55

by Mike Meraz

fifty-five, he looks like
he's forty-five
lifting those weights.
Marlon Brando eyes,
standing there
in a white t-shirt,
against a screen
looking at me
with such indifference.

I do not recognize him.

his heart usually beats loud,
and his face always shines
with fatherly love.
but on this day
with the weight of death,
loss and the drama
of new love
resting on his shoulders,
he looks at me for once
and does not smile.

I do not recognize him.

my writing style

by J.J. Campbell

i somehow ended up in

a conversation with some

college kids the other day

and one of them asked

me what i do for a living

i told him i'm a writer

but these shining bundles

of light didn't understand

that writer was code for

i'm poor and live at home

with my mother

then one of the clowns

asked me to describe

my writing style

i paused

thought for a second

and then said have you

ever had a back spasm

while wiping a bloody

asshole all the while trying

to light some firecrackers

that pretty much sums

it up

all i got from that

was blank stares

and dumbfounded

faces

i walked away feeling

justified for my horrific

view of the future of

the free world

*http://sites.google.com/site/losersincsite/

The best part

by Melanie Browne

of the poem,

about the chill

that travels

down my

sticky thigh,

shivers

up every bone

in my spine,

I lost that part,

I'm left with

a few lines

about

the sunrise,

waves crashing,

the seashell

in my hand,

both parts

are a lie,

but that

was the best part

STREET SEX

by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Moving it
up
on you
dear girl
dancing
on the sidewalk,

summer
on your skin
in your bikini
hot
steps
barefooted,

please
stump your toe
on me,

I'll
cauterize
your wound,

in a back alley
suite.

nowheresville

by M. P. Powers

past midnight, in this dark room
i inhale a cigarette
and wonder where you are
as a splintered piece of moonlight
floats along the floor
and climbs up my pantleg
my nose is burning
and i feel like lord alfred
tennyson's corpse
caught in a pale dream
i feel like all the dud fireworks
in the world and i walk
onto the balcony;
it creaks below me, despair
disguised as a dog
is barking somewhere; a slender
thread of purple
smoke loops
around my fingers, this silver cloud
eats silently the moon
as night drowns itself
in darkness,
i take another drag
and wonder where you are

Gregorian

by Michael B. Tager

The days are crossed off
with pen slashes

Some blue, some red
a few X’s with a purple ballpoint

The countdown began
before you left

but it continues in your absense.

I assume
(please, correct me if I’m wrong, please)
it will not stop
until the snows melt
and the birds chirp
once more
outside our bedroom window.

Best case scenario.

The calendar is full of empty pages;
numbers mocking coldly
with their bold lines
and pictures of cats
in stupid outfits.

The pens are arranged symmetrically
because you'd like that.
Does that help?

The rain drops

On my exposed skull
where I wait, unmoving
A day’s distance, a momentary lull
Skies remained dark, uncaring
Upon this hilltop, an empty hull

by Michael B. Tager

When I’m Drunk I Think She’s Beautiful

by James Babbs

Connie’s behind the bar
tonight
where she’s been for the past
35 years or so
serving up drinks and
trying to keep everybody in line
I’m one of her regulars
so she comes over and
talks to me
whenever she gets the chance
sometimes
I flirt with her
making her laugh
she tells me
she’s old enough to be my mother
but when I’m drunk
I think she’s beautiful and
I tell her
I want to marry her
I tell her
I want to live with her
right here in the bar
she comes back with
I just want her
for all the free booze
but I tell her
my voice louder this time
no
it’s not true
I tell her
I love her and
every time I say it
she just laughs
on one of my better nights
when I end up leaving
with some other woman
turning back one last time
toward the bar
I don’t know
maybe
it’s just me
or the lighting
or something
but I swear
Connie always looks sad
when I tell her goodbye

I’ve Been In Love

by James Babbs

I’ve been in love with countless women
over the years
but none of them ever loved me
and how many unrequited loves
does one man need
before he seeks solace
from something else
like the warm touch of madness
or the bottle’s sweet pull
and the sky at night
littered with stars
tiny lights without meaning
pieces of broken glass
scattered beneath my feet
after I dropped the cup
spilling the last of the wine
red
looks almost like blood

Sausage Fest

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Winston

promised there would be girls

and plenty to drink,

but when I arrived with a six pack

and a fifth of rum

I walked in ten to fifteen guys

talking about their feelings;

straight as a bent straw

and in the confessional

after two beers.

Plenty to drink

had become seven beers

in the fridge

and a bottle of gin

(split fourteen ways)

and there wasn't a girl

in sight

as I started in on my six pack

in the corner.

A knock at the door

and some surfer types

in Bermuda shorts arrived,

followed by a couple of roid freaks

doing pushups

in tanks tops

and two delicate little blonde boys

with their guitars

and harmonicas

playing the worst of Simon

and Garfunkel

as I polished off the beer

and started in on the fifth

of rum.

People collapse

like economies collapse,

and with prohibition making a comeback

and not a woman in sight,

I slunk down into my chair

and grew ever more

despondent.

I puked a little in my mouth

as the conversation shifted aimlessly

from sports

to cars

to protein shakes

and back to sports.

Even the music

had grown all baritone

and facial hair.

All adam,

no eve.

It was a real sausage fest

in there.

And according to the calendar

on the wall,

Oktoberfest was still

seven months

away.

In and Out of Mexico

by John Rocco

In Mexico
the street kids
sniff glue
outside the church
holding big statues of
St. Jude
patron saint of lost causes
and pulling the glue fumes
deep into their lungs
before entering the church
to feel
the hands
of a terrifyingly real God
growing a face in the dark.

