I Grew Up in a Brewery Town 

I grew up in a brewery town. 
A third of the population worked for a single employer. 

A fleet of trucks lined up at the back loading docks each day. 
All the suds shooting off down the highway. 

A production and distribution hub for many twist cap destinations. 
Many friends had family that worked at the plant. 

Employees got a free case of beer each month. 
Along with a well-paying union gig.  

When the Molson plant closed down, 
there was a depression for many years. 

People survived, they usually do. 
Getting jobs down in the city an hour’s drive away, 
so that the brewery town became a commuter town. 

Everyone had to pay for their beer now. 
And they were drinking more than ever. 

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Holy War

I can’t feel my feet in the fire
and can’t afford a drink in heaven.

A hundred ways to drive down the mountain without snow tires.
Deer and a salt lick and a tree felled on a wet road my father

haunted with his shotgun and a hat.
There ought to be a clear cut exit through these trees—

ought to be laws against acts committed by a man on a Mission from God.
Somewhere, right now, that man has his finger on a trigger.

Michael Dwayne Smith has work haunting many literary houses, including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Chiron Review, Third Wednesday, Heron Tree, Heavy Feather Review, and ONE ART; he’s been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart and Best of the Net. A Professor Emeritus in Education and Educational Technology, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses.

Rear View

A bridge is burning where
you have been.

Black smoke and flames
just before the fall.

Despite the warnings to
Not look back! you do.

Despite the side view mirrors,
the rear-view mirror that
suggests: objects are closer
than they appear, you look.

Up ahead, another bridge
is on fire: smoke clouds,
falling ash, flames.

Heavy water rain, pitch dirty
and oil coated, hammers
the windshield, shatters the glass

into crystals of dry ice
that burn like fire ants
burrowing beneath the skin.

Still, you drive on past the road
closed, the do not enter signs.
There is no other choice.

Alan Catlin is a six decade warrior of the small press scene. He has pomes in recent issues of Beatnik Cowboy, Home Planet News, Chamber Magazine and Synchronized Chaos. he has full length books forthcoming from Roadside Press, Impspired and Kelsay Books.

Illusions

Where I find my quiet
a pinhole reflection
feeling close to the faraway
(absent)
from the now
freedom captivating
embroidered illusions
colouring my eyes
(present)
I am a distraction
a dusted human shape
free floating
a minute detail
creating fantasies in dreams
(erasing)

I move silently
grieving senseless pain
phantoms of chaos
hang in a vacuum
sculptures of air
hug me tightly
in the emptiness
spinning delights
(quietly)

Sinead Mcguigan, a poet and psychology graduate from University College Dublin Ireland
writes poetry that explores the human condition and the deepest emotions connected to
experience. Sinead wrote her first solo collection A Gift and a Curse while recovering from
cancer; her new book Unbound is also available on Amazon. Sinead’s main interests are
travel, concerts and art. She often collaborates with artists and have appeared alongside
their work in many publications .
You can read more of her poetry on Instagram/ Facebook@sineadmcgpoetry

Nonbeing Ain’t Nothing

I wasn’t able to sleep through the night again. At first light, the sky over the marsh had the dull
sheen of tarnished silver. I could hear through a half-open window the tittle tattle of little birds,
spies and traitors passing secrets to the enemy. My proclivity for end-of-the-world kind of
gloominess only deepened. If there were any money in it, someone would bottle the tears we
shed and sell them back to us online as 100 percent natural. Pray all you want for a bloodless
revolution. Firebombs will fall, fires rage, gunfire rattle, and the frozen eggs never become
babies.

Howie Good’s newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.

In his spare time …

he can’t find his keys, even though he knows
he left them in the same place he always does

he refuses to pay submission fees, because
three dollars used to be a day’s food budget

he can’t quite shake the feeling that people
forget he exists when he walks out of the room

he remains bitter over Paul Giamatti’s Best
Actor Oscar snub for American Splendor

he interviews himself about haiku, providing
surprising wit, eloquence, charm and insight

he tries (and fails) to forget at least some of
the things he started with the best intentions

he contends that Robot Monster is an unfairly
maligned work of surreal cinematic genius

he thinks of Loose Park in the snow, where
the walking path passes between pine trees

he sings along with the Raspberries’ Go All
the Way, but only the background vocals

he hopes God doesn’t mind all the questions,
especially those about whether He’s listening

he sometimes resents his old pen name for
having a Pushcart nomination when he doesn’t

he avoids cheese on barbecue, but might make
the odd exception if bacon is involved as well

he promises to come to bed just as soon as
he gets one last latest thought written down

he avoids the Oxford comma and believes the
letter Þ should return to the English alphabet

he can’t find his wallet, even though he knows
he left it in the same place he always does

he looked up this journal on a whim, read two
or three sample poems, thought Why not?

Steve Brisendine lives and works in Mission, Kansas. His most recent collection is To Dance with Cassiopeia and Die (Alien Buddha Press, 2022), a “collaboration” with his former pen name of Stephen Clay Dearborn. His work has appeared in Modern Haiku, Flint Hills Review, Connecticut River Review and other journals and anthologies.

A Letter from the Ghost of Babydoll

the fog is heavy on your heart
the fields you once walked
feel like a hope chest full of bones
you think you hear
a cat you lost years ago
crying for a saucer of milk
while the girl you once were
gushes about boys
a week after burying
a dead bird in the yard.

John Dorsey is the former poet laureate of Belle, Missouri and the author of Pocatello
Wildflower. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

Cornerstone

I pass copies out of my drawings
with scriptures on the back
to people who are willing
to take a chance

they look and ponder to what it means
to them and theirs

I left a stack of new Bibles
on the busy corner
with a stone on top

returning the next day
to see what remained

they were all gone
and I hoped they would be read

later
I was arrested
for littering

cuffed
and walked to the police car

I got in
with one last look out to the city
as smoke rose in the distance….

Was it a riot for justice
or none of my business?

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzle down behind the dark horizon.  He was the editor of Dead Snakes, UFO gigolo, and Calvary Cross.  He can be found on Twitter @papapoet.

THE RIGHT SIDE OF WARM IS COSTLY

The electric meter that had sat
In the corner of my room, not spinning
For months, ran dry yesterday leaving
Me sitting here in gloom as if the
Winter had never ended. I got
To my feet, walked on over & checked
It had finally ran out & sure enough it had. I
Was almost relieved because any alternative
Would surely have been much much
Worse, but then the thought dammit
It’s still only April and my old bones
Still get way too cold to sit here without
That damn expensive heater being on
Keeping me just the right side of warm.

Bradford Middleton’s latest chap ‘The Whiskey Stings Good Tonight’ is out now from the Alien Buddha Press.  Recent poems have appeared at Horror Sleaze Trash, Yellow Mama, Mad Swirl, Beatnik Cowboy and the Seppuku Review.  If you like these words go follow him on Twitter @BradfordMiddle5.

So Shall I Disappear?

To somewhere deep within the woods where Lew found himself.
Trapped by the con that is humor along with the stigma as well.

To a place nobody will find me as their rumors will not embrace me either.

A place of beauty where I alone can embrace my pain.

Where the mask does not exist unless I alone choose to adorn it.

Where my pages are mine alone.
Where I can fully fathom all the currents that converge to ultimately create all that is me.

Maybe I will take that walk and leave only rumors behind.

Maybe I will.

You can assume for yourself.
It must be splendid to know everything about another.

And not a single solitary truth about yourself.

John Patrick Robbins, work has been published here at Fixator Press, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine,  The Dope Fiend Daily, Svartedauden Zine, Piker Press, Punk Noir and Disturb The Universe.

His current book is Are We Dead Yet? Published by Black Circle Publishing and is available in Amazon.