humidity and hate by J.J. Campbell

Posted in J.J. Campbell with tags on March 8, 2017 by Scot

 

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

Posted in D. A. Pratt with tags on March 8, 2017 by Scot

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

Posted in Donal Mahoney with tags on March 8, 2017 by Scot

 

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

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on March 8, 2017 by Scot

 

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.

everything money could buy by DB Cox

Posted in DB Cox with tags on January 20, 2017 by Scot

She… (we gave her most of our lives)
Is leaving… (sacrificed most of our lives)
Home… (we gave her everything money could buy)
She’s leaving home after living alone
For so many years…— Lennon/McCartney

 

mind-enhanced masses
in barroom communion
raise empty glasses
in half-assed salute
to karaoke jesus
with his new
crown-of-thorns
tattoo
singing the crucifixion
blues
over the simulated
pinfall of emulated
bowling alleys
while a reality show
rolls on a muted TV
flat-screen
modern-art masterpiece
hanging from
a faux-brick wall—
midnight falls
on the cool
me watching
you waiting
eyes closed
small hands shaking
by a silent iPhone
praying
your cyber-connection
will text back soon

 

MONKEY DAVE by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on January 20, 2017 by Scot

Monkey Dave at one time,
would hassle the seaside
tourists with a polaroid
camera and a tiny vervet
monkey and when the
monkey died he decided
to become a pot dealer;
he conducted his business
from a local legendary
bar that the police would
frequently ignore;
he married this stunning
young blonde from
Helsinki, the daughter of
the city’s chief of police
and she fucked his friends
and then returned to
Helsinki;
he stopped speaking,
stopped leaving his home
until he was carried out in
a body-bag just a few
months later of a
heart attack, or of a
broken heart
or so its told.

D NER by Sarah Russell

Posted in Sarah Russell with tags on January 20, 2017 by Scot
Wish it had been the R that fell, she thought.  Then it would say DINE, like the food was good, like it was more than runny eggs and meatloaf.  But it was the I, and everyone called it the DEE-ner, like some hillbilly joint.  Jake said it gave the place character, didn’t even know where the I had blown to after all these years.
She hated waiting tables.  Her mama said she was uppity.  “Worst thing we did was name you Chelsea after that foreign place,” her mama said.  “You get off your high horse and make peace with staying here.”  But she never would.  Never!  She’d get a little money ahead and clear out.  Go where Chelsea was an OK name, and DINE was what folks did, and tips were more than a quarter.
“You gonna stub that smoke and get back to work? I ain’t paying you to be on break all day.”
“When you gonna put the I back, Jake?”
“No time soon, Chelsea girl.  No time soon.”