“IF ONLIES” By Brian Rihlmann

my hole to China

has hit bedrock

and that’s it—

it’s a wishing well

and a grave now

(every wishing well is)

I remember when 

being a personal trainer

was the dream....

and then I did it 

for awhile...

I’m not cut out to be 

a babysitter 

or cheerleader either

and everything is like this

every move to a new place

a different job

a different routine

love

I’ve no illusions—

If I found a way

to scribble for a living 

I’d wear out that “if only” too

“If onlies” only work

if they stay “if only”

heaven is populated 

with millions of the faithful

all trying to hang themselves

with their own halos

wailing and gnashing teeth

because they cannot die

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse, much of it on the so-called "grittier" side.  Folk poetry...for folks. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.

Sunspots. By Dan Provost

Scrambled onto

death yesterday

While walking to

an AA meeting…

Realizing that motifs

to drink are only

chambers of suicide

jargon…

You become so

self-involved when

trying to give up on

another binge.

You feel lakes of

piss rising through

your sneakers…

A gun aimed

in every alley…

All because 200 beers

later—You’ve

determined…enough

is enough

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years.  Some recent publications include: Ariel Chart, Poetical Review, Merak Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Misfit Magazine, the Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press and the Dope Fiend Daily.  He has two books coming out in 2020.  Under the Influence of Nothingness by Kung Fu Treachery Press and Rattle of a Realizer, published by Whiskey City Press.  He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.

Toaster by Susan Tepper

They bought me.  

A nice couple.  

Don’t overstep my limits.

My filaments came in a box.

From Malaysia. 

Eyes.  Teeth. Hair.  

Etc.

I burn waffles in the toaster.

He singes.

She says marmalade covers all sins.

I watch a spot of sun on the counter.

They talk about having a baby.

Remind me to empty the toaster tray.

They leave the house for work.

I put my finger up my nose.

It’s empty.

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her two most recent titles are CONFESS (poetry from Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019) that was shortlisted at American Book Fest.  Other honors and awards include eighteen Pushcart Prize Nominations, a Pulitzer Nomination by Cervena Barva Press for the novel ‘What May Have Been’ (adapted as an Off-Broadway play to be produced next year), shortlisted in Zoetrope Contest for the Novel (2003), NPR Selected Shorts for ‘Deer’ from American Letters & Commentary (ed. Anna Rabinowitz), Second Place Winner in StorySouth Million Writers Award, Best of 17 Years of Vestal Review and more.  Tepper is a native New Yorker.  www.susantepper.com

Go Play in the Shadows. By Wayne Russell

An enigma teleported by the

gentle winds of time, loneliness

always as a child and adult, til'

death it is written. Blank stares

in phosphorous stars, soldiering

on, infinite repeating loops of

psychobabble. Music was a friend

rhythm wrapped up in its warmth

mystic light, worn like silk protective

cloak. Such intrigue jettisoned water

collapsed innuendo, there's a kimono

in her aura, go play in the shadows,

I'll call you when it's time to return

home.

Wayne Russell hails from Florida in the US, but has never settled anywhere. He has been writing dark musings most of his life, his debut poetry book Where Angels Fear is now available Amazon.

Out of the Abyss. By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Why do I welcome the abyss every day?

It is my mission to live in darkness

with a heart ripped open

for the dark matter to enter?

I have the tiniest heart

and eyes that are going blind.

I do not have the strength to go on

much longer. My eyes are tired.

The dark matter has filled

every space inside of me.

There is a tunnel and no light

that enters. The exit is blocked.

The load is heavy.

The strongest mule could not

carry it or get itself out of the abyss.

There is no saving this

body that is wrecked and

battered. The dark matter

has taken charge and

the end is near. By tomorrow

the abyss will swallow me whole.

I am counting on hope to break through

this darkness, to pull the welcome mat

from under its feet, to be the train of

light speeding through the darkened

tunnel. I am counting on hope to lead me

out of the abyss into the light.

Luis was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health 

field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Beatnik Cowboy,

Dope Fiend Daily, Unlikely Stories, and Zygote In My Coffee.

