Charlie Horse

Gambling everything: bank
book insurance policy
frame house. He bought
into the business.
 
Now he was superior could push
us around. Brag about being
management.  Wasn't I lucky
to have such a nice boss?
 
There's no wishing him away.
Charlie was something definite
like that charlie horse tearing
you out of sleep at 4 a.m.
 
He told some personal stories
making me feel all covered with slime.
How he'd never finished high school,
been a drunk, got divorced, beaten
up dogs, kicked his kids out.
 
Day after day, he hammered in ideas.
The old ways were best.  He never
made mistakes.  Nobody works anymore.
It had something to do with
America and obedience.
 
Malignant sweat grew through his
heart and became putrefied.  Charlie
dropped dead one day from a heart
attack and somebody buried that horse.

Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in
numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been
awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work
are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows has recently been
released.

The Creation of Fathers

One way, heaps of sawdust, baseball bats,
drive to Eastern Washington to see the lake,
a western myth, an empire of rental houses,
continental drift, drinking around the holidays,
family near then split, the state divide, then this
depart once and for all down evening driveway,
I went chasing after you and even sacrificed
real estate in my soul to give you eyes,
a condition impossible to hold for long,
liberty exploding as if morning were a cannon—
I circle back north to real clouds and here also
folding wind and off again to the mountains,
a disappearing act, air barely holding that shape
so I maybe catch a glimpse in the Lincoln rock
heading up the Entiat river toward the homestead,
an almost platonic idea of it shimmering,
touchpoint at Bear Hollow where dry lightning
hits the rocks under the owls in the junipers,
golfers marching the links under smoke—
lifetimes, lifetimes of begetting the mystery
games of campfire and night story, reaching
like Adam even as the God hand slips away.

Douglas Cole has published six poetry collections and the novel The White Field, winner of the American Fiction Award. His work has appeared in journals such as Beloit Poetry, Fiction International, Valpariaso, The Gallway Review and Two Hawks Quarterly; as well anthologies such as Bully Anthology (Hopewell), Bindweed Anthology, and Work (Unleash Press). He contributes a regular column, “Trading Fours,” to the magazine, Jerry Jazz Musician; edits the selections of American writers for Blue Citadel, a department of Read Carpet journal of international writing produced in Columbia. In addition to the American Fiction Award, his screenplay of The White Field won Best Unproduced Screenplay award in the Elegant Film Festival, and he has been awarded the Leslie Hunt Memorial prize in poetry, the Best of Poetry Award from Clapboard House, First Prize in the “Picture Worth 500 Words” from Tattoo Highway, and the Editors’ Choice Award in fiction by RiverSedge. He has been nominated five times for a Pushcart and seven times for Best of the Net. He lives and teaches in Seattle, Washington. His website is https://douglastcole.com/. 

WARM CALIFORNIAN NIGHTS (I dream of…)

The nights of late disappear in front of the
Cathode ray tube of death known as TV as I give
Up on out there
Out there in this goddamn town which has driven me to the edge
Out there where those only madder than me can have any kind of fun
As the bad and dangerous to know rule on a night like this as
Out there the rain soaks through however many layers I wear
And the cold bites any interloper hard as the unfamiliar grip
Of winter comes to make us wish for spring to hurry along
But I fear this year maybe a bad one as all signs of late point
To nothing but misery & the death of any kind of hope as all
I can do is lay around and dream of warm Californian nights
To help get me through.

Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton, UK.  Recent poems have appeared in River Dog Zine, Back Room Poetry ‘Rebel’ Anthology, Beatnik Cowboy and Dreich Magazine.  His most recent chapbook came out early 2023 from the mighty fine Alien Buddha Press.  He tweets occasionally @BradfordMiddle5.

Embracing [of] [as] astrakhan

this…………………………