In Mexico
the patron saint of drug addicts
and drug dealers and criminals
is Santa Muerte
St. Death
and she has big tits
and a skull face
grinning in the falling walls
of heavy dripping candles.

In Mexico
at breakfast
at four in the afternoon
she drinks hot spicy soup
loaded with killer peppers
spooning some into my mouth
telling me, “It’s Aztec!”
She spent time in an LA jail
because she got caught with
a fake passport. She has a
jail tattoo on the back of her
left hand. “How I cross
the border into Texas?”
she asked me after I
asked her. “Waving
my hands and with
these,” she said.
“With these,”
she said cupping her
big dark wonderful tits. 

Slow Children at Play

by Chris Butler

The constant deprivation of oxygen

to our brains,

causes us to be

slow children at play.

We think we’re gifted

even though we lack all

the trimmings,

chasing that bouncing

black ball across narrow

yellow roads

while blissfully depicting

caricatures in cumulonimbus

clouds;

drawn towards autistic artistry,

as innocence is meshed

into mush inside of Michelin

treads.

Only the dumb die young.

A little

by Mike Boyle

Not much. No bragging rights. It's
Saturday, lawn done cut to nubs.
This front garden space needs some-
thing. Little bush or tree. Put some-
thing there. Violets bloom early,
now look like weeds.

Put something there. Tomorrow.
Next day. Earth rolling under-
neath, burping fractured planet.
Yes, hike. You like this. When
it's hot not many, just you,
sweating all that out.

All of it. You know what it is
and know it's bad. That you are
possibly bad, also, personally,
to the core, in the large scope
of things with demands of
participation.

Fuck that. Hold onto planet
spinning around black hole.
Keep your side of the street
clean in metaphoric and
physical sense. Buy some

underwear that fits. Last trip
to box store you came out
with droopy things in some
box store trance. Who does
that.

Not William Burroughs

by Melanie Browne

I locked myself in the

bedroom closet

with the glass

skull liquor bottle

my husband got

for Christmas

I balance the bottle

on my head

and took some

pics with

my cell phone

I never

showed anyone

but tell me,

is that strange?

The sculptor looks hard

by Robert Laughlin

The sculptor looks hard

At the stone block.

Tons of encasing matter

Melt away and liberate

The captive figure inside.

FOR HART CRANE

by Randall Rogers

IT’S OUT OF HABIT

NECCESSITY

SCULPTS

A FOOL’S HEAD.

BRACKISH

IT'S OBAMA

STEREOPHONIC

PLAY SPACE WITH

YOUR WOOFERS

AND TWEETERS

PUSHERS

AND POLICERS

INCARCERATING

MIGHTY

EMPIRE DREAD.

YEAH IT'S

A REAL PALACE

OF WISDOM

YOUR DRUNKEN HEAD.

HAND DRAWING

ART? INSIDE

ME SKULL.

JUST REMEMBER

IN REALITIES

LESS REAL

AND PROFOUND

ONE MAY NOT

EQUATE MOUTAIN LION = COUGAR

EITHER.

OR EVENTUALLY DISCOVER

AFTER THIRTY EIGHT OR FORTY

YEARS OF HARD STUDY

LIFE AND READING

‘TIS RATHER A STRANGE SENSATION

WHEN YOU

DISCOVER

THERE IS

NO ‘’D’’

IN PRIVILEGE.

EXIT STRATEGY/SUICIDE OF AN AMERICAN PRIVATE FIRST CLASS

MOSUL, Iraq - A soldier from the 2nd Infantry Division died from a non-combat related shooting here yesterday. The incident is under investigation. (Centcom news release)

Gung ho

Flag and anthem

Through the flames

Army strong

Shoot first

Ask questions later

Then the bayonet

he said

Blood the desert takes the sand will not return

No exit from the RPG

No exit from the mortar round

No exit from the roadside bomb

No exit from the helicopter crash

Blood the desert takes the sand will not release

No exit from the Tigris River

No exit from the green canal

No exit from the Shat Al Hillah

No exit from the drowning pool

Blood the desert takes the sand will not replace

No way out of Umm Qasr

No way out of Tall Afar

No way off Haditha Dam

No way out of Balad Ruz

No exit from the water

Blood the desert takes the sand will not reprieve

No exit from the sky

No way home to Eagle Pass

No way home to Santa Fe

No way home to Baton Rouge

No way home to Seven Hills

Blood the desert takes the sand will not release

No way out of Abu Hanifa Mosque

No way out of Taraniyat Square

No way out of the corner café.

No way out of Hotel Mount Lebanon

Blood the desert takes the sand will not replace

No exit from the sniper scope

No exit from the rifle sight

No exit from the bullet hole

No exit from the body bag

Blood the desert takes the sand will not return.

And looking down the pistol barrel

Saw St. Barbara

Clothed in swallows and veil

Waiting at the gate across the river with welcoming arms

Kept his eyes on her

And pulled the trigger.

by Russell Streur

*http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/

DOWNTOWN ALBANY, THE DARKBLUE WIND STREETS

by Lyn Lifshin

Blue wind

whips around

Belardo’s.

Melville lived in

this place once.

Now, it’s a

greasy bar. A

fat woman with stringy

hair screams

lousy, lousy

Blood spurts from

somebody’s mouth.

It’s still on the

floor when

we leave.

Yellow snow.

Dove St, Providence.

The names of the

streets nothing

like them

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm