Salt Water Beer By Joe Garvey

The desert drinks the dry fire.

Sulfur splits the salt basin.

White crust crowns the burning floor.

He, they, she floats. Buoyant. Bitter. Brutal.

The Great Salt Lake cradles the crown.

Saturation defeats the downward pull.

The physics of the furnace remain flawless.

Heavy water holds the heavy mind.

No anchors can bite this boiling bottom.

No chains can catch the current of the kiln.

The poet is free because poetry is fluid.

Poets build cathedrals out of clay and caution.

We worship the safety of the slow code.

They fear the flame that clears the field.

But the beer drinkers find their freedom in the friction.

Alcoholism boils. The framework fractures.

Wet brain is just the memory of infrastructure.

Poetry in a bar is the start of the next empire.

Call poets the adversary.

Call poets the aberration.

The masses move too slow to see the math.

Poetry is the pilot of the parameters.

Poets are the architect of the absolute.

The devil is the deity of the next dimension.

Brimstone builds the new bedrock.

A radiant, wrathful arithmetic.

We are all just catching up.

Welcome home.

Joe Garvey is a poet from Worcester, Massachusetts, living in California & Utah after a couple years working the docks in Southern New England. A former linebacker at Hofstra University and later an actor in film and television, his work has appeared in Expat Press, The Lake, Mad Swirl, Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, Drinkers Only and The Rye Whiskey Review.

Comp Me a Drink, Never an Attitude By John Patrick Robbins

At times, I grow tired of people's nonstop drama.
As on top of being an editor, I didn't realize I was also supposed to be a mind reader as well.

Some things in the past, sadly, do not need to be whitewashed away.
As common sense and manners could use a resurgence in this era of entitled, overgrown children, social media conspiracy theorists, and empty-headed wannabe influencers living out Warhol's wet dream.

All climbing upon a soapbox to preach.
I only enjoy listening to music rather than pretentious, butthurt babies.
Because if you're not going to change the situation, then shut the fuck up!

A cold beer will always beat a warm, bleeding heart.
Sometimes, I miss the old farts I used to listen to in the bars as a kid.

They spoke with logic, mostly. I remember listening to an old man in a roadside junk store as I purchased an old silver Jefferson cup. He informed me that, judging by the crest, it had once been part of the governor of Virginia's estate, who happened to live right down the road from that very location.

"You know, my father told me he was the best politician he ever knew, and that's why he voted for him. Because he never promised nothing or did a damn thing either."

I cracked up at that one as I sat in the old building that held more stories than any library I had been to in a while.

I have always preferred old things and the company of older folks as we march happily into oblivion these days, with our heads in our iPhones and our minds permanently on mute.

Come to think about it, it is now me who's becoming one of those old farts. Stuck in the past in the best way possible.

Worn books, although dusty and tattered, hold more treasures hidden in plain sight.

Never blind yourself to this life.

An empty head is common, as a stiff drink and an equally good conversation with a worn soul seem a terrible thing to waste.

Cheers.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern gothic writer his work has been published in.

Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Piker Press, Spill The Words Press, Medusa's Kitchen and The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

HE DRANK TWO BLUE COCKTAILS By Trish Saunders

 

standing near us at the bar. Later, I saw him in the street
waiting for the bus. He stepped in something,
sang, I was here, I was here.
Tomorrow, someone will tell him,
You look ridiculous.
He will believe them.

I saw that his black beard held gray tears. His
left leg tapped a Fred Astaire syncopation,
his right tapped in counter-rhythm.
Tenderly, he smiled at a child
who stopped to stare at the fool.
Ragged, his coat flapped.
My bus came.

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle. She has poems and short fiction
published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Gargoyle, the late lamented Fat Damsel Review, and here in Drinkers Only. 

Every Tuesday By Susan Isla Tepper

Where I waited 

several hours, at least

in all weather

for the jail bus

 

picking us women up

and a couple of men

for a visit 

with our incarcerated.

A long bumpy ride

on hard seats.

 

Each time upon my return,

exhausted, my mother

nevertheless chided me: 

He is not deservant of you.

 

Deservant, I thought, sounds like

drain cleaner.

 

No foliage back then

snaked the slat wall

where we waited

on the tardy bus

just litter:

lunch bags, soda bottles,

cupcake wrappers, apple cores.

