another morning by DB Cox

— “another morning when he must do it again—there is always another morning”… Ernest Hemingway

 

slow movement forward
through another day
nothing left to say
that doesn’t sound
like nonsense

as the sun sets
over his shoulders
hemingway sits looking
around the empty room

old powers & old friends gone

the telephone mute

measuring the time of day
by the whiskey left in the bottle

the unrelenting depression
overwhelming

in a discarded draft of his
nobel prize acceptance speech
he wrote, “there is no lonelier man
than the writer when he is writing
if he has written well
everything in him
has gone into the writing
& he faces another morning when
he must do it again—
there is always another morning”

but this summer of 1961
he was sick & sad
& his mind had grown
tired of him
so
he put a 12 gauge shotgun
to his head
& touched off both barrels

now
“papa” can rest his arms on the ropes
ignore the bell for the next round
the clanging hammer
of the morning alarm—
now irrelevant

secure your own mask first, and then help others by David LaBounty

the men
who
sit
at
bars
alone

they
take
the
stool
with
their
sideways
hearing

they
order
their
beer
and
look
around
for
a
moment
and
then
look
ahead

the beer arrives

and
they
drink
the
beer
slowly
and
pull
out
their
phone
and
start
scrolling
with
their
thumbs

there
are
always
so
many
people
there

underneath

their
pale
solitary
thumb

Joel Explains Why My LeSabre Isn’t Ready by Shawn Pavey

Oh, hey Shawn.
I ain’t really had a chance
to tear into ‘er yet.
See, my machinist
done lopped e’s thumb off
and he’s a day behind.

humidity and hate by J.J. Campbell

 

one storm after
another

summer in the
midwest

it’s all humidity
and hate

the rain supposedly
keeps the crime
rate down

i guess someone
going to commit
murder doesn’t
have time for an
umbrella

a poncho could
get in the way
of pulling a gun
quickly

and no one wants
their best hoodie
to feel like a wet
dog after a few
minutes in the
rain

there must be no
crime at all in the
pacific northwest

It was coming by D. A. Pratt

It was coming …

straight down
which is rare
since there is
usually a bit of wind …

She was quickly
at the window
watching the snow
descend delightfully …

Just as quickly I was
watching the way her hair
flowed flirtatiously straight down
to a daringly delightful derrière …

“It’s pretty,” she says …
“Yes, it is,” I respond …
“I mean the snow!”
“Yes … I know.”

Monsanto’s Gift to War by Donal Mahoney

 

Smitty isn’t Schulte.
He doesn’t drive a Cadillac
and doesn’t hit his wife
often any more.
Schulte, on the other hand,
drives a Cadillac
and hits his wife
usually on weekends
for no good reason.
He’s been doing that for
more than 40 years
ever since the boys
came home from Viet Nam

not knowing they had been
touched by Agent Orange,
Monsanto’s gift to war.
They had a double wedding with
girls they liked in high school.
Smitty says therapy
has helped a little.
He hasn’t struck his
second wife in years.
But Schulte hasn’t changed.
The police have come again
tonight, sirens blaring,
gumball lights swirling.

Two big officers,
matched like bookends,
march Schulte out in cuffs.
He’s cursing at his wife
who’s in a nightgown
bawling on the porch
as if Schulte’s going
back to Nam again.
Smitty swears Schulte
never left the paddies, that
he’s still knee-deep in water
bright with Agent Orange,
Monsanto’s gift to war.

International Women’s Day by Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

If
you’ve never
seen her
bend over
opening
the fridge
searching
for
whateverthefuck

I can’t
help you with
that
but
it’s great

and she says
her face
looks
sunburned
when she drinks
red wine

but I wonder
if she
knows
her Norwegian
ass cheeks
look
just the same
way
when spanked

a little
after
midnight
and the moon
is full.