2 poems by Erren Kelly

Treme, New Orleans ( Fish and Chips )

And a woman sits on her

Porch, and  you could see

All of New Orleans from it

And all her life has been Psalm

91, and Mogen David  wine and

And making wishes come true

On a Singer sewing machine

And she reaps what she sews

And James Brown reminds her 

That we won’t quit, until we get our

Share; that life may deliver the left

Hook that brings up down, but Jesus

Will give us the courage to get up again

And keep going

Fish and chips and gumbo and

The sounds of Treme from a

Sewing Macinine

Always find a way to keep going…

~~~

Listening To Neil Young After A Snowstorm

the sound flows through my ears

like hot chocolate, baptizing

the back of my throat

i see visions of old hippies

sitting in a circle, lost on

waves of melody

a cinnamon girl is a 

bell bottomed dream

i see her braless nipples

like bullets through her 

t-shirt, i smile at her

and she reciprocates

“we only have one country left”

says the bearded man

“let’s save it, while we still can”

we get high on the 70s as the

joint is passed around

you can always find freedom

in the sound

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CARY ZITER ~ CAUTION TO THE WIND

CAUTION TO THE WIND Though she barely spoke Englishthe heat between us was jalapenoand habanero and we threw cautionto the wind and hid ourselves in the highgrass of a barely-visited corner of the citypark and we unwound and undressed andthere was power and propulsion as thewhole caboodle lifted off for outer space.Tender work fingers touched […]

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2 POEMS BY Robert Beveridge

Give Generously
CW: sexual assault, murder (implied), cannibalism (implied)

the girl at the Chik-Fil-A counter
doesn’t look old enough to drive
but that doesn’t stop the customer
from wrapping a 20 around his dick
before he slaps it down. She calls
her manager, who emerges
from the back all smiles, reveals
teeth filed to points as she asks
if she can be of assistance.

Later, over mops, the two women
discuss the idea of approaching 
corporate with an idea
for a new breakfast sausage.

~~~

Wheel of Fortune

The truck runs, at least well enough
to get to the motel. Won’t need stripped
for a while. Nothing left to do
but grab an Iron Dome coffee, snacks, the woman
you intend to tie up tonight.
“No extra charge for the cream,”
the counter boy says through his 
sepia lipstick, batting his eyes. 
“No extra charge at all.”

~~~

Find Robert online:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/xterminal/
Letterboxd: https://letterboxd.com/xterminal/
last.fmhttps://www.last.fm/user/xterminal

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Chris Daly ~ DANCER IN THE DARK

Dancer in the dark

It’s ten miles from my long beach apt

to the bros of st patrick in midway city.

On a bike there are two rough patches:

on Westminster a quarter mile sprint

from the market place in-road to the bridge

over the flood control near the power plant

(no bike lane by the curb, cars making the short

sprint to the freeway turn, old and

over-coffee’d citizens, me dialing long

distance to my legs without special

rates)

and the two open miles

further along the same easement

between parallel fences

of the naval station, exposed to

silos of eternity.

The childhood secret of peddling

is to take your time.

It’s also a good way to miss

the toe-dancing. The guinness

was gone, good thing I’d picked

up same at the viet liquor store.

The way back a zen coast or

walk under the influence

stepping out of headlights

casually as

a homeless fred astaire.

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3 poems by Alexandra Gilliam

QUARANTINE I bought the largest bag of pom poms, remembering mopping the floor each night after close, my dad waiting in the closed shop  while I washed the dishes, we waited and went to    Whataburger when I didn’t have a car after I broke off my first  engagement, the details they say, the yellow of […]

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VERN FEIN ~ PUPPET TALK

PUPPET TALK  How I feel about these times. Anon. I move my feet  I dance and dance, up and down, up and down, cannot stop.  The cares of the world marionette me all around and around up and down, up and down. I cannot exit. The curtains never close. Characters appear  and disappear. They whisper,  point, […]

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3 poems by marc janssen

WILLAMETTE JANUARY II It is 7:30 when Monet paints nude tree groves with Vaporous strokes Dust silver water Blindly runs past the landing Silently whispers Cruel eddies catch Half submerged giants, force Them to angry sleep ~~~ MARC AND DUKE DRIVE TO THE RESERVOIR (Riverfront Park – East St. Louis Toodle-o) Been on the road a […]

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