Nobody Wants to Hear It. By Hugh Blanton

Physically and mentally sick

after a three day bender -

never leaving my room except to walk

to the liquor store for more beer and whiskey.

I had lost the shit job I hated -

but inexplicably I hated losing it.

The phone rings - it's one of guys from where I'd been fired.

He's inconsolable - but wants me to console him.

Not because I was fired - but because

Kurt Cobain has died. The news said it was suicide -

he doesn't believe it.

'THAT BITCH WIFE DID IT!' he screams.

I act as if I know what he's talking about -

not wanting him to know I've been sitting

and staring at the walls for the last three days

without turning on a radio or TV.

'You know how these things go.' I tell him

because it's the wisest thing I can think of

as I fight the reflexive urge to vomit up last night's

American blended whiskey.

I offer a few more cliches of comfort

and then he sniffles a goodbye - thanking me

for being there for him.

I use the telephone touch keys

to check the stock I'd bought two weeks ago -

1000 shares of a computer maker for twenty-five cents.

It's now worth two cents. It would cost me

thirty five bucks in commission to sell

twenty bucks worth of stock. So I don't.

I slog my way to the liquor store for more booze -

but the ATM says my account is overdrawn.

On the way back home I stop to look at 

a cat lying dead at the end of the block.

I recognize him as the stray I'd been feeding

off and on over the last year or so.

The first thing I do when I get back home

is pick up the phone and try to conjure up

the number of someone who might have

a sympathetic ear for me.

The dial tone drones on until a recorded voice says - 

'If you'd like to make a call please hang up and try again.'

I hang up without trying again.

Nobody wants to hear it.

Lying on the filthy couch I stare at the ceiling

wondering what Kurt Cobain's last thoughts

might have been in those last lonely moments.

Hugh Blanton combs poems out of his hair during those moments he can steal away from his employers loading dock. He has appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey, As It Ought To Be, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review and other places. He lives in San Diego.

Mishmash. By Dan Provost

I am that tortured

boy that you look away from.

Yea, ruin…

Gives the gift enhanced

in blind detail.

Sunday, hatred

of me being meek.

I’m proud to

announce that I

died yesterday…

These words expanded

from my body and

fell through the sidewalk

Into the sewer…

Nobody cared…

Nobody even looked

for my soul that

flew away on the

day of my birth.

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years.  Some recent publications include: Ariel Chart, Poetical Review, Merak Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Misfit Magazine, the Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press and the Dope Fiend Daily.  He has two books coming out in 2020.  Under the Influence of Nothingness by Kung Fu Treachery Press and Rattle of a Realizer, published by Whiskey City Press.  He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.

SNAPSHOT. By Brian Rihlmann

It all feels useless

and at these times

I want to make 

grand proclamations 

about how I’m done 

with writing and words

I’m done swimming 

in the shallow end 

I’m done with this 

endless circle jerk

with this pale photocopy of life

with society’s treadmill

with women 

with love

I’m gonna break up

with this bitch

finally...

and start over

crack open my cataracts 

and see the real thing

for once

feel myself 

melt away

into the bigger picture 

become more than

a self aware

self obsessed pixel

on a screen

I know better

than to say such things 

but saying them is 

a last defense

a frantic grab

at the wheel

a rickety bridge

built halfway 

across the abyss

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse, much of it on the so-called "grittier" side.  Folk poetry...for folks. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.

What I Would Have Told That Asshole that Made Me Walk into a Major Drug Buy at Nineteen if I Knew. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

They’ll kill us in a second

if they sense weakness

and sure, there is the trouble of the bodies,

but anyone who has straight killers on the payroll

has likely thought of that,

there are many acids for that now,

notice how the bartender was in on it too

the juice heads working the door,

I bet we could be disappeared better than Earhart 

into the steaming rice bowl of Asia

in under an hour

   

a hundred dollars 

to end up ass-to-ass 

in an unmarked grave,

I think not. 

   

Fuck you Dan, 

and all your 

connections.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly,The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.