Bowl of Black Petunias by Michael Lee Johnson

If you must leave me, please

leave me for something special,

like a beautiful bowl of black petunias—

for when the memories leak

and cracks appear

and old memories fade,

flowers rebuff bloom,

sidewalks fester weeds

and we both lie down

separately from each other 

for the very last time.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL.  He has 284 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.

The 3000 Pound Poetess by Toni Parisi

Fell yesterday and it created a small typhoon in Japan.

This alerted Godzilla who upon taking one look at the source of this commotion told the Japanese government.

Fuck this job! I quit!

Toni Parisi is from Alexandria Virginia she does not consider herself a writer more so a hot-mess that tries to write.

At My 50th Class Reunion by Wayne F. Burke

no one mentions that

I was the Class President.

No one at the table has anything

to say; no one seems to have heard

anything I said--

the girl that hated me

in High School, hates me

still; the guy that wanted to punch me

out, still wants to, but

still lacks the guts; the

cheer-leading sluts ignore

me--as they had back when;

the class vice-President runs the

show, as he had wanted to 

in High School

(but lacked the savvy).

The ones who never left

town, are the many;

those of us who did

leave, the few.

Everyone I hoped to see

is elsewhere or

dead.

It is deja vu

all over again.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in THE DAILY DOPE FIEND). He is author of eight collections of poetry--most recently BLACK SUMMER, Spartan Press, 2021. He lives in Vermont (USA).

The City That Never Loved Me by Kevin M. Hibshman

We held hands intermittently like two awkward,

crushing teenagers after years of exchanging backward glances.

I felt your hear beat and smelled your fears rising like steam through the gutters.

I lived both within and without you.

Our flirtatious dalliances I've long outgrown.

Your charms have worn thin.

I now require a house that can be a home.

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide. In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011). 

 His current book Cease To Destroy is out now and available on Amazon from Whiskey City Press. 

https://www.amazon.com/Cease-Destroy-Kevin-M-Hibshman/dp/B0BYRCVHCZ/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?keywords=cease+to+destroy+kevin+m.+Hibshma

Louie Louie by Mark James Andrews

“Loowee Loowee”

red headed Bridget

was singing it that way

through her cigarette

at a basement house party

in the dangerous 8th grade

where our heads were exploding

with the bomb of electric guitar

“Dun-Dun-Dun….Dun-Dun

Dun-Dun-Dun…Dun-Dun”

of the Kingsmen with the slurring

wide-open words of the vocal

“What is he singing?

What was THAT word?”

everybody was asking 

so I was heating up the springtime

for the kids in my neighborhood

with my scribblings of the “dirty words”

which were being copied in class

by everybody and passed around

back and forth, desk to desk

trying to make something happen

in our world, anything at all

and I was feeling my power with words

in my school where “U” was the flunk grade

which was always my grade in “Conduct”

at Holy Name of Jesus “grade school”

and at the party “Louie Louie” (no comma)

was on repeat for all of us juiced up 

by the frantic line before the guitar solo 

in the middle “Let’s give it to ‘em right now!”

so we had the 45 rpm “Single”  

on repeat on the record player

the needle coming down over and over 

because the words on the album version

were different being all cleaned up

and now I was dancing with Bridget

doing my geeky version of “The Pony”

and she was lip syncing the verses

and I was straining hard on her lips

because I wasn’t wearing my glasses

and Bridget was opening her mouth wider

her top teeth biting down on her bottom lip

her tongue appearing as pink as her lipstick

“Every night at 10 I lay her again

Fuck my girl all kind of ways”

and she sang it like that, like the guy’s words

and she was eye to eye with me swaying

on her high heels for me helpless, helpless

in some kind of daze, in a trance of lust

and I knew that if it wasn’t for writing up 

my own take on “Loowee Loowee”

she wouldn’t be dancing with me 

with her eyelids painted metallic green

in her hiked up skirt and nylons

when I was used to staring at her

in her uniform checkered school jumper

secretly looking up from the paperback 

I was hiding and reading at my desk

“Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes” 

and I knew she could perform miracles

raise me from the dead if she wanted.

Mark James Andrews lives and writes in Metro Detroit.  He is the author of five chapbooks,At the Ice Cow Queen on Mack (Alien Buddha Press), So I Lit a Fire for The Last Thanksgiving

(Alien Buddha Press), Motor City is Burning & Other Rock & Roll Poems (Gimmick Press), Compendium 20/20 (Deadly Chaps) and Burning Trash (Pudding House Press), as well as a

poetry recording Brylcreem Sandwich (Bandcamp).

Shruburban Apocalypse by Terrence Sykes

is there ever a good time for the arrival
of the catastrophic Apocalypse
perhaps best to wait until after tea time
for unfolding unknown Revelations

for there is laundry yet to be folded
that toilet in the den needs scrubbing
those library books are due tomorrow
should return the neighbor’s plasticware
forgot if the newspaper was brought in

already burned the supper casserole
so now is as good as ever for me
but before it all goes down and over
let me slip on something a bit nicer
don’t forget to change your underwear

Terrence Sykes was born and raised in the rural coal mining area of Virginia.  This isolation brings the theme of remembrance to his creations, whether real or imagined.  Other interests include heirloom vegetable research & foraging wild edibles .  His poetry - photography - flash fiction has been published in India, Mauritius,Scotland, Spain and the USA

Not a Fish by Susan Isla Tepper

Sex sells every product the ad manager tells me.  But you already know that he says checking out my legs.  I uncross them.  Of course I do I tell him.  He knows very well I’ve been in this ad game a while.  What a dumb ass thing for him to say.  I keep my eyes brightly wide and make sure my gums show each time I smile.  Well good then he says.  Then he says sex sells hemorrhoid cream.  Hemorrhoid cream, yes, I can understand that I say.  Ice cream too he says.  Trying to bait me.  I’m not a fish.  Overall he’s pretty pathetic.  Then again so is the ad game.  So I guess that makes me pretty pathetic.  All the garbage gets turned into pearls.  Desirable.  I can hardly wait to get home and take a good dump.  See, I like my own toilet.  What can I say?  It’s my personal oddity.  I am entitled.  He’s staring at my breasts.  I feel like saying could you sell these?  They’re not twenty or thirty or even forty anymore.  Genius could you sell these if you’re so damned talented?

 

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.