Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband, and thinks the glass is neither half full or half empty; it’s just a glass with some water in it. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings.

Orphans Of The Apocalypse by El Bastardo

They children cry into the night because the internet no longer works.
So they have no more platform to ask random old weirdos how does my ass look in their delicious bathroom selfies.

Now they must be forced to speak without texting and what is life without emojis?
Or silly cat Gifs to amuse or simply say hang in there.

No more sexting and no more filters.
Only up close flesh upon flesh contact.
What will society ever do?

Welcome to the dark ages.
I will not miss the net, but no power to run the microwave to heat my frozen burritos is a travesty.

At least my skin glows so I may illuminate the night.
Because the Bastardo has always been afraid of the dark and cellphone video cameras.

Because sometimes they capture more than a memory.

And in prison no one gives a flying fuckico if you scream like a little piggy.

Bastardo is the greatest luchador on history since Thomas Jefferson. 

He currently runs Bastardo' s driving school for the blind.

He has been published everywhere including.

Hustler, Vanity Fair, Time Magazine and some clap trap better known as the Dope Fiend Daily.

He has been nominated for 100 Pushcart nominations and ten Grammys.

He is currently working on a film about his life called the Buddy Holly story part dos.

Clive Warren by Lance Manion

Neither of them came to the bar looking for companionship, which is what makes any conversation taking place at closing time that much more interesting. It was on the smaller side as bars go. The vinyl in the booths was beginning to show some wear and despite the No Smoking signs scattered around smoke hung in the air. The requisite pool table sat in the corner and the floor stuck to the soles of the clientele's shoes with the same urgency as your typical movie theater floor. It could be a bar in Glasgow, Yekaterinburg or Dallas. The only difference would be the songs in the jukebox. There was no music playing at the moment.

Seated two stools apart they had exchanged smiles a number of times during the evening but that’s as far as their interactions had progressed. Finally, after pulling out another smile and turning it on her like a spotlight, the man asked “What are your feelings about strangers?”

He thought he saw a quick blush on her cheek as she looked away. When she felt certain that the blush had departed she turned back and said “Not currently in the market for one. The same can’t be said about my heart though.”

This is the type of reply that men perched on stools at closing time are not prepared for. His smile faltered ever so slightly. Realizing that had the upper hand she continued.

“Some of my best friends are strangers.”

The man, one Clive Warren, took a long drink from his beer. He understood that it was his turn to speak but nothing came to mind. He took another drink. When she turned away and it was apparent that action was required to continue the interaction he extended his hand and said “Hello. I’m Clive.”

“Hello Clive” she replied. “Clive, I want you to imagine every horrible thing that one human being has done to another throughout time. The real terrible stuff. The monstrous.”

Clive did not know how to respond. She enjoyed that.

“You see Clive, I’m only interested in people that understand that however awful the scene that plays out in their head, that they themselves are completely capable of doing that very thing given the right circumstances.”

“What makes you think that? There have been some pretty terrible things done…” and his voice trailed off as he fought to come up with some particularly horrific examples.

Before he could begin listing atrocities she cut him off with “Oh I know. Humans can be callous as fuck.”

It was her turn to take a swig of beer.

“Thing is Clive, you and I are both human. We are. I believe the only way we can become good people is to embrace the fact that we can be monsters if we want to. Fess up. If we don’t, we’re stuck. We’re basing our whole sense of good and evil on a lie. Like we’re detached from it. Above it somehow… when in reality we’re not. How can we ever truly know ourselves?”

“Is this where you admit to some crime? A crime you came to a bar to forget but can’t?” asked the man.

“I think you have me all wrong Clive” came her reply. She seemed mildly frustrated with him.

Fearing he might have insulted a potential serial killer, he said “There’s this great quote about the hubris of man that I think would add credence to your point, but I just can’t come up with it.”

“I appreciate the thought Clive” and she finished her drink.

People began to stand up and head for the door and the bartender began to wipe down the bar as a not-to-subtle indication that the evening was drawing to a close.

“So…” He realized he never got her name. He looked at her inquisitively.

Taking the hint she said “Rebecca.”

“So Rebecca, what is your heart looking for?”

“I just told you. I tried anyway. Nice to meet you Clive. Have a good night.”

A few minutes later in the parking lot, sitting in his car, Clive took out his phone and started to look up quotes on hubris. “Aha!” he said to nobody "Through pride we are ever deceiving ourselves. But deep down below the surface of the average conscience a still, small voice says to us, something is out of tune. I knew it was something like that. My boy Carl Jung.” He pronounced Jung with a J.

He put his phone away and started his car. “A bit wordy. No wonder I couldn’t remember it.”

Lance has written 10 short story collections, his writing has appeared in over 50 publications and he has contributed stories to more than a dozen anthologies

For further information please visit the website www.lancemanion.com where he posts stories daily. He finds the na at the end of banana as annoying as you would if it were bananana.

