David Spicer has had poems in Alcatraz, The American Poetry Review, Chiron Review, Easy Street, Gargoyle, Midnight Lane Boutique, The New Verse News, Ploughshares, Rat’s Ass Review, Reed Magazine, Santa Clara Review, Third Wednesday, Yellow Mama, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke’s Press, 1987) and five chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books.
The Infamous Five
Old Weinstein can’t keep his grubby little
hands to himself. Neither can Cosby, O’Reilly,
Ailes and Trump, who are all pimples
when groping chic beauties against their wills.
All of these creeps are very ugly men:
if a woman, I’d run away from them,
use my high heels to kick their ageing shins,
or in some splendid way show blunt contempt.
But I’m not: I’m a guy in a city
reading about five sad sacks pathetic
in their lack of finesse. They’re pitiful.
For one day, women just may—poetic,
yes?—cause these men to purchase prosthetics,
give them reason to apply synthetics
on those most wonderful, prized possessions:
egos and penises, their obsessions.
What Might Have Happened
After I read Trump kissed Katy Tur’s cheek,
I couldn’t help but judge him and assess
that he was nothing more and nothing less
than a toad, a lecherous creep, a weak
boy who lacked finesse or stylish technique,
didn’t care whether he caused dire duress
to any beauty he sought to undress—
no matter that he craved high-class mystique.
Then I asked myself what might have happened
if Katy had said, “You pathetic turd,”
high-heeled him in his orange genitals,
and he and that maleness landed flattened
on the hardwood like a windshield-crashed bird:
might he evolve into leafy lentils?
All Hail! David Spicer’s latest chapbook, From the Limbs of a Pear Tree (2017), is available from Flutter Press. Simply click on the cover image below to learn more . . .
Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai’i Creole English) and in American English. Some of his recent Pidgin writing has appeared in Heavy Feather Review, Public Pool, The Rising Phoenix Review, and Yellow Mama, among others. Balaz is an avid supporter of Hawaiian Islands Pidgin writing in the expanding context of World Literature. He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio.
Wit Everybody Else
In trying to get outside of your head
just make sure you pick wun healthy diversion.
Opiates and booze
entice like convincing sirens
ready to send you crashing on da rocks.
Plenty people no tink of dat
wen dey stay floating in da rush and da warm glow.
As easy to grasp as wun cloud
da rope to pull you back in
going suddenly disappear
and da surrounding blue going turn black.
You gaddah figure to be stronger den dat
and not fall into dat trap.
Got wun unseen dynamo
pulsating inside of your brain
humming wit da will to live
and waiting to be harnessed.
Try listen and power yourself
wit your own determination.
You can speak to da cosmos
foa comfort if you like
but rally to da earth undah your feet first.
In da meantime
if tings not going your way
no let da worldly parade
get you down—
God is just busy
wit everybody else.
All Hail! A rare copy of Joe Balaz’s Spoken Word CD, “Electric Laulau” (Hawai’i Dub Music, 1998) is available on Amazon at present. First come, first serve on this baby. Click the cover art below to learn more . . .
Chani Zwibel is a graduate of Agnes Scott College, a poet, wife and dog-mom who was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but now dwells in Marietta, Georgia. She enjoys writing poetry after nature walks and daydreaming.
Wonder What’s Up that Drive with the Wrought Iron Gates
The grand house
they live in
is constructed of
and red brick.
Its rooms are
It is a stately old manse,
the ancestral home,
columns mark it as ornate
where it sits on the high point
of the lush, manicured lawns.
In the library, the governess is reading
Beauty and the Beast to the children,
but in this version
Beauty is a doe-eyed lovely specimen of Homo sapiens,
and the Beast is a Neanderthal
who happened to have planted roses
outside his cave
on the graves of his dead.
Cinnamon Gum and Gatling Gun
(named for the two sides of their mother’s temperament),
go out to play hopscotch.
They read the Brontë sisters
and play with a rubber brontosaurus.
at any time.
Its calling card sits creamy white
upon a silver serving platter.
It might blow in like a summer squall
over a seemingly calm sea,
or it might wait to nip a maid
like a brown recluse
a friend opened a portal,
and in the punctured hole of dynamic fabric,
dancing across thresholds,
was a pixie.
“How do you do that?”
space-time-jumper, asked him,
“How do you do that?”
how did he not move from dimension to dimension?
How did he remain
She travels across the mostly empty space
that makes up all matter,
touching not really touching
but force fields bumping;
she’s like an electron skipping around an atom.
How is it not magic that our hands (mostly distance)
hold a glass
(mostly empty space)
and drink a chemical compound
of which 90 percent of our body is made?
We pretend at permanence
while the smallest point
is just vastness
with little leaping bits
bound by a strong
All Hail! Did you know you can follow Midnight Lane Boutique on Twitter? No really, you can. Simply click on the Nietzsche quote below to learn more . . .
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass. His books, Scribblings Of A Madman (Lit Fest Press, 2015), and Poetry From The Nearest Barstool (lulu, 2015), are both available at amazon.co.uk.
A Heavy-Hearted Laugh
It happened, she had won at last!
Ticked away the days & years,
gone the distance
just like she had always promised.
And finally, in bold ink letters
at the bottom of The Obituary Page
was his Name & Date of Death, yes!
The morning & early afternoon
she felt almost blissful,
yet by early evening
something had drastically changed.
It was an Emptiness
which now overwhelmed & consumed her.
All those decades of anger,
hatred & seething scheming
were now null & void.
Her ‘Target’ & point of ‘Focus’
was now irretrievably lost, forever.
He had escaped physically,
slipped her cruel net
& absconded somewhere untouchable.
If there was indeed a Heaven,
then he was now as free as a bird
& having the ‘Last Laugh’ completely.
Whilst she was stuck . . . within rheumatism,
angina & weary old, rattling bones.
Still bitter but directionless with it,
devoid of all purpose & absolutely alone.
Daggers for eyes,
a pins & needles focus.
Razor blade tongue
& a scissor-point attitude.
The words ‘Jab’
make her smile,
are always prepared
upon the sharpening
of her jagged,
broken glass mind.
You’re a soft target,
an arrow-bolt destination,
a scalpel sheath.
A surgical or dental
waiting to happen.
She’s not a little,
but, a throwing star
with a sting in its tail
which has your
fucking name upon it.
. . . And Now, You Are Just A Pile Of Apathetic Bones, With A Slowly Evaporating Spirit, Within A Mausoleum Of Your Very Own Making
Death head décor in dust . . .
‘Frowning’ rules sovereign.
The levitating Despair
hovers like a dark cloud
housing far more gruesome things
than mere thunder & lightning.
You’ve constructed skirting boards
out of teardrops
and become the persistent Beggar
at your own bolted front door.
Banishing The Drummers
and chasing away The Furies
with the last of your animosity.
. . . So now here you lay,
shading the Grey
with your remaining half-life.
A panicking unbeliever,
with no energy to pray anyway
to a God . . .
who is just as far removed
from your doubting will
as a new, choking Summertime day.
All Hail! To stay apprised of Paul Tristram most recent publications, please visit his blog by click on his author photo below . . .