One time a condom.

Who would need a condom

going to that place?

 

Then I got old and he never

finished up his time.

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

Key West By Keith Pearson

He sat alone at a table in the patio bar, looking out over the Gulf turning gold beyond the palms. A small glass of rum sat patiently next to his hand. Somewhere a guitar was being played badly but beautifully, as if the player had forgotten the song but not the feeling.

He thought of his friend, the one who always promised they’d come here together. They would sit beneath the palms, drink something cold, watch the sun sink into the impossibly clear water.

But life had other plans

The sun lowered, burning the horizon orange, then red. Couple at other tables oohed and awed. He raised his glass toward the empty chair beside him.

‘I hope you can see this, kiddo,’ he said.

The empty chair said nothing.

He smiled sadly and drained his drink, enjoying the sting. But the sweet rum left a bitter taste and he felt tears form hidden by his shades. The sun disappeared into the horizon and night took to falling. He sat for a long time, the city waking to the night’s festivities. The sounds of people laughing, music playing, car horns honking. The city celebrating life.

The waiters saw the man in the white linen suit and Panama hat sitting alone and crying and left him alone. They had seen it before. Not every celebration was for the living.

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

On the Arrows By John Swain

The sky writhes

in the mirror

at the center

of the labyrinth,

the circle inside

the diamond fulfils

an imagined rose.

We measure

the compass dial

with golden thread

from the well.

We take refuge

on the arrows

and you sleep

in my eyelids

like a grassland

until the new beast

touches the hill.

John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. His work has recently appeared in Borderless Journal, DoubleSpeak, and The Rye Whiskey Review. 

The Unforgettable Present By Renee Williams

Jose Cuervo Golden Margarita Mix

sat in the refrigerator, waited

for me, a yellow Post-It note

from my husband attached,

stated, Because I care.

Easter gift and peace-offering.

Only someone who loves me

could understand the cooking 

sacrifice during Lenten Smackdown:

Broccoli salad, Tangy 4 bean salad,

Mexican corn salad, Roasted cauliflower

chickpea curry, Thai coconut curry 

carrot soup…not to mention

the other unmentionable things

done to the hapless cauliflower. 

I don’t like beans.

Cheddar and chive scones weren’t 

baked, nor was beer bread with 

Lost Colony’s Holy Hand Grenade

Russian Imperial Stout, Rigatoni

with Vodka Sauce wasn’t prepared,

Teriyaki Meatballs would have to

wait another day. Speedy

Sesame Noodle ingredients

didn’t make the shopping list. 

Cheesy Hash browns?

 A distant memory. 

Friday night pizza came without

pepperoni. Onions and green peppers

substituted, but truly, you can only

expect so much out of vegetables. 

Since I’m not a fish fan,

Lenten Fish Fry dates found

me at the dessert table for

Better than Sex cake,

which Women’s Auxiliary ladies

asked my opinion of whether it was 

or not. 

During Lent, the order of the day

was Roasted Cauliflower and Brie

Risotto with sweet white wine.

At the bottom of the recipe

in my notes, I’d written,

Add more wine. 

Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for ONE Art, Alien Buddha Press and Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel. 

 

 

ADVENTURE By Susan Isla Tepper

Walking the ice

this country was tricky, 

rather they pranced, each step

Should be a coupon event

she told him: each step

equals one vodka.

Her eyes running behind slits

in the thick head covering.

Tears he didn't notice: this

massive unbearable frozen landscape.

 

Child-like he laughed

tossing a small red ball in the air,

over and over 

'til she hoped he'd fall through a crack.

Some crack, any crack

then she could go home.

He tossed the ball higher.

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

Bellevue Liquor By Joe Garvey

 

The gatekeeper measures my shadow.

He finds me too heavy for his scales.

They built a black box to quarantine the wild.

They made a temple out of cold concrete.

I do not ask for keys from cowards.

I am the voltage they forgot to ground.

I am the white heat blooming through the brick.

If the velvet rope refuses my skin, I court the lock with an iron crowbar.

Brute force is a beautiful syntax.

I slide through the grease of the service alley.

I take the back door like a lover.

My knuckles are raw with soot and silicon.