Quick-Mart Conversation by Daniel S. Irwin

I said, "'Xcuse me, ma'am
For my vulgarities.
My colorful vernacular
Is a product of the times.
Some words and phrases
Require a little embellishment
To clarify the intended
Rancor of wit and emphasis.
If anything that I have said
Has shocked or offended you,
May I offer my heartfelt apologies
For not having toughened you up
By offending you sooner.
Cute kid.  Take after his father?"
She picked up her dog and left.  

Daniel S. Irwin is a native of Sparta, Illinois.  His card reads:  Artist, Actor, Writer, Soldier, Scholar, Priest.  Author of nine books.  Retired military (Air Force and Army).  Dudeist priest.  Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals world-wide.  Has appeared in over one hundred films.  Loves to travel but the plague keeps him near home..

Abandoned Car in a Field of Cars by Gregory Luce

(after a photograph)

Even in death
you stand apart,
the grass reaches
higher up your wheels,
the others are distant,
askew, assorted by 
chance. Your rust
grows slowly telling
of age, of rain, of
back roads and endless
highways. Perhaps
this isn’t death but
the transfiguration
of metal and glass
and rubber into earth.

Gregory Luce, author of Signs of Small Grace, Drinking Weather, Memory and Desire, Tile, and Riffs & Improvisations (forthcoming), has published widely in print and online. He is the 2014 Larry Neal Award winner for adult poetry, given by the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. He writes a monthly column on the arts for Scene4 magazine. He is retired from National Geographic, works as a volunteer writing tutor/mentor for 826DC, and lives in Arlington, VA.

THE LANSDALE SIDEWALKS by Daniel J. Flore II

I'd like to coast down the Lansdale sidewalks
with my souped up engine legs
half a beer in me
goin' in the bar again
for a bay breeze
then back out onto the cement cracking through my mind
little bits of daisies popping out
and a cloud of wine poured in the creek
I'd like to speed through the Lansdale sidewalks
with the ice cream cone store
that's too expensive
the art store with these massive objects I have no use for
I have no use for any of this town sometimes
'cept for a 3 dollar burger at 7-11
and a monster
maybe play the tobacco store slots
in the hopes of winning some spending money
I like it here alone though
just trekking through the Lansdale sidewalks
when the day
opens up like a rose waiting for me to take a whiff

Daniel J. Flore III writings have been published in many journals.He is the author of 4 books of poetry published by GenZ Publishing. They are Lapping Water, Humbled Wise Men Christmas Haikus, Home and other places I’ve yet to see, and Pink Marigold Rays.

Consumption by Lauren Scharhag

Someday, I will tell my grandchildren
about the wonders of chocolate.
It's especially painful when you think 
of how much was wasted 
on the cheap stuff, 
like Sixlets or Mr. Goodbars 
or anything with raisins. 
The Romans consumed silphium 
to extinction. It was so revered 
it was believed to be nothing less
than a gift from Apollo, 
printed on denarii,
rhapsodized in verse and song.
Imagine if the Romans 
had had chocolate.
What songs would have been sung,
what gods praised, 
what empires would have fallen.

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

Second Line by Matt Amott

I'm told I was born
while my parents were
at a party.

The hi-fi was playing 
and people were swinging
when Ma's water broke
and they rushed her
to the hospital.

So when the time comes
that I breathe my last breath,
you send me down
to New Orleans
for that Second Line parade.

Cuz' everyone was dancing
when I came into this world
and I want them all dancing
when I leave it.

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

2,188 Miles by India LaPlace

You want me to tell you how badly I need it?
Your cock and your cum filling me up,
Every hole,
Like sustenance,
Like the life-giving thing I can’t live without.
I crave it.
I want my holes stretched open,
I want your growl in my ear
Reminding me of the slut I am.
What kind of girl goes that far
To be pushed to her knees,
To be smacked around,
To have your fingers tangled in her hair
While she begs,
“Please give it to me”
While she begs,
“I need it so badly, fuck me please.”
A whore.
Your whore, you would tell me
Or I would correct you.
Your pretty little cock hungry whore.
Make me tell you I’m nothing,
Just here for your pleasure,
Watch me blush
While I tell you how much I need to be violated by you,
While you make me prove how badly I need it,
Moaning with my lips wrapped around your cock,
Until you can’t stand it anymore,
Until you take your other holes.
Yes, yours, not mine.
I don’t need to be mine anymore, not right now
I need you to claim me, make me yours. 
I need my pussy played with, teased and dripping. 
I need my ass stretched open,
Your hands on my hips, fingers digging into me,
While you fuck me hard and deep
Until my insides are coated in your cum,
Fill me up and pull me, shaking, into your arms. 

Anyway. 
Call me later. 

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. 

