Archive for September, 2021

Michael J. Arcangelini

Posted in Michael J. Arcangelini with tags on September 29, 2021 by Scot




Last night I encountered a
Herd of wild dreams grazing
In a lush mountain meadow
With a creek running through it
Stocky like bison with taller shoulders,
Longer legs, and bigger horns
I inched closer to get a better look
One of them noticed me, our
Eyes locked, we both froze
It started to move toward me
Slow, sniffing for my scent
Large cock and balls swinging
As it moved closer through the grass
I was rooted to the spot, petrified
He was now just two arms’ length
Away from me, I could smell and
Feel his breath as he snorted,
Shook his head side to side,
Looked at me with innocent eyes
I reached my hand toward him
Palm open, motioned with my fingers
For him to venture closer
He stepped into my reach
I rubbed under his chin, scratching
At the rough fur, wet with drool
Then eased around to stroke the
Crown of his head he seemed to almost
Purr, pushed his head against my hand
He closed his eyes, his flanks shivered
I kept petting him and speaking softly
About what a magnificent beast he was
Then something I did must have
Spooked him, he reared back
Bellowed loud and long
The herd interrupted their grazing
Looked across the meadow at the two of us
Then turned en masse pausing for
One terrifying moment before
Stampeding straight at me.

Aleathia Drehmer

Posted in Aleathia Drehmer with tags on September 26, 2021 by Scot

Track Three: His Eyes Raised to Heaven

As the oldest son, my father
felt the wrath of his drunken
father’s fists. He was a stand-in
for the younger boys and his mother.

His life was full of holy dreams,
a bible in his hand with eyes raised
to heaven, to the place that would lead him
from abuse into the arms of the church.

Instead, at 17, he took a walk
into the jungle, gun strapped
to his back, learning to be a man
in a war that had no solid meaning.

He lost God there.
Lost him a hail of bullets that ended
the lives of children and men
who he knew nothing about
but swore to his country, to kill.

He came home a ghost,
filled with rage and disappointment.
Setting out to walk mountains
and paddle rivers, smoked peyote with shamans,
saw the land, and knew it was the only God he’d ever find.

All these years later, after he is gone,
I stand naked in the bathroom reading lines
of this genetic trauma and listen to the light trill
of evening birds and scattered crickets
through the open window.

Here, we are redeemed together.
Father and daughter and spirit
less holy than we’d expected,
still fighting wars we never waged.


Track Twelve: The Trouble with Demons

The trouble with demons
is I never know which corners
they lurk around, or how I’ll address them
with my tongue tied around my teeth.

Or when they grip my ankles so tight
that I fall flat on my face, the pavement
rearranging my features into something unholy.

Or if it is the cold breeze
sliding in my ear like a plague,
building novels from all the bitter words
I’ve ever heard spoken after my name.

Or if it’s that taste I can’t get
off my tongue like a gifted poison apple
I fed myself out of spite.

Or if the silence behind my eyes
just waits to stone me
with my own reflection, me,
a self-made Medusa.

The trouble with demons
is how easily they tempt me
into winning the fight
against being loved.


Track Seventeen: Maddog 20/20

I listen to poets reading on zoom
and someone says it’s the new normal.
I can’t help but feel sad remembering
the Beat poets fest in Hartford,
or the merging of coasts in Kansas City,
or too many beers in Cambridge.
Each room was full of wild minds
and hard fought nights.

Tonight, I revisit the river of words
I swam in a lifetime ago,
though it was really just a decade,
and smile at how free these people are,
how much they draw the world
into themselves and spit it back out
like well-crafted masterpieces.

Most days I can only find smooth rocks
and wanton feathers left by blue jays
or forlorn crows, tops of acorns, dried worms,
and the way the fog strangles the hills
behind the river like a handsome serial killer.

Their poems feel like entangled lovers
who don’t know when to stop drinking,
like all the cool people I’ve never belonged to,
like every failed love poem I’ve ever heard.

But I have the river, with its cold dark water
waiting to pull time from beneath my feet
and give it all away to the next person
willing to drown in its shallows.


Aleathia Drehmer was once the editor of Durable Goods and In Between Altered States, but now spends most of her time writing novels. She has recently published poems in Spillwords, Piker Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Cajun Mutt Press. Aleathia has upcoming work in M 58 Poetry. Her first full-length collection Looking for Wild Things (Impspired) is due out later this year.

coming off the top ropes by scot young

Posted in Uncategorized on September 25, 2021 by Scot

ive dined with kings and queens
and i’ve slept in the alley
eating pork and beans

the american dream said
that in his promos
from his early days
burning up the highways
sleeping in the car
& cheap motels

i knew him in the late 70s
before big time tv
before vince made
 him wear polka dots
to humiliate him
he talked about hard times
& hard knocks

he told me one night
swirling whiskey in his glass
the kings and queens
pork n beans was his story
his amercian dream
that a man never knows
where he’ll land coming
off the top ropes so
be kind daddy and help
your brother when you can

the next week he was pounding
flair’s head open
scoring it with a razor blade
then it was ric’s turn
blood was expected
he said that’s what
the fans pay for

in 2015 dusty rhodes died
the american dream died too
or maybe it died before then

when they rang the bell 10 times
with an empty ring
the nature boy cried
the arena cried and
 i couldn’t hold it back

today i have a shelf
stocked with pork n beans
because you never know
coming off the top ropes

Rob Plath

Posted in Rob Plath with tags on September 20, 2021 by Scot


watching a slasher flick w/ my cat

my cat’s watching a slasher flick w/ me
she’s stretched out full length
white mittens pointed at the screen
as an ax gets planted in a man’s skull
& the blood pours
& a woman unleashes a shrill scream
& i wince a little
while my cat just chills there
humming a deep, ancient cat tune
her tiny rib cage gently rising & falling
thru killing after killing
scream after bloody scream
& in this moment i realize
she’s the antithesis of horror flicks
she’s the epitome of peace
& if later i’m visited by a nightmare
i’ll have my furry little dreamcatcher
sweetly stretched out by my side


the world thru dead rose-colored glasses

not being in love
i see the moon better
& the cats better
& the stars better
& the flowers better
& the steam curling
from the tea better, etc…
& i even see the soft side
of my demons
& how they weep sometimes
w/ their heads bowed
& their horns resting
in their terrible claws