Chaw Rob Dinsmoor
I’m on a converted school bus carrying us from our living quarters—essentially a Super 8 Motel—to the drug and alcohol rehab facility where we learn about coping with cravings and “triggers.” We pass a stretch of strip malls, drive-in clinics, liquor stores, and check-cashing joints. In the seat in front of me is a very attractive young couple in their early twenties.
There’s a rule against the men and women sitting together on the bus, but it is rarely enforced. There are many younger people at the rehab facility and, unlike old drunks like me, most of them are in for things like heroin, oxycontin, and crystal meth.
The man is chewing tobacco and it gives me bad memories about being back on the high school bus with the tough kids in Indiana.
“Can I try it?” the woman asks.
“Sure,” says the man, handing her a plug of Skoal. “Just put it between your cheek and your gums and let it dissolve. Don’t chew it—and whatever you do, don’t swallow it.”
There is something vaguely sweet about his patient instruction on the art of chewing. She puts a wad on her mouth and her cheek and jaw stick out so far she looks like a cowboy. I try to image her with brown teeth and gums. I find it depressing that a pretty girl like that will eagerly try out such a nasty new habit, but then again, here we all are.
Rob Dinsmoor is a freelance writer who has published dozens of short stories, as well as scripts for Nickelodeon and MTV. His collection of short stories, Toxic Cookout, was published by Big Table Publishing Company in October, 2019.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
Michael C. Keith
I’m thinking maybe my dog is acting strangely because she knows I’m losing my mind. She senses my breakdown and is frightened for both of us. If I end up in the looney bin, where will she end up? There’s no one who’ll take her in. She has intuited our disaster. What a burden, her perception.
Michael C. Keith is the author of 20 books of fiction.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
We each drink a warm beer and talk
the world into being.
Tanks roll into the city, we scurry
across the rooftop,
wait for choppers to fly us
to an offshore carrier, wait to go home,
though I fear home has been misplaced.
I ride the bus to Dallas.
You head for Seattle, where you intend
to ride the ferry there back and forth
to and from Bainbridge Island.
I walk to Dealey Plaza
and sit on the grass.
At night sometimes, I speak to you
as if we were still young,
as if angels had wings.
Brady Peterson lives near Belton, Texas where for twenty-nine years he worked building homes and teaching rhetoric. He is the author of Between Stations, Dust, From an Upstairs Window, and García Lorca Is Somewhere in Produce.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
Brick bowl of City Hall Plaza
brim-filled with trans-folk draped
in pink, white and blue, shouldering
together in this foul political season
so as not to be erased, and onstage
at one rim, a six-foot trans-woman
in immaculate eyeshadow is belting
her song “I’m a Queen,” while lifting
her heart under leaden skies, and
across the bowl, a scrappy knot
of counter demonstrators with cheap
megaphones are whipping up
something derogatory, but their words
are drowned down by a cordon chanting,
“Trans Rights are Human Rights!” and I’m
just a solemn ally, but I can surely
tell the sonic grating of hateful howls
from iridescent waves of love and hope
and hard-won resiliency that swell
to envelop this toxic irritant,
the way an oyster accepts
a gritty shard, and layers it
into something precious.
Robbie Gamble's poems have appeared in Scoundrel Time, Solstice, RHINO, Cutthroat, and Poet Lore. He was the winner of the 2017 Carve Poetry prize, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He works as a nurse practitioner caring for homeless people in Boston.
Listen to it!
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
You invited him
behind lilacs, naked in early snow.
You sidled ahead
glanced back, lifted your chin.
You let him press
his wet nose into hind fur,
lean long into the lure of you
you had him—six-point buck
ever so daintily, a back-leg curtsey
& as gently, as if to test his bulk
against your petite,
his force against your feminine,
he half-mounted & dismounted.
the way thunder shatters sleep,
he climbed on top
with the certainty of a god
seeded you in three packed thrusts
withdrew, stepped back—waited
while you flicked your fully-fluffed white tail
as if waving a victory boa, or
fanning cool air into a hot canal.
Floating the stillness
in wildness, he waited—tending you,
his lightning eyes set beneath his crown
& set on you
while you waited for all to settle
into next season’s fawn.
