John Dorroh – “Missed Opportunities”

“Missed Opportunities”


There were missed opportunities with your sister

that I no longer regret. I did for a while because I

love her homemade chili the stuff with lime and

cilantro and those those little flecks of ghost peppers.

Any woman who can make a bowl of chili sing like that

deserves to be honored. And believe me, I wanted to

honor her before she changed into a man.


The miracle was not in the fact that she always knew

that there was a man living in her house, but the fact

that she carried through, unafraid to tell her family

and friends that she was planning on tossing her

vagina a farewell party, complete with midgets,

tattoo artists, and kittens dressed as baby possums.


The surgeon took her scissors and made a nip tuck

then a tuck nip and pushed God out of the way.

“He’s mine now, so you sit over there and close

your eyes and mouth. I will call you if there is a

moment of distress.”


Those opportunities are now memories of things

that could have been: a little family moving with the

rhythm of the ocean, water grinding itself across

the sand to make changes that all of us can feel.


This poem was originally published on April 9, 2018, by Piker Press.

Read more "John Dorroh – “Missed Opportunities”"


Interplanetary Contamination


Fly through the atmosphere,

sending down debris.

Wallow away cacti into ocean trash.

An island inside an island,

an eye inside an eye.

I melted into your pupil, you melted

your blue iris into my blue brain.

We swept up your dust petals,

sent postcards to the desert

to pray for trees.


Find Jamie online.



Level Three Emergency

We’re snowed in
at a Motel 6
and I’ve still got it,
the gold chain we stole
from your mother
that rainy Easter.

Tell me to turn up the radio
and dance like we’ll die here,
frozen and hungry, naked.
There is no resisting fire.

I could last forever, a jewel
thief for you, searching
for enough amber
to fossilize our love.

Tell me to wear this gold
chain around my neck, a collar
or dog tag to show the new world
what you mean to me.

We’re snowed in;
I could last until the sun
thaws us from the past
and frees us from this room.




Ivanka, you love your nasty daddy,
you never dispute him or contradict
any of his gross tweets or lame edicts,
and you might even serve as his caddy.
But are you tempted to call him Fatty
when he eats too many Eggs Benedict,
not leaving the yellow-white plates unlicked,
or berate him for appearing too natty?
No, you say, I love my daddy dearest,
he’s my hero, my knight in dull armor,
and gives me what I want in the tower.
Besides, he’s the biggest, the fiercest
father of this cruel world, but can he purr
when he wants my love, before he glowers!


Jeffrey Zable – WHAT’S BEST


Hard to believe that all these people were fucked into the world,
but here they are and there isn’t much that can be done about it.
They need to be fed, clothed, roofed, and mostly entertained
so that they don’t get mad and do something punitive like
putting arsenic in the water or polluting the air with swear words
so loud that the rest of us go deaf and no longer can listen
to old Stones, Beach Boys, and Beatle’s songs.
Yes it’s best to be civil with all these people and try to make
friends with a few of them in case you get locked out of your
house without your cell phone so that if you need to call your
spouse to come open the door, they will open theirs and say,
“Of course, use mine!” and maybe give you a cup of tea
or a glass of juice while you wait.
It’s best to think of oneself as a world citizen and trust
everyone until there is cause to believe that someone
is trying to manipulate you into giving them your money
or using you as an listening board for all their problems. . .

Read more "Jeffrey Zable – WHAT’S BEST"



After the breakup, our phone conversations
become space debris, steel pieces hardly
discernible hurtling haphazardly at five miles

per second. Where do the scraps go?
The gold taste of summer will impact the brain
and puncture, enflame. We wish to assist

the start-ups who seek to construct
machines to eliminate wayward spares
of satellites trapped in the gravity of a body,

propel its dust into the atmosphere to burn.
We drift wary of small artifacts
from failed missions to emerge

in the distance of night to strike
and make split into fragments
we will never assemble again.

Find James Jackson Online.