Archive for August, 2020

Poem by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Posted in Stephen Jarrell Williams with tags on August 31, 2020 by Scot

Too Long in the Making

Passing through town
many summers stacked in my mind

sun heading down
yet a glare through the windshield

my old Chevy not use to this
giving someone a ride away from a riot

whirl of rage in the air
one of us not wearing a mask

she says it’s my fault
it’s in my genes

I shrug it off
only partly understanding

she asks how far I’m going
I turn the AC up and point ahead

she blows out a sigh

I say most of us have been watching
too many movies
absorbed into too many songs

counting our money
and flat tires and rip-offs

all our lives
not examining the real scene
to the extent needed

she takes in a breath
settling back somewhat

you need to pay me she says

I squint staring at the highway
I only picked you up to give you a ride

she chuckles
you need to give me some recompense
because you’re white and I’m not

I smile
I guess I’m a taxi now
I won’t charge you anything

She laughs
and we become instant friends
over the hills and back into the streets.

SKY DRAWING by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on August 31, 2020 by Scot

Your kiss is not a betrayal
but a blue smudge of a
child’s sky drawing,
a spillage of sunshine,
handcuffs of warmth,
your kiss is a passport,
it is a hammer
3 nails.

Bronze Age Scenarios by Ben Nardolilli

Posted in Ben Nardolilli with tags on August 31, 2020 by Scot

I need to get my empire organized,
The heartland is fraying and falling apart,
The breadbasket is empty,
The sacred springs are filled with grime
And the aqueducts can hardly flow
Because of the filthy plates
Piled up like a dirty ziggurat down below

Warfare with online reactionaries
And barbarians has drained
This empire of the resources it needs
To get its fallow lands in working order:
Time to clean out the rubble
And create a place to set down new thrones,
I still believe a golden age awaits

Letters to God by Howie Good

Posted in Howie Good with tags on August 31, 2020 by Scot

My mail comes mostly
from desperate individuals,

some who just rage at me,
some who sigh or complain,

some who abjectly beg.
It can get pretty tiresome.

They all want to know how?
Why? When? What for?

Etc., etc.I used to reply
in person, but bad things

inevitably ensued: virgin sacrifice,
crucifixion, burning at the stake.

Next time, Jesus brings a shotgun.

The Last Night of Sixty-Six by Catfish McDaris

Posted in Catfish McDaris with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot

Sleep wake dream wonder think
Where will we eat on my birthday
To make my lady happy, food
No longer matters to me, peace,
Happiness, a cup of strong coffee

Song of a bird, bark of a dog, a
Child’s laughter, rerun of a life
Movie, watching my daughter
Hugging a stranger instead of me

Going to the Taj Mahal for Indian
Food and seeing the men stare at
My wife, they wonder how I am
With a beautiful woman, she is

Not from India, the waiter asks me
For my order, I like naan from the
Tandoori oven, I ask if there are other
Meats cooked in there besides chicken

He replies, cama, I say what’s cama
I know it means bed in Spanish, he
Calls his wife and she says cama cama,
Do you mean camel? They both say
Yes, I say fuck if I’m eating a camel

I wake up, my lady asks, do you want
To eat at the Taj Mahal? I reply not
This year, please, I feel like smoking
Guess what brand, Camel Menthol.

SALTED SLUG by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot

your words stung,
and hung
me upside down, inside out,
to watch you
swan turned shrew-
hairbrush out all memory and meaning,
from those fresco pictures on the wet plaster ceiling-
that my Michelangelo took years to paint,
in glorious colours, now flaked and full of hate.

the lights of our pleiades went out,
with no new songs to sing and talk about-
suspended there
inside sobs of solitude and infinite despair-
like soluble syllables of barbiturates
in exhaust fumes of apology and regrets.

you left me prone-
to hear deaths symphony alone,
split and splattered, opened on the floor,
repenting for nothing, evermore-
like a salted slug,
curdled and curled up on the rug-
to melt away
while you spoon and my colours fade to grey.

the heart of truth-
intact in youth,
fractures into fronds of lies and trust,
destined to become a hollow husk-
but i found myself again in hopes congealing pools
and left the field of fools
to someone else-
and put her finished book back on its shelf.


