In Case of Emergency by Wayne F. Burke

I spent days in the streets of the
city and
nights sleeping on a bench in
Longfellow Park
(some fucking poet he must have been)
and woke with the back of my head
flat as the bench.

I drank whiskey to help me,
to sleep and
for other reasons;
tried to keep an eye open
as I slept;
had a job
but
like Jesus,
nowhere to lay my head,
except the bench,
because
no rooms in the city
to rent until
one night
a room opened up at the Y
and I filled the preregistration form
but
after told by the clerk
to fill in the space
“in case of emergency notify”
I crumpled it up and
threw it at him across
the desk
because
who in the hell was he
tell me what to do?

Later,
back on my bench,
I told myself:
I must be nuts.

Wayne F. Burke has published six full-length collections of poetry, most recently DIFLUCAN (2019, BareBack Press). He lives in Vermont.

bukowski was always right by Scot Young

bukowski sat
next to
brautigan in
ginos bar
said
hey fucker
you know when
the words go
you got
nothing
no pussy
unless you
buy it
might as well
cash in yr chips

richard looked
at the small pile
of change
beside the
wet coaster
counted forty
five cents
tried to scratch
out a poem
to trade for a beer
nothing
now that's
what i'm talkin
about
bukowski said
rubbing the red
head's thigh up
under her dress
brautigan was
already on the
sidewalk
pea coat collar
turned up
against the north
beach rain
mustache still damp
from the last drops
of beer
45 cents clutched
in his fist
like his last poem
wasn't enough
for anything

Scot Young lives with the woman of his dreams and herds goats on a ridge top  farm in the Missouri Ozarks and nothing else is as important.

DIRTY POEM by R.M. Engelhardt

EE Cummings

O

K


Wilmot was a prick

Lord Byron liked to
Take it out & put it
Into shift

But me  I've
Had my fill of wine
Women in black
& song

They've left me
With all these
Dirty poems
Which came from
Dirty love

And into
The night
The great abyss

Goes the heart
As well

Alone

Poet, Writer, Author & even a Minister over the last 25 years R.M. Engelhardt has been published in such magazines as Thunder Sandwich, Rusty Truck, Writers' Resist, Dry Land Lit, Hobo Camp Review & many others.

 He currently lives and writes in Upstate NY where he runs the Troy Poetry Mission. A last stop open mic for poets who like to share their work before going to San Francisco or hell.

www.rmengelhardt.com 

EAST BROADWAY. by Darryl Graff

Snow is falling

The masses

Mass

Cigarette dangling

Head down

I plunge

Into the morning

I am a NYC construction worker and writer.  My non fiction stories have appeared in Akashic Books, Hipocampus Magazine, Foliate Oak,

Da Chuna and elsewhere. 

It a lie by Wayne F Burke

It a lie
a lie
I will never
die
I will never
be in need
never cry
at night
not me
not me
I am
different
breed of
liar.

Wayne F. Burke has published six full-length collections of poetry, most recently DIFLUCAN (2019, BareBack Press). He lives in Vermont.

THE HOLLOW by R.M. Engelhardt

Down in the
Hollow full of
Hollow men

No soul left

An artifact from
Another time

We sip whiskey
And remember
Better times

And count
Dead friends

Poet, Writer, Author & even a Minister over the last 25 years R.M. Engelhardt has been published in such magazines as Thunder Sandwich, Rusty Truck, Writers' Resist, Dry Land Lit, Hobo Camp Review & many others.

 He currently lives and writes in Upstate NY where he runs the Troy Poetry Mission. A last stop open mic for poets who like to share their work before going to San Francisco or hell.

www.rmengelhardt.com 

My Opening Appearance after Chase Twitchell by Michael Dwayne Smith

I read this poem for an exhibit opening in a local gallery.

Nobody knew what I was talking about, but they smiled kindly

and clapped when I signaled the end of the poem by smiling.

A young woman wearing a red shawl over her black hair

introduced herself after I’d finished reading and asked,

Would I read at the opening of her solo show? I said I would

if I could figure out what I was talking about. She said

I was about to find out. Outside, a bunch of skateboard punks

broke bottles, threw punches, and cheered in the parking lot.

A drunk photographer bought me a beer and explained in detail

her true passion was constructing miniatures, exact scale replicas

of abandoned places— gas stations and diners up and down

Route 66. It struck me that I didn’t remember anyone’s name,

that I couldn’t name what my poem was supposed to be about.

This leather-jacketed, faux beatnik snapped his fingers and said

I had the rhythms right. He knows, he was there… Kerouac’s

spectacular vernacular, Ginsberg’s interlacing ecstasies.

How would I know what I should know about whatever it is

I’m talking about, I asked, but the gallery was empty and

the lights were out. Everyone had gone home to finish drinking.

I was standing in a dark space, hearing echoes, and had only

poems where the answers to my questions might have been.

Michael Dwayne Smith lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued animals. His most recent book isRoadside Epiphanies (Cholla Needles Press, 2017). Nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his work haunts many literary houses--including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Star 82 Review, Blue Fifth Review, Skidrow Penthouse, Word Riot, Rat's Ass Review, Gravel, San Pedro River Review--and has been widely anthologized. When not writing or teaching, he edits Mojave River Press & Review.