Catherine Arra is the author of (Women in Parentheses) (Kelsay Books, 2019), Writing in the Ether (Dos Madres Press, 2018), and three chapbooks. Her poetry and prose have appeared in numerous journals online and in print, and in several anthologies. Forthcoming in 2020 from Finishing Line Press is a new chapbook, Her Landscape, Poems Based on the Life of Mileva Marić Einstein. Arra is a native of the Hudson Valley in upstate New York, where she teaches part-time and facilitates local writing groups.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
If Time Heals Old Wounds
If time heals old wounds I still think of mine as a red scar an interim of ghostly life and ghastly death, the death of a loved one not quite gone.
The Chinese say it takes three years three years to not notice the scar, one that
has become so much a part of you you'd never want it to disappear.
I'm coming up on the third year. The scar burns when I dream of her the one who raised me the one who tended my wounds. I have so many old wounds it would be difficult to name them all.
Mark Saba’s work has appeared in many literary magazines and anthologies around the U.S. and abroad. His most recent book publications are Ghost Tracks: Stories of Pittsburgh Past (Big Table Publishing) and Calling the Names (poetry, David Robert Books).
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
I was hoping we’d all see the end of days
before I died, so I wouldn’t have to travel
to the afterlife by myself. I wanted the sky
flashing over our past-the-expiration-date
republic like the little bulb coming on
when you’ve opened the refrigerator door
for a midnight snack, so I could be sure
the name of everyone I knew would appear
on the product recall list. Post-apocalypse,
waiting in the rubble for transportation
to wherever God warehouses all the souls,
we could talk sports shit and say screw you
to the bosses and the jobs that we hated.
It’d be like taking vacation time together.
I don’t want to be that kid sitting alone
on the bench at the bus station, his ticket
pinned to his jacket, ignored by the other
travelers, who find him sort of pathetic,
except maybe for some pasty-faced guy
asking him if he’d like a chocolate kiss.
If you say that it’s a much better place
I’m headed for, shouldn’t you come, too?
I know we’ve got the right tools to make
our extinction happen: drugs, plutonium,
etc. Corporate guys, it’d be so “proactive”
for us all to punch out at the same time.
Besides, why would anyone hang around
after I’m gone? It’s going to be so boring.
Chris Bullard is a native Floridian who lives in Philadelphia, PA. He received his B.A. in English from the University of Pennsylvania and his M.F.A. from Wilkes University. Finishing Line Press published his poetry chapbook, Leviathan, in 2016, and Kattywompus Press published High Pulp, a collection of his flash fiction, in 2017. Fear was published by Big Table Publishing Company in 2017. His work has appeared in recent issues of Leveler, Muse/A Journal, The Woven Tale, Nimrod, Cutthroat and The Offbeat.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
Remember This Day
Outside, rain thickening. Warm on the bus,
but we are nearing the hills, where snow
has begun to stick on the branches of pines.
We are entering the land of shadows and drifts.
A woman rests her head against her arm.
She may be asleep, or trying to rest her eyes
from the harsh light.
We have left the city behind.
Soon we will stop at a café where people
sit on hard chairs staring at menus
with photographs of food, huge portions
of pancakes, sandwiches with melted cheese.
A waitress flits by offering coffee,
holding out the pot as our cups steam and fill.
The woman is speaking softly on the phone.
She slips it in her purse, lifts out a small bottle,
shakes two red pills into her palm.
She has asked someone to go away and now
she gulps water from a large glass filled with ice.
Somebody’s daughter, somebody’s battered girl.
Again and again you see those shadowed eyes,
the distant look that will never connect.
A long time from now you will remember this day,
the headache and long hours, windshield wipers
clicking as the driver peers through streaks of ice,
the woman’s forehead leaning against cold glass.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
Searching for Serenity
I’m starting to sweat, shifting from one foot to the other,
unsure if I should go right or left, or even back
whence I came. Racks and stacks of clothes,
fanning out in an endless ocean of personal primping,
obfuscate my primal destination.
To my left: splotched jeans meticulously ripped
to broadcast indifference to good grooming –
a state that costs a minor fortune to achieve.
To my right: mounds of sweat shirts proclaiming
allegiance to all stripes of schools, sports teams
and personal lifestyles, none of which I ascribe to.