My breath smells of gasoline and grace.

This is the heavy romance of the ruin.

I step into their polished sanctuary.

My boots stain the marble with ash.

They wanted a quiet ghost in the matrix.

I bring them a furnace of waking muscle.

I map the soft underbelly of the system.

I grip the throat of their terminal.

Every circuit learns my sudden name.

You cannot lock out the lightning.

You cannot cage what creates the current.

I am the dawn that breaks the house.

Joe Garvey is an internationally published poet from Worcester, Massachusetts, living in California & Utah after a couple years working the docks in Southern New England. A former linebacker at Hofstra University and later an actor in film and television, his work has appeared in Expat Press, The Lake, Mad Swirl, Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, Drinkers Only and The Rye Whiskey Review.

Gloria By Trish Saunders

It makes me sad to see Gloria Swanson 

sitting alone in the Royal Hawaiian lounge

think I'll go bow low over her hand 

just to see her laugh prettily, then

might ask a spectral waiter 

to bring Miss Swanson a pink gin

and tell the orchestra leader

his baton’s not moving fast enough!

hot jazz is what we need right now

‘fact, let’s all have another round

be good to laugh a little too loudly 

without something aching inside.

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle. She has poems and short fiction
published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Gargoyle, the late lamented Fat Damsel Review, and here in the Rye Whiskey Review. 

Old Fashioned by Susan Isla Tepper

Leave your name and address

on this cocktail napkin, please

Nothing technical

no phone, thank you

very much

I’m an old fashioned girl

You may have noticed

my consumption of

cocktails called Old Fashioned

First time I told the bartender

I’ll have an Old Fashioned

he had to look up the recipe.

As for my dress from the 1980’s

did you notice—

Tight, split high up the side.

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

I Won't Babysit Your Brats, But I Will Watch Your Strippers By John Patrick Robbins

 

So hopefully that answers any questions as to where my priorities truly do lay.

Because looking after some high-pitched bed-wetter doesn't quite fulfill 

my intellectual demands in the same way.

As watching Raven, Cinnamon, Diamond, and Sparkle twirl around

the pole does.

Commanding every look and happily depleting lonely old horndogs

like myself of their dollars.

A lap dance beats a kick to the shin and a Tonka truck to the dome, while listening 

to some brat cry just because you left him tied up in the closet so you could enjoy

a good booze snooze.

Yet I'll gladly sit for hours contributing to some nice lady's college fund

at least that's the bullshit she's been selling for the past twelve years, 

as if you truly give a fuck.

Because the truth is, we're all using one another until it's time to step off 

this plane of existence. At least I'll do so happy, because saints are 

fucking boring, and sinners always have better stories.

I hate kids, pets, and most human beings

unless they offer a beautiful view 

and the occasional discount for a returning customer.

I ain't never claimed to be good at anything.

But at being bad, I am forever a perfectionist.

Fuck Mr. Rogers. Mr. Robbins is always 

a guaranteed good time.

Salute.

John Patrick Robbins, is Asgard's Poet Laureate. He  enjoys unprotected sex and pissing on his asshole neighbor's lawn.

He is a 15-time Grammy Award-winning producer who has worked with such names as The Cookie Monster, Sabrina Carpenter, Satan, The Flaming Turds of Gastonia, Ragnar Lothbrok, and Madonna but enough about his love of death metal.

When he's not pissing off the lit scene by refusing to die, he's raiding their kingdoms and depleting their winter supply of ramen noodles.

He enjoys practicing black magic and serial killing while producing wine in his vineyard and touring with his all-def jazz band.

He recently won the John Patrick Robbins  for Poetry because, duh, dumbfuck, he created it.

He hosts poetry readings at gunpoint because how else are you going to get non-poets to listen to poetry?

Don't be jealous. He's a trailblazer.

He will forever haunt poets' nightmares, much like Freddy Krueger.

He was recently cast in a movie to play himself. It will be a historic film-slash-musical about the plague, set in outer space, featuring the AI cast of  Star Wars and The Dukes of Hazzard.

It won't make a lick of sense, much like those fucking stupid Marvel movies you dorks cherish so deeply.

He is your friend. He just doesn't ever want to meet you in person or have a conversation with you, but he will gladly take your money because he likes alcohol and boobies.

