31 Flavors By Shannon O’Connor

Baskin Robbins has 31 flavors

of ice cream.

It’s been 31 years

since the last time I went insane.

Right before,

I went to Baskin Robbins and ate

chocolate ice cream,

she said it looked like I had shit

all over my face

We went for the long ride

to Jamaica Plain, where the hospital

shaped like a castle called me.

What genius decided to design

a psychiatric hospital like a castle? 

All the lunatics could believe 

they’re entering

a magical castle, transforming into

queens, princesses, or knights

in shining armor?

I thought I was a princess, and the castle

was where I would rule over

the world, except it was only

psychosis, the people took our

shoelaces away, served medication

in shot glasses, to make us believe

we were not special.

I though the world was gone the first

time I entered the castle,

but after the fourth time, I knew what

would happen,

“You have dirty hair, Paris.”

“I can’t sleep with the lights on.”

“Do you feel safe here?”

How could I feel safe surrounded

by lunatics, I was the craziest one

they should have been afraid

of me

It’s been 31 years since the last time

I stepped into the castle

I haven’t been to Baskin Robbins either,

none of the psychiatrists I work for know

I used to be a princess in the castle,

ready to dance on the moon,

singing for angels, the dirty truth

my dreams were a lie

Not quite a lie, but far from honest.

I wanted to discover what was real,

but that was buried, along with my youth,

in a place I’ll never go again because the world

will explode,

we will never discover

what I could have become

if I had been permitted to sing

though I never took lessons, I had to learn

my own style, which isn’t loud,

but can punch a hole in a wall

of a castle, making the ramparts tumble,

the princess never existed except on the skin

of a priceless onion, forcing tears, when

none existed before.

Shannon O'Connor holds an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College. She has published poetry and fiction in The Rye Whiskey Review, Oddball Magazine, 365 Tomorrows and others. She is the chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union, and can be found sharing her opinions on her Substack, Ms. Hen's World.

Last Words By Keith Pearson

 we stole a bottle

from uncle frank's shed

my cousins and me

knew he couldn't count

would never know it was gone.

one of the cousins

found a pack of viceroys

and one night we went at it

drinking and smoking 

a transistor radio blasting away

until first light found us

on our knees in the sand

puking our guts out into the creek.

i am the last of the cousins

and it was me uncle frank

called to his bedside

in his final moments his last breath

gripped my arm with his

claw of a hand and whispered

'you owe me a fuckin' bottle, boy.'

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

  

Joseph, Back Bar in the Hood By Joe Garvey

Karebear slides me a Jack.

I grin.

"Kara, how dare you?

You know I'm raised on rye."

She laughs,

"This handsome Jameson

wears the night better than you."

I lift my Belvedere

like a man defending a faith

already half abandoned.

Every bottle's a believer

until the lights come on.

We drink to names,

to Gansett,

to the lies they let us borrow.

The glass doesn't care

who wins.

It only asks

who's empty first.

Joe Garvey is an American poet based out of Utah. A former linebacker at Hofstra University and later an actor in film and television, he writes about labor, salt air, endurance, and the quiet machinery of modern life. His work has appeared in Expat Press, Mad Swirl, The Lake, Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, and The Rye Whiskey Review.

There’s Mud in your Sky By Tony Pena

The heavens, a shade of wildfire

charcoal grey all day, like clouds

stepped on and smeared across

the once periwinkle canvas by Zeus,

drunk on ninety-nine barrels of spiked

nectar and rolling down naked

in the mire of Mount Olympus

with Hera hot on the cartwheeling

heels of his hydra leather sandals

after she found him Netflix and chilling

with yet another crown check girl

in a guest room at the celestial palace.

Tony Pena was formerly 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York.  

His new book of poetry, Triad, is now available on Amazon

His prose and poetry have found refuge recently with 101 Words, Alien Buddha Press, Cajun Mutt Press, Dear Booze, Death Wish Poetry, Fevers of the Mind, Mono, Odd Magazine, The Erozine, The Literary Underground, The Lotherian Poetry Journal, Trailer Park Quarterly, and Witcraft.

 Also, Best of the Net nominations in 2019 from the Rye Whiskey Review and the Dope Fiend Daily.

A volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available at Amazon.  

A chapbook of poetry, "Opening night in Gehenna," is available from author.

Social Media

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry

Instagram: Tonypenapoetry

Just Another Reading By Leon Drake

The folding chairs

looked like they'd survived

three divorces

and a flood.

A guy in a beret

read seventeen poems

about birds

that clearly wanted

nothing to do with him.

Someone clapped

after every line.

I suspect

it was his mother.

The coffee

had all the personality

of wet drywall,

but I drank two cups anyway.

It gave me something

to hold

while pretending

to understand

a poem about

the emotional life

of a zucchini.

When it was my turn,

I read a few pieces

about dead-end jobs,

cheap whiskey,

and people

who mistake volume

for wisdom.

A woman nodded

like I'd uncovered

the secret machinery

of existence.

I was mostly thinking

about cheeseburgers.

Afterward,

everyone said

we should do this again sometime.

That's what people say

instead of goodbye.

Outside,

the night

didn't care

who got published,

who won the open mic,

or whose metaphors

had the longest legs.

The moon

kept its opinions

to itself.

Probably the smartest poet

there.

Leon Drake is a Toronto based poet.

His work has been published in Fixator Press, The Literary Underground, The Rye Whiskey Review, Spill The Words Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Sava Press and The Crossroads Magazine.

All Fucked Out By Chad Parenteau

No fucks

given 

for months

and none

received

for longer. 

No more 

fucks for 

those who

expect

me to spill

my secrets

after one

half-night

stand. 

I try to

create my

own fucks

seated at

a bar with

no alcohol

in front of

a good 

bartender

who knows 

if someone’s

on a stool 

and only

drinking 

a water

and jotting

down words

on paper,

they have

a fucking

good reason

so leave 

them and their

fucks alone.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston’s long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His work has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and The Ugly Monster. He has also been published in anthologies such as French Connections, Sounds of Wind, Reimagine America, and The Vagabond Lunar Collection. His newest collections are All's Well Isn't You and Cant Republic: Erasures and Blackouts. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine and co-organizer of the annual Boston Poetry Marathon. He lives and works in Boston.

Nostalgic By Dennis Moriarty

Sunday morning strolling, street corner dreamers

and Sombre bells.

Following in the shadow of my father’s footsteps,

along pavements littered with 

Broken promises and unfulfilled ambitions, past 

a few of his old drinking haunts,

one a coffee shop now, outside which a family 

sits, a skinny latte mummy,

a double espresso daddy and two hot chocolate 

children, IPads and phones,

not a pint glass or smouldering fag between them.

Around the corner

and the church comes to greet me, the church

where he prayed 

each Sunday morning for salvation and a free access

all areas pass to heaven.

Just three people outside now where once there 

might have been thirty,

two old school faces and an earnest young man with

smile on his face and a bible in his hand.

I take the path to the church, open the door and 

look in, can feel his presence 

two rows back, imagine him beckoning me in to sit

beside him and pray for my own salvation.

Without hesitation I slam the door closed and walk

away.

Yes, I am nostalgic, but not that fucking nostalgic.

Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.

In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.