Problematic by Ben Nardolilli

I weep in my demi-cubicle, drink in the stall,
Never stop posting online, never stop bragging
About how much I hate my job,
No investments, no retirement planned,
No mortgage over a car, let alone a home,
Jesus, God Almighty I’m bad at Capitalism
 
I can only mumble the lyrics to union songs,
I forget meetings, say off-color things,
Keep climbing up to peak liberalism, still vote,
Still wear the first American flag as a cape,
I don’t read theory and markets don’t phase me,
Jesus, God Almighty I’m bad at Socialism
 
I pay my taxes, call myself an American,
Don’t punch Nazis, only make cocktails to drink,
Then get drunk and talk about institutions,
Call the cops over fireworks, don’t squat,
Don’t have a zine, and don’t wear much black,
Jesus, God Almighty I’m bad at Anarchism
 
But, I take orders from Black women at work,
Dance with men, wear pink in public, date
Disabled Muslim immigrants, and swipe right
For White genocide online, meme Marx,
Never lift, and always eat plenty of soy,
Jesus, thank God Almighty, I’m bad at Fascism

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish his novels.

A poet, apparently by DS Maolalai

for Pat

he used to come by
selling magazines,
newspapers, 
trinkets, and tickets 
for door to door charity 
raffles. my mother thought him
at least an intelligent bird – 
and a poet apparently 
also. she'd have him in
when he called sometimes;
feed him cups of tea, 
biscuits and sweetly
strong coffee. the only man 
she ever allowed
dump ash on her clean
kitchen table. I didn't 
admire him, in spite 
of his insights
because I was a child 
and a teenager, and he 
just a shapeless 
grey pigeon, 
oiled fluff and broken 
down feathers. a son
who didn't speak to him,
a wife dead, a recovering 
alcoholic. I met him
again in my twenties,
just in passing on the street
near to phibsborough.
my mother had told him
I was a poet now too
and he handed me some
of his poems. god 
they were absolute 
garbage. just utter 
unreadable shit

DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016) and "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019)

Madonna 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.

Just Like the Old Poet by Fabrice Poussin

Three lumps of flesh on the couple’s private bench
a memorial park made for the forgotten.
 
Decay soon to commence in the brownish masses
with no one to notice the odious aroma.
 
Thankful is this traveler on a journey to the void
to know that little will remain of the oddity.
 
Perhaps a last vulture will feast and the would-be carcass
too thin even for the repast of night critters.
 
Somewhere in an estranged multitude
a two-room palace has fallen to crumbles.
 
Hovering upon the treetops above this lonely spectacle
a soul smiles, for no living creature will notice.
 
After all, they did not seem to share his tears
thus he knows it is better to never have been known.
 
The blink of a faint light has now faded
he leaves no pain behind for it is his alone for eternity.

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

Transcendental Happy Hour by Kevin M. Hibshman

I could dig the thought of hanging out 
in Henry's shack, just listening for the crackling sound
of green things growing.

Imagine the breakfast conversations over at the Emerson's?
It'd be a real blast getting all gussied up to hit the ballroom
with Margaret and Elizabeth!
“Yo, See you at church tomorrow morning!”
Give me moon-lit walks and carriage rides bristling with
town gossip.

We'd sit around, shaping ideas.
Dreaming of a home that smells like Heaven.
Playfully arranging reforms and playing cards.
What a gas, going to Elizabeth's cool-ass bookstore!
Pre-Beatnik, reading foreign pamphlets and truly believing
in the souls of men.

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).

Lost Faith by Michael Adubato

I lost my faith the other day 
and I have no idea where it can be 
to be honest, I've been misplacing 
it a lot lately 
 
I see that the Syrian government 
attacks people with chemical weapons 
and the skin melts off the bones 
as they scream in anguish 
 
I turned around and saw my faith 
tip-toeing down the street 
I called it back 
it stopped for a second 
looked at me 
and kept on going 

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.

How Do Ya Not See? by Brian Rihlmann

My coworker Tony 
is completely unfiltered.
Says whatever pops into his head.
Now he asks, in reference
to our other coworker, 
the perpetually stoned JD—
How the fuck do ya put a pan 
caked with scrambled eggs
back on the rack?
How do ya not see that?
 
Tony’s 20 years older than I.
He carries a hundred pounds 
of beer belly and 
wears the thickest pair
of glasses I’ve ever seen
on the bridge of a full-blown, 
veiny, alcoholic nose.
They dilate his eyes
to double their size
and make him appear
twice as insane
as he awaits an answer
to what I’d foolishly assumed 
was a rhetorical question.
 
He’s holding the offending pan
in one hand 
and a large knife
he was chopping vegetables with
in the other.
 
I dunno, man...I say. 
It’s amazing what people 
don’t see though...right?
 
He laughs. Says—
A-Fuckin’-Men to that!
Full New Yawk accent. 

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.