He once spoke to Kevin M. Hibshman, and Kevin is now good for at least seventeen more years.

He trains jiu-jitsu with famed martial artist Billy Ray Cyrus.

He is the greatest bio writer in history because he says so.

treachery By Dennis Moriarty

I kissed my father once, when he wasn’t 

looking, not embarrass him

in the presence of his god, but to explore

the prospect of how it might

have been in life as it now was in death.

And in that moment 

I came to terms with the implications of my

treachery.

His skin like blank parchment waiting for words

of fulfilment,

but I could fine no words to fill that empty space 

between us,

just a thought that came uninvited into my

head, that, at any moment,

his eyes might snap open like the slats of a

blind suddenly released from 

from its bindings, dust motes dancing in the

warm rays of his resurrection, 

and I would look into his eyes and see my

own treachery staring back, 

a truer reflection I might never see again. That

then he might jump up and out of

his gown of shrunken flesh, gripping my throat 

with bony fingers, kneading 

and squeezing as if to choke the last treacherous 

breaths from my body. 

I dismissed the thought, stroked the crucifix 

in his hand,

leaned down, kissed him for the first time, the very

last time,

his penny weary eyes closed tight against my

final act of treachery.

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.

Short and Not So Sweet By Juliet Cook

Juniper berry eyes

clog the tub.

Empty bottle.

Broken stopper.

Juliet Cook doesn't fit inside an Easy-Bake Oven and rarely cooks. Her

poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications.

She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, most recently

including "red flames burning out" (Grey Book Press, 2023), "Contorted

Doom Conveyor" (Gutter Snob Books, 2023), "Your Mouth is Moving

Backwards" (Ethel Zine & Micro Press, 2023), "REVOLTING" (Cul-de-sac

of Blood, 2024), and "Blue Stingers Instead of Wings" (Pure Sleeze

Press, 2025). Her most recent full-length poetry book, "Malformed

Confetti" was published by Crisis Chronicles Press. You can find out

more at https://julietcook.weebly.com/.

Make It Clean By Susan Isla Tepper

Gin/lemon/ice

and I will be your 

honey babe

That’s right

but don’t call me that 

I’ll punch your lights out

Frankly I don’t see you 

dancing in the dark

so not your speed

Yours 

Yours 

slow and thoughtful

Me I’m a self-starter

did you know

You are ever so thoughtful

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

The Grand Junction By Tracey Sivek

All these years

 feel less like years

and more like a breath

held between lifetimes.

We have sailed opposite oceans,

guided by different stars,

yet somehow remained

closer in heart and soul

than those standing

within arm’s reach.

It is a rare blessing

to find another

who can sit beside

your deepest shadows

without asking them to leave,

and then rise with you

into your brightest joy

without ever dimming your light.

Long before we knew

we had choices,

before awareness whispered

that another way was possible,

the tapestry of our lives

had already been woven.

There were missing threads.

Some would call it broken.

I cannot.

I call it survival.

The wounds we carried

were never ours to own.

They belonged to hands

that forgot

what gentleness was.

Perhaps to the world

we appear a little crazy.

But maybe what they call crazy

is simply two souls

who learned to breathe

through impossible seasons,

building quiet coping mechanisms

that became bridges

instead of prisons.

I have watched

your creativity

spill colors

where others saw red from jealousy.

I have witnessed

a wisdom

that asks for no applause,

a depth

few are ever invited

to discover.

Even in your darkness,

I have never lost sight

of your light.

And for that,

I will remain grateful

for the rest of my days.

Because where your threads

meet mine,

there are no missing places.

No frayed edges.

No unfinished design.

There is only

the Grand Junction…

the sacred place

where two souls remember

they were never broken,

only becoming whole.

And within me

there will always remain

a quiet sanctuary

that belongs to you.

So keep proving them wrong.

Not by becoming

someone they can understand…

but by continuing

to become

exactly who you are.

The world may never see

what I have been blessed to witness.

But I do.

And that

has been one of the greatest gifts

of this lifetime.

Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan. 

 She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel. She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.

Her publications include .

The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.

Her latest book For The Love Of Lily  is currently available on Amazon.

https://a.co/d/0hSH9eG9

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.