Just Like You by David Boski

We got into an argument, after dinner,
at the bar, and as we were walking home
she looked at me and said:
“your father was probably a piece of shit,
just like you.”
I was immediately filled with rage, I felt
the whiskey in my blood begin to boil,
my head started spinning, emotions began
stirring, and my eyes began to well up.
She had struck a nerve, she knew exactly
what she was doing; just two months earlier
she had been at my father’s funeral with me,
crying, and trying to provide support.
Now she was making a comparison and
voicing her opinion about a man she had
never met; which is funny, cause she had
never met her father either.
He ran back to his other family after he
found out her mother was pregnant.
I made sure I told her this and when we
arrived home, things were thrown, more insults
were hurled, and I threw her shit on the back
porch before telling her to get the fuck out;
so, I could be sure I lived up to her accusation.

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. 

No Marimbas in Tokyo by John Dorroh

noodle vending machine

dispensing cheap dreams 

thin on content like temporary support

for muscle contraction. legos eliminating

plastic bricks that mock the real thing.

wood for marimbas disappearing within

10 years. meanwhile I pull cold sushi 

from metal boxes and wonder how 

I will find my way back to the hotel

About John Dorroh:

Whether John Dorroh taught any high school biology is still up for grabs. However, he showed up every morning at 6:45 with at least two lesson plans. His poetry has appeared in Suisun Valley Review, Dime Show Review, Rat's Ass Review, Sick Lit, Walk Write-up, Indigent press, and others. He also dabbles with short fiction and the occassional rant.

A-Hem by Wayne F. Burke

On a Hemingway kick
lately and
finally
coming to the end of
ISLANDS IN THE STREAM
posthumously published
1970 novel
flat for 200 pgs then
picks up slack
the next hundred
but then
Hem puts out the drag line
again
at sea
Part III
and drifts
along and
to some sort of finish
(soon,
I hope).

About Wayne F. Burke:

Wayne F. Burke has published six full-length volumes of poetry, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019).

A link to the book:

             https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/192644924X/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

Neil by John Doyle

Triptych schizophrenic,
drinks are on me,
thank God it's Friday,
ho, ho, ho,
speak up, Neil,
we can't hear you,
behind the iron curtain
your desk forbids us entry -
you are one of us Neil,
we really love you,
dining with the staff,
strangest shapes of accent
that bring carnage,
screaming
and lots of thick,
evil-coloured smoke -
you are one of us Neil,
sitting in the fickle corners of The Ferryman,
last train to Greystones
carries a choose and select menu
of day-time heroics
from which you fit your life -
aran sweater,
deck-shoes,
sunset-stained slacks
and a whole lotta hard-coded bullshit.
Oh Neil,
maybe we will miss you
when you're gone,
talking
to
yourself
in
the
fucked-up
corners
of
The Ferryman

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.

Brand New Day Go Away Come Again Another Day by Anggo Genorga

The dawn breaks come the third
rooster crow,
the same time
the young wife was doing it
w/ his impotent father in-law.

Atop a fridge adjacent to my room
laid rest a corn bit-shaped rock
lying on silver
& straw, waiting
for some flame to burn down below;

I had to stop pulling down the drapes.
This dawn is gonna be a long night.

About Anggo Genorga:

I'm from the Philippines and working as a manager of a local band called Wonder Woman's Electric Bra. Recent writings can be found at Outlaw Poetry Network, Devote.se, Paper And Ink Zine, The Odd Magazine, Piggpenn and the now defunct Dead Snakes. Also at Empty Mirror, Mad Swirl, Guide To Kulchur Creative Journal and Silver Birch Press Bukowski Anthology and Verses Typhoon Yolanda, a book for benefit published by Meritage Press

Furries Jump In by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There was this new gang that
scared the shit out of all the others
because they dressed up in various animal costumes
so that you didn’t just get stabbed but rather
stabbed by a panda bear, a raccoon and a fox
with giant dead cartoon eyes that betrayal nothing
as they walked the streets and sliced people to pieces 
and like any gang, they were recruiting all the time,
and one afternoon some kids came upon some Furries
jumping in a new member; a duck turtling up with its
beak kicked in while an otter rained down punches
and a lion and a tiger and a kangaroo stomped the duck
right there at the part in the middle of
the afternoon.

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.

California Feelin’ by Daniel W. Wright

Sunset Boulevard hopefuls
all want discovery
Let the ocean
wash them all away

Smoke splits blue sky
Gatsby eyes look down
A million musics
blend together
as a million languages laugh
with each other

Books passed like peace pipes
to sidewalk squatters
Don’t you understand?
We’ve found the main nerve!

Sundresses in winter
dance to what remains
of free love
Puppers only want to cuddle
No one understands
unconditional love
like dogs

Falling for flapper hat wearing
hipster pixie dream girls
that seem to be everywhere
Typing away on Apple computers
drinking tea
whilst I drink a mocha
I could swear
is actually
just heated chocolate milk

The restless and derivative
sell themselves
and the Great American script
in elevators
to anybody wearing a blazer
with a decent haircut

Sunshine states don’t know
what to do with themselves
when the sun goes down
Tired tears prep second wind
Daily grind soundtracks in mono
like a one-track mind

California vibrations grow the world
Drink yourself drunk at Vesuvio
and stumble down Jack Kerouac Way
Empathic hearts take blame
and kiss with kindness
all the same

Without love
the world is just another place

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.