Archive for the Uncategorized Category

Three Poems by Sarah Carleton

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on September 17, 2018 by Scot

Stuck

Rolling down Nebraska Ave in the rain,
wiper blades and Drive-By Truckers fighting

for the beat, I drive by strip-joint
strip malls, warehouse churches, Salvation

Army-Navy surplus, minimarts, go-karts,
swim-in-place pools and kid carpoolers.

My route’s a seedy, soggy loop track
—a pink motel mushroomed five miles back

then popped up again another spot—
but the bumper stickers are all over the map:

I’m tailing a car with blue stars & stripes
while the truck zipping past flashes coexist.

____________

Invincible

The blinding-black night, the hotel drive
winding uphill, the creepy grime of the blankets—

where were we headed? No idea.
What was the year? Don’t recall.

The room had a hot tub with no water;
our little son pretended it was a bed.

The three of us lay on our backs
and looked at the mirror on the ceiling.

I do believe we were the only guests.
Our need for sleep was accidental—

the rental car, which should have been invincible,
broke down, setting us back several hours.

But our playlist made us bulletproof.
We laughed every time Ok Go sang about

the woman with lights behind her eyes,
and when the road grew squirrelly

we switched our brights on and off.

____________

 

Cat Day Afternoon

Our backyard neighbor, kitty-corner,
is caterwauling on the phone.

I recognize the tone
—though not the raspy tongue—

and cut her slack.
We are all cat-smacked in this heat.

Even the feline guard no longer
pace for prey but drape themselves

on our screened roof
like snaggletoothed tarpaulins.

____________

 

Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo and raises her son in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Off the Coast, The Binnacle, Cider Press Review, Nimrod, Chattahoochee Review, Tar River Poetry, Crab Orchard Review and New Ohio Review.

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Poem for Brittany by John Dorsey

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on May 1, 2018 by Scot

have seen you on the streets of new orleans
taking photos with well meaning tourists
for half finished beers on bourbon st
crossing venice blvd wearing blue socks
in a shroud of rain
chasing moloch
in a famous blue raincoat
shouting moloch
praying to moloch
that when morning comes
your shadow will recognize your smile
& that my heavy heart
full of forgotten cities
will be able
to carry the weight
of your love.
on its shoulders.

Posted in Uncategorized on July 31, 2017 by Scot

Pop up issue tomorrow…

rustytruckzine@gmail.com

XERF by Brandon Whitehead

Posted in Uncategorized on April 26, 2017 by Scot

If you go out into the Sierra Madre Desert,
to a point absolutely nowhere special,
you might just find an old man sittin’
in a cracked plastic pool chair
under a pink toy parasol.
He comes out every night
with a pack of Lucky Strikes
and a case of Iron City beer
(don’t ask where he got it…)
and stares at the sky until sunrise.

He’s sittin’ on the border, you see,
listening to good ol’ XERF.

It was back in the 30’s
when a goat-gland loving bible-thumping
serial killer from Kansas named Brinkley
went south to spread the word of God.
He bought himself an AM transmitter
in Villa Acuna, just south of Del Rio.
50,000 watts was as big as they allowed
him in the States, but in Mexico Doc got 500,000.

He’d throw that huge sucker’s switch
right at sundown and half-a-million watts
would strum out like Jehovah’s bass-line.
It blew the birds right out of the sky,
made rancher’s barbwire hum and moan.
Cowboys listened to the “Texas Night Train”
through their bunkhouse bedsprings,
Norwegian fishermen cranked up
Boomin’Paul Kallinger
to shake the ice off the Bering straights.

Yes sir, the KGB learned English
from Wolfman Jack (true story).

Now, the man get to hear it all again,
the shows, the music, the voices
as if he was still a boy
and the world bright and new,
because long ago in a valley called
Inchon, the North Koreans gave him
(a fresh young PFC then)
a gift to remember them by,
a chunk of bullet forever lodged in his skull
under his bald pock-marked scalp.

You see, if he turns his head
just right, that bit of iron
needles across the sky
like an old radio tuner.

There, trapped in the aether above
is XERF, and a time he can still understand,
before computers and hippies
and those people on TV who smile too much.
So the man sits out here
listening to electromagnetic phantoms
echoing through the sky,
not bothering nobody,
not the border guards
who watch a flat land all day
and couldn’t catch a cold
if they tried or the VA doctors
who have asked him
“So, where were you hit?”
for four decades running
or even the coyotes
who keep trying
to steal his shoes.

____________

 

Brandon Whitehead is a writer. He lives in Kansas.

 

“i- feel- like- im- fixin- to- die- rag” the poem by scot young

Posted in Uncategorized on November 23, 2016 by Scot

 

‘merica there are no pies on the sill

i wrote that line
in a high school poem
two years after woodstock
in 1971 when nixon was president
we were between kent state and wounded knee
the same year trump became chairman/
president of the trump organization
no one cared or knew it

the billboard #1 hit
was joy to the world
optimistic maybe
three dog prophets
they were not.
where is a country joe song
when you really need it?

Call for Politically Inspired Poems

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on November 14, 2016 by Scot

Please submit to rustytruckzine@gmail.com

 

 

Undun – a modern folk tale by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on November 10, 2015 by Scot

 

His gentle voice in bed
crooned hypnotic, a warm
soothing baritone caress
that used to make me feel like
I was completely safe and
there was nothing
that could harm me
in this vast detached world
as long as I was with him,
the man I fell in love with
over twenty years ago —
does he still exist,
the same man
whispering close one night
last month that he might stick
poison in my food
while he held me tight
in his arms, like a tiger
licking my ear, the vicious
kicks slamming me fierce
awake in the middle
of the night that he
miraculously disclaimed
as his mere restless dreams
the next morning
deciphering my doubts
and tilting reality
over innocuously shared
breakfast coffee “it’s all
made up in your mind, honey”
so that all I know
is I feel serene with him
right now, his banal tone
quieting me effortlessly
and how the good times
are placed over the bad
like an innocent Band-Aid
and it’s enough to just
feel good to relax a bit and
let down my ever present guard
for a brief moment
shake off the ceaseless
taut racing thoughts;
calm, even though this weekend
he talked about wanting
to take the Remington 1100
into the woods on our
property and shooting it
until he got his frustrations out.
His gun obsession seems
to be having less and less
of an effect on me, but
after all I was born on a farm
my daddy taught me
how to shoot safely when I
was mere ten years old,
still immaculate,
or am I just benumbed,
my anger stuffed down
where it used to boil inside me
like a wild animal,
far easier to mantle him with
emotions he’ll never have,
closing my eyes to the
ever present train wreck
headed my way.
He has stopped ordering
firearm supplies for now
and ended up with only
six shotguns, three revolvers and
his latest a mean looking
Ruger semi-automatic pistol,
tried to shoot a possum
crawling on our compost pile
and either missed it
or wounded, still smelling
the bloody kill fresh
from the week before when
he’d smashed one to grisly bits
along with her nest of babies
crushing them brutally
raising his heavy shovel
over and over and over
maniacal breathing so hard
I’d hoped he would have
a heart attack right
then and there
and he was so excited
to see another one today
through the kitchen window
couldn’t wait to run outside
kill it like a kid with his
new toy, not a dangerous
abuser with a deadly weapon,
and I, not living,
barely existing, waiting…