Touche de Tea by Andrew Taylor

Posted in Andrew Taylor with tags on December 4, 2018 by Scot


gather roundels
fresh bakery
bread strong black

the basics of a European

International editions

arrive on the early train
like the stage

take the fast train
to Paris

take tea in standard
it’s the English way



Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on November 4, 2018 by Scot


i cannot remember not loving
you had other lives before me
after me did too but us always
histories shared our lost baby
yr decades in prison my kids
became yours & layers of love
kept us going we cemented
memories like bricks never lost
foundation yr wives my husbands
our lovers still there was us yearning
almost four years since yr stroke
& intimacy has crumbled like house
in hurricane i hear yr voice every
day before yesterday yr chair broke
& grumpy as a toddler with no sleep
you bitched abt it limoncello cake
i sent for yr 71st birthday sits in yr
refrigerator aide wasn’t there when
it arrived & you struggled to get it
in the past we could laugh abt this
can’t get any better me hundreds of
miles away i struggle with family
health limping through the days
calling you at night sometimes
waiting until i know you are asleep
i leave message ‘i love you’ i do yr
pain yr bad foot & left hand that won’t
work the slur in yr speech you are
going to teach a class & meet some
one i hope comfort i can’t give you
find in face arms of caring woman
husband, grandkids, dogs keep me
moving away & LIVING afraid to
say i’m happy i wish for you moments
of joy to savor like we did each other
for decades but now my darling i don’t
want to hear abt bathroom accidents
or endless tv shows or the yankees
list of medications plethora of side
effects me too my love didn’t die
it just got tired

Two Poems by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on November 4, 2018 by Scot


‘I don’t care what you
write anymore, no, I
don’t mean that, but
everybody is making
a profit out of you,
don’t you see it?
tell me, whose the mug?
they publish you, right?
they send you 5 or 10
copies of the book
and you give these away,
but the publisher, they
sell their copies, right?
but that doesn’t bother
you does it?
‘Right’ I said
‘Right’ she said.





She never knew of love,
the way she imagined it
would be;
it wasn’t being beaten
senseless by a speed-
freak or laying on the
streets unconscious as
the wino’s pissed and
masturbated over you
or of losing children
to hospitals and prisons
or knocking on the door
of an old friend; fragile
and vulnerable and of
how, that night, he
cared for you, looked
after and comforted
you and you offered
yourself to him but he
played it away and
rolled another joint
and when he handed
you the smoke, you felt
something as your fingers
touched, he felt it too but
neither said a word,
looked silently at one
another and relaxed into
a smile and then he
moved away, put on a
Miles Davis
disc and uncorked
another bottle,
both of them dare
not let go of what
and how they felt and
later she left by taxi;
next time he saw her,
several weeks later,
she was being

Memory Gardens by Ben Rasnic

Posted in Ben Rasnic with tags on November 4, 2018 by Scot


In 1978 my father bought me
a ‘75 Chevy Nova
when my Pontiac Lemans
succumbed to poor craftsmanship
and consequently exiled
to the local junkyard.
The first night, we checked
this icon out in my parents’ unpaved
driveway, smoking Salems,
drinking beer and listening
to Virginia Tech football
on the radio.
This moment reappeared
tonight while, alone,
checking out my new loaner,
a 2015 Nissan Frontier
parked in my freshly
paved driveway;
not oblivious to the fact
that no one listens
to football games
on the radio nor
buys Chevy Novas

Wandering Joe by Robert Halleck

Posted in Robert Halleck with tags on October 7, 2018 by Scot


Wandering Joe is at it again.
Up and down the corridors
hitting the crash bar on the doors,
setting off alarms, scaring the residents.
Joe is going to walk until he drops.
Until then the years will become
months, then days, then hours,
then nothing.

Joe didn’t always wander. He
worked hard at raising kids now
scattered to wherever. Wherever
they are they don’t come to visit,
send cards, or call. His love was
blond, pretty, funny, and smart.
Cancer cured that and left him
Alone, broke and old to
wander the corridors of
life’s last stop.

Dying like Dogs by John Dorsey

Posted in John Dorsey on October 7, 2018 by Scot


even as a kid
i can remember
that my mother’s sister
could never let go of anything
spending thousands to
to keep a dying german shepherd alive
for a few more months

a beagle for a few more fleeting weeks

& now sitting outside
drinking iced tea
on a warm spring day
my mother says that she
is thinking about making me
the family executor

it’s not because of the cold killer instinct
that i jokingly claim to have
that thing that pennsylvania winters
just seem to instill in you at birth
like having to let your favorite sports teams hopes
go out with the frost

it’s only that my father
is not a labrador

& she is not a teacup poodle
no matter what her latest haircut
might lead you to believe

it’s just that they
don’t want to die
like dogs.


Posted in Marc Olmsted with tags on October 7, 2018 by Scot




you said it really fast so the other guy said “What?’

“Did you know that queers can’t hear?”

I tried this on my dad – I was 9 or 10, heard on the schoolyard.

“Marc,” he said solemnly, “do you know what a queer IS?”

A spaz or retard I assumed.

“It’s a man who acts like a woman.”

“You mean like Elvis Presley?”




Marc Olmsted has appeared in City Lights Journal, New Directions in Prose & Poetry,  The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry and a variety of small presses.  He is the author of five collections of poetry, including What Use Am I a Hungry Ghost?, which has an introduction by Allen Ginsberg.  For more of his work,