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

The Woman on the Wall by Robert Halleck

Posted in Robert Halleck with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot

A photo of a woman drops from a book
I bought on Amazon. Wearing a smile,
blouse, jeans she is sitting on a stone wall.

There is no date, place on the back.
I hold her beauty in my hands as I
imagine myself into the photo.

I can clearly see our lives. She sells
real estate—best broker in town.
My plumbing business is dominate

in a three county area. With our two
kids we go to our lake house in August.
At Christmas there’s skiing in Vermont.

It’s not hard to see everything is
great. Fate has put her in my life
but what if she is dead.

She can’t be for I have seen her.
She’s alive for me.

This is my poem.
My phone rings.

Did you by any chance
find my photo in the book
you bought on Amazon.


Robert Halleck is a member of San Diego’s Not Dead Yet Poets. His works have appeared in The San Diego Poetry Annual, Third Wednesday, St. Ann’s Review, Rusty Truck and a number of other places. He is a poetry reviewer for The Split Rock Review.

Poem with a line by Lew Welch by John Macker

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot

I write poems strewn
across the fragile
anonymous stillness
that turkey vultures
perch on. It’s hot down in
Tumacacori and when the mission bells
the lean, unkillable wing-locked soarer

rises, circling above the heat
barely a scratch etched into
the blue charged silence

Aztecs called him zopilote,
craven loner,
like an angel,
perches on an overkill’s
bloody warmth

Doomsdays by John Greiner

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot

Doomsdays give me a reason to go on;
the plagues and pandemics,
the hurricanes and floods.
Someday California will finally
fall into the ocean
and I’ll jump up as exultant
as a mega millions lotto winner.
The pandemic has given me
the spring, the summer,
the magnificent everyday things
that I’ve missed for so many seasons.
I look up at tress,
I listen to birds,
I go down to the beach and swim
because the city is far away
with its fear and death.
Its innumerable tourists
are stuck somewhere else
having to make something of their time
with no hope of vacation
with its tour book distractions.
The dead are gone
and there’s always someone to say:
to somewhere better.
Maybe they’re right, if not,
at least it gives them a chance to speak
a few words that feel their way
blindly through this life for meaning,
I live disasters and die the rest of the time,
dull as the hours taken in with the crowd.
When the hurricane came
I got out of working the nightshift
and lived in the brilliant
debris of days
with no sun to mourn.
I’m always waiting around
for doomsday,
for the disaster to come,
for the death knell,
it’s the only way,
God come naturally
to take care of the Big Mistake.
It’s during the horrible moments
that I get to look up at the trees,
that I get to listen to the birds sing,
that I get to swim out into the deep
alive and looking forward
with no fear of the horizon,
no worry about the vanishing point,
that my spirit is burning,
that my soul is satiated,
that there is nothing to want
because all has been achieved
in the brutal and beautiful break
from the drudge of the good morning,
hello, how are you doing,
yes, I’ll get it done, no matter why,
no matter what for, all over again.
These disasters and doomsdays
never come often enough;
there’s always the calm after the storm,
the plague finished by the cure,
the flood waters receding,
the hope doled out for a new
and better day
where there’s no trees to look up at,
where there’s no birds to listen to,
where there’s no sand beneath the feet
just dust seconds blown away
and where the ocean is as small as a wanton
look out on the deafening waves.


John Greiner is a writer and visual artist living in Queens, NY. He was educated at the New School for Social Research. Greiner’s work has appeared in Antiphon, Sand Journal, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Value and numerous other magazines. His books of poetry include Circuit (Whiskey City Press), Turnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press) and Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press). His collaborative work with photographer Carrie Crow has appeared at the Tate Liverpool, the Queens Museum and in galleries in New York, Los Angeles, Venice, Paris, Berlin and Hamburg.

Punk Rock, Beer, & Boobs by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin, Uncategorized with tags on August 14, 2020 by Scot


I hear
These singers
I have loved most
Of my life
So old

As if
They’re dying
Doing the very thing
That has kept them
So alive

They can’t escape
The grim reaper rattling
Voodoo dolls
Inside their throats

And I just stopped
In the middle
Of this poem

To eat a piece
Of fried chicken
And fix a vodka rocks

Will it happen to me?

My work rambling
On paper
And telepathically

My words turn
Like a shrunken head
For clarity
With sown-shut lips?

What if
I don’t want to write

Punk rock, beer, & boobs

Good luck with that.