Beyond them jackets for days when water droplets fall
like bunker busters, or just mist mindlessly dawn to dusk.
For snowy days or blustery days. For days when a slight
chill in the air cries out for seriously chic adornment.
And everywhere signs flaunting designer names
like Ralph Lauren, a nom de guerre carefully created
to evoke a cross between manliness and preppiness,
because Ralph Lipschitz duds would be a marketing dud.
Finally my eyes spot a non-descript sign on the far wall,
just below a gargantuan poster of a half-naked,
totally ripped model sporting a look of total boredom,
as if lingering in front of the camera was the last thing
he wanted to do that day.
Quickly I plot the shortest course to the opening
just to the right of the sign: First jog left past the jeans,
then right before the Dockers. Zig around the Polo shirts;
zag after Calvin Klein’s underwear.
Completing this cryptic course, I elbow the door open
and position myself at the first empty stall.
Ah, sweet pee. You bring an aging man joy –
if only for a few hours, ’til another frantic
search for serenity begins anew.
Rick Blum has been chronicling life’s vagaries through essays and poetry for more than 30 years during stints as a nightclub owner, high-tech manager, market research mogul, and, most recently, old geezer. His writings have appeared in The Literary Hatchet, The Satirist, and WINK magazine, among others. He is also a frequent contributor to The Humor Times, and has been published in numerous poetry anthologies. Mr. Blum is a three-time winner of the annual Carlisle Poetry Contest. His poem, “Tomfoolery,” received honorable mention in The Boston Globe Deflategate poetry challenge.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
The eastern sun shines
through a tattered blanket of clouds
thrown carelessly on the bed of the sky.
As I drive north, the shadow of my car stretches into the oncoming traffic. A ghost car,
speeding in the wrong lane,
colliding with southbound cars,
but the only sound is the wind and the miles
rolling away beneath my wheels.
The hills, rising up in the west,
have shed their leaf-soft June fur
and grown a spiky coat of bare trees
whose leaves now lie
dead and brown beside the highway,
victims of their own collision
with immovable December.
paul Bluestein is a physician (done practicing), a blues musician (still practicing) and a dedicated Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He lives in Connecticut with his wife and the two dogs who rescued him. If the Poetry Muse calls, he answers, even if it’s during dinner.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
The First Time I Watched a Friday the 13th
My mom kept watch on the sunflower recliner,
her brown eyes peering over pages of a paperback,
while I leaned towards the TV, inserted a VHS—
Friday the 13th Pt. 4.
I ran my hands over the sleeve—
the black holes of Jason’s hockey mask,
the silver knife that gleamed like moonlight
over Camp Crystal Lake.
I clapped at the first appearance of hulking Jason
power walking through the woods, stalking
first victims, camp counselors that guzzled beers,
traded joints back and forth like secret notes.
My mother said nothing about first kills—
a machete to the head, an arrow between the eyes,
the gasps of victims before the camera pulled away
and Jason dragged their bodies to the woods.
It wasn’t until two counselors disrobed,
reached for the buttons of each other's shorts
that mom rose from her chair, stormed towards the TV,
seized the tape, clicked her tongue in disgust.
For months I searched for the VHS, like goods
thieved from me I wanted to reclaim. I never finished
that scene, the kill that always follows sex in slasher flicks.
My mother, too,was a moral judge,
wanting to shield my eyes from the female form,
from the mysteries of sex a 10-year-old wanted to ask.
Brian Fanelli's latest book is Waiting for the Dead to Speak (NYQ Books), winner of the Devil's Kitchen Poetry Prize.His poetry has been featured on "The Writer's Almanac" and Verse Daily and published in The Los Angeles Times, World Literature Today, Paterson Literary Review, and elsewhere. Brian has also written about horror movies for Signal Horizon, Horror Homeroom, and The Schuylkill Valley Journal. Jason Voorhees will always be his favorite slasher.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
I was driving like I always do,
as if I were transporting a heart
packed in ice for a patient
who would die soon without it,
when – boom! – a sparrow
crashed into my windshield,
scaring the absolute shit out of me,
but what was strange (I mean,
really strange) was that there was
nothing even to see, no blood
on the glass, no feathers, nothing,
only a long, snaky road ahead
and the spreading smoke of dusk.