John Grochalski

mike the pilot drinks at the catch-22 bar

his face is cherub red
and pock-marked

a w.c. fields tribute of abuse

his belly has grown
to a tank of cheap beer

it’s been eleven years
many a blurry night between us

but i recognize him anyway

even if he’s not clad
in a white short-sleeved shirt

with those striped patches on his shoulders
the wings pinned crooked on his breast

all day on the new york to chicago run
all evening taking up a stool at rooney’s pub

soused enough to make me think twice
about every commercial flight i took

mike the pilot drinks
at the catch-22 bar

with a woman who looks
twenty years younger than him

looks disappointed and bored
as she sits there picking at a bowl of pretzels

watching his head bob up and down

a man starving for slumber
more than conversation and alcohol

like mike was never the man
who took mona on the men’s room sink

and make her cum so hard
that it broke right off its hinges
and cracked in half

on the sticky, piss-stained floor

mike the pilot
looks old and useless

sitting there in the catch-22
with his beer untouched

all of the action and adventure
drained right out of him

the years gone from blessings into a curse

as the woman he’s with
gets up to play a song on the jukebox

a classic one from back
when mike was young and virile

when the booze flowed like rivers
the uniform was animal magnetism

and the bright, blue sky
was likely everything to him

except the limit.

poem to the young men smoking marijuana
outside my bedroom window at midnight

i think of a past me
when i come to my bedroom window
to meet you head on

the guy who would tell you bastards to get lost

the guy who’d be grabbing for his sneakers
a hammer, a broom handle or a baseball bat

the drunken idiot
who would storm outside defenseless

ranting and raving
hoping that lunacy would be enough
to scare you idiots off

i think of him…and he’s like a ghost

all i can do is stand there
in the darkness and glare at you

as you four stare dully at me

the pot stench wafting into my bedroom
strong and skunk-like and out of my control

know that it’s my fault for living on the first floor

know that it’s my fault for trying to carve out
some kind of peaceful life in america

slam the window shut
to your collective laughter

and go back to bed
my back to the window

like the coward

that age and time
have gone and made me.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Brian Rihlmann

The Bermuda Triangle Of Pullman Drive

people disappear and you
can't help but wonder about them
around here there was the one
my roommate dubbed
"The Mad Conductor"
due to his constant gesturing
and occasional screaming
as he walked the streets
day and night
and then that long-haired dude
in the big straw hat who
if you encountered him
would never speak
or make eye contact
but would step off the sidewalk
into the street
and stand still as a lamppost
until you'd passed
and finally the stooped old man
who’d shuffle by every day
on his way to the corner store
he’d stand in the alley
behind our house
drink his daily ration
from a brown paper bag
then piss on the fence
before shuffling off
to wherever he came from
to wherever old men like him
wind up

Brian Rihlmann lives and writes in Reno, Nevada. His poetry has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and The Main Street Rag. His latest collection, "Night At My Throat," (2020) was published by Pony One Dog Press.

Daniel Moore

Instructions for the Lonely

Watching your seasonal morals wilt
                                          as the flowers were centered,

someone’s been flirting with the god
                                                    of arrangement.

Someone’s open relationship is coming
                                                             to a violent close.

Zippers are up. Locks changed.
                               Now, there are more of you to grieve

the gift of lukewarm hands,
                                         more of them to act as if

your name is Miracle. Let their weakness
                                  be your strength like Samson’s

uncut hair. Tell them sorrow has a fuse,
                                    Mr. Matchstick made in heaven.

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems are forthcoming in Lullwater Review, The Meadow, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Lindenwood Review, The Chaffin Journal, The Chiron Review, Adelaide Magazine, The American Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review and The Bitter Oleander. He is the author of 'Boys' (Duck Lake Books) and “Waxing the Dents” (Brick Road Poetry Press)

Brooke Nicole Plummer

The Cold Is On Its Way; I'm Sorry I've Missed Your Calls

I was under a bridge, feeling nostalgic, but the stars reminded me
that the lowest form of conversation is, “remember when”.
Leaves were applauding themselves in the fog.
An indomitably vermilion showcase of the fleeting.
If your revelations are only second best, the heavens will call you out.
I thought it was a busy night, but everyone seemed to have gone away,
everyone except the barley harvester from Milwaukee,
whose mouth had not gone dry. We spoke of what had been done too well;
the absence of disorder in what we say, in what we think,
proves a shallow grave to leave behind. A damn mute of character.
He told me that his blue shed was covered with withering grapevines,
then mouth-missled Grizzly into the gravel. I noticed that his
saliva was webbed with blood, but I didn’t point it out.
It was a sign of shadow-teeth, grazing around an indeterminate health.
As fickley spread as we are on these frosted grounds, we are not dull.
But he knows he is not needed. I know I am not needed.

Brooke Nicole Plummer worked at a haunted house and got to use a prop that was from the Saw movies. Personally, those movies aren’t to her liking, albeit a fun stunt was utilized while performing with loosely injected, blood-seeping IV’s. However, she implores you to watch “Victor Victoria”, starring Julie Andrews, if you haven’t seen it. Or, watch it again, if you have. Her first chapbook, “Flyover, Compiled Nothings”, was self-published in November of 2018. Her second chapbook, “Shaggy Frog”, was released through Alien Buddha Press in January of 2021.

Dennis Mahagin

Limerick for Kennewick

There once was a kid

from Kennewick

who longed for a plain friend with
benefits.
Like trains that couple
simply to live
—with perfect names to kiss and
sit beside—in the sweet tart
afterglow
of astride
he longed for
even the shortest
of rides, and he said
simply this—half to him-
self, diminished, and half
to the one he plain
missed;

the one who came

through

Kennewick.

Dennis Mahagin is the author of two poetry collections—Grand Mal, from Rebel Satori Press, and Longshot & Ghazal, from Mojave River Press. He also works with Ellen Parker to edit the online magazine called Frigg, and he owns and operates a music store in Deer Lodge, Montana.