Archive for May, 2020

non-perishable by j. lester allen

Posted in J. Lester Allen with tags on May 7, 2020 by Scot




It’s Sunday
there have been two deaths
in my house so far today
both carpenter ants
that my girlfriend stepped on.
one died instantly
the other,
just mangled enough
for us to be pressed into making
a decision.

there’s a virus
running around the world
right now
that doesn’t seem like much
but it has managed to
kill the stock
market so, that’s something.
2% death rate is what they’re
saying 2
if you told me that I had a
two percent chance
of just about anything
I’d probably immediately lose interest
in whatever was to
follow but here
we are,
huddled together like
two helpless voles and
the fox is closing in,
we should probably
eat the last of
our fancy food and
drink the good beer
before the speculators
come to feast on our


Posted in W.K. Stratton with tags on May 7, 2020 by Scot

Your first mistake:
When sighs and vacant eyes
Began to greet you across tables
In Manchaca dives, you exhaled
As if everything were solid as an
Interstate overpass. For the first time
You stood completely ungirded,
Misinterpreting the sum,
And wound up splintered.

All those years ago
Dylan edged ahead
At Malibu’s Shangri-La,
Where the West finally dies.
Dylan hitchhiked the PCH.
Or sometimes he drove a rusty truck.
He slept in a tent or on grass
Outside the compound
And bedded dozens of women
As he attempted to char his Sara loss.
He wrote a song called “Sign Language.”
You knew it well but never absorbed it
until now.

Today you are in L.A. at your own small café.
Within your skull you stream Link Wray.
You hold a sandwich. It’s a quarter to three.
Time never rolls forward from this point.

Up on the PCH was a clam house Peckinpah
Used to frequent. Dylan played piano there.
You were invited but never made it.
Instead you ended up at Betrayal Creek.


Three Poems by Damian Rucci

Posted in Damian Rucci with tags on May 7, 2020 by Scot

Padgett’s Pool Hall at Noon

all the best joints let you smoke
while you’re drinking

each pitcher is a milestone to nirvana
two in and the afternoon is bright
four and the dogs come out of the men

the truth hangs on loose lips
love is a commodity that hangs on a moment

and where are you now?
the noon drink has become a marathon
the boys have dropped their hats
character fades in the beer foam

the missouri sky waves goodnight
and we’ve killed a keg in conversation
the night calls us elsewhere
and you aren’t here
and you aren’t here



Missouri Time

It’s 5pm Missouri time
a can of Milwaukee’s Best
empty on my desk
two bowls smoked
six poems I’ve second guessed

living across from the art gallery
dodging a deadline, fighting a habit
looking for some cigarettes to smoke
the sky is damned outstanding

I keep to myself out here
except when there’s weed to smoke
or someone bought beer
or something to do, besides chase ideas

I just got to this desk and it’s 5pm
a can of Milqaukees’s Best
empty on my desk
two bowls smoked
six poems I’ve second guessed

but it’s Missouri time
which means I barely check the clocks
I blow kisses East to New Jersey
and count the holes in my only socks

money isn’t no thing
and I’m a stranger in this place



Suburban Meditation

They say man domesticated
the wolf, tamed the beast
just like we claimed the plains
by carving interstate highways
right through the heart of them.

The unnamed creatures hide
in the shadows of brush
but you old wolf, who lay
his head along a master’s thigh
who abandoned the call/ the moon

don’t you ever miss
the mosses along the rocks
up the mountain sides?
The way fear clings to the air
how a heart’s percussion
is the only music, a beast needs

but now gray whiskered
you wait for leftovers
slime and scrap from dinner

old wolf, can you
remember the wind?
Can you remember
the way it was before?


Poem by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on May 7, 2020 by Scot


Love never dies’ is bullshit,

usually, it’s murdered,

you know that.