A loser on my own terms by Sissy Buckles

 

And that time I was so mad
I actually cried because you went
with your high-toned white entitled
power elite political crowd after the
muckety-muck press conference
where everybody had to stand up
from the intimidatingly long banquet table
when their name was called
evocative of da Vinci’s Last Supper
and all the fancy dinner parties
that you never have always
spouting off about the proletarians
like you really know
something about struggle,
the group ending in an upscale
organic veggie restaurant
in the trendy part of town
and dropped a grand on lunch alone
so ticked off I steamed chirping tires
like a righteous smoking bleach burnout
downtown on the noon work break to
my favorite grungily conserved
1950s diner off Broadway
the one I sorrowfully recognized
that you’d never go to with me
because you don’t eat meat
feverishly plopping down on a
cheap cherry red Naugahyde booth
disheveled as usual in vintage shopped
beaded cashmere cardie and
leopard print rockabilly creepers
ordered cup of bitterly hot black coffee
served in chipped old white crockery
and innocent small talk
from the sweet and skanky
manic-panic cotton candy pink-haired
waitress with the dangling
skull earrings and kanji tattoo
on the inside of her wrist
who smiled conspiratorially
and first pulled out a smartphone
from her pocket and showed me
a photo of her kid smashing
a birthday pinata and told me about
the louse of an ex who left her
for a younger beautician before
bringing me a medium rare
junior cheese burger in a basket
with dill pickle slice and piping hot
crispy beer-battered onion rings
fried light enough so there’s still
a bit of a snap then smothered
in Heinz ketchup on the side
my only companion a dog-eared
City Lights pocket poet book
and scrawled up spiral journal
set next to mismatched silverware
and a white paper napkin on
the timeworn formica table
my mind’s eye already sketching
the suited up people scurrying by to oh
so important places through foggily
begrimed front picture window
along with the woebegone gang of
temporary comrades huddling
together at the counter
slopping down greasy hash house
wonders, propped up by baked
from scratch peach pie under glass
because buddy, we’re all
sad and empty inside,
and here I sit, still wincing
from the withering sarcasm
you reserve just for me,
soul-crushing, cutting
my thoughts off at the knees,
leaving me with just one,
that maybe
the fucked it up again club
ain’t such a bad place after all,
now feeling resigned, clinging to the
small and silly consolation that
at least I have a nice ass,
ate the whole shebang like Marilyn
polishing off that fried egg breakfast
in Huston’s 1961 film The Misfits
Clark Gable honestly admiring
her robust appetite “Hey, you
really go all out don’t you?
Even the way you eat, I like that”
then it’s back to the old treadmill
not forgetting to tip an extra
ten bucks to my hostess for dishing up
some much needed soul food
along with her generous hospitality.

All of my Heroes are Dead by Chris Butler

What is a boy to do
when all of his heroes
have died,

either by accidental
overdose, assassination,
suicide or father time?

How can any man
survive in a world
made of kryptonite?

A Good Day, In Early January by Nicole Henares

 

There was nothing dramatic:
His boot fell apart in the snow
and started making funny flapping sounds.
My shoes had anarchy symbols in the soles
and left strange tracks
next to the paw indentations of a mountain lion.
(Though they might have been from a large dog.)

Yes, everything was technicolor:
Spectacular browns and simple golds.
(Somehow the sky always seems more blue over snow.)

I correctly predicted that somewhere
there had to be a good Chinese food restaurant.
There were also thrift stores with weirdly endearing names,
and an ice cream counter with square scoops.

And when I fell asleep while babbling
about the “wild God of the world,”
I felt him gently take off my glasses
and place them on the nightstand, softly.

NOTE TO A POET by Paul Hiatt

nobody reads your poetry
nobody cares about your poetry
poets are Boo Radley shadows
rags forgotten under sinks
all the dogs about to be euthanized
smart enough to see it coming
poets are never forgotten
because, as far as the larger, functioning world goes,
poets are undocumented apparitions in unfortunate hats
ghosts from our pre-literate past
bloviating in the universally hated poetry reading voice

poets are brainwave landfills
ever been to a landfill?
nobody calls in sick to spend a tuesday at the landfill
just to feel the massive waste of this sad wreck
to breath in the burnt plastic
and stumble on dirty diapers and rotting milk
well, maybe a poet would
just to get to the bottom of it
this billion eyed city, and the dandruff it drops
in the form of cardboard hills
and painted fruit

poetry is read by other poets
to minimize the suicides
and incubate the spark

or squirming, put upon lovers
who struggle to get to the end
who might have something to say
if you’re really lucky

no matter,
poetry is the music of self permission
written by the lonely and forsaken
for those also afflicted

 

 

 

The City Below by Craig Firsdon

 

The City made noir
lay below big brother exchanges
hidden in the filth
hidden in the infinite unseen
transpired in gutter peace
and trashed tranquility.
After several awakenings
they had all become used to
a city of unrecognizable beauty
and the idea of a future
of industrial quiet commands.
An apocalyptic city
comfortable from birth
in a mirage
in an illusion
of the logic of past years
when wars against fantasy
led to lives of expectation
and humanity challenged itself to change
with false flag motives
that spoke a simple truth:

They wanted it this way.

Smile When The Day Comes by Michael Ashley

if there were such a thing as immortals
I’d pity them

because the sun sets
in the west each day

and an orgasm is just an orgasm
whether into Aphrodite’s mouth
or into your fingers

Starbucks make nice coffee
but still
it’s only coffee

I watch an old man sucking his gums
anticipating the tightness

and as I wait
for it to wrap its icy claws
around his chest

all I can think is
hurry up
take this poor old bastard

if there were such a thing as immortals
death
would be the ultimate prize
on the biggest quiz-show

fuck the million pounds Davina
pass me that syringe
pass me that .44
pass me the keys
to the wood-chipper

I want to make myself useful
the trees look especially hungry tonight

The Impossibleness of Abstract Representation by Holly Day

where are we now? one man asked
we shone our flashlights around the cave

saw only stone, tall ceilings, dark passages
darting off in every direction. The map

showed us which random tributary
would take us back to sunlight, although it was hard to believe

that we were somewhere on that flat piece of paper, a cluster of flies
in a network of blue spaghetti loops. But yes, there was the pool

right next to our path like it was on the map, tiny white fish
darting about in the light of our flashlights, blind as the furry brown bats

circling overhead. So when do we start going up? asked another
man who looked too tired to go on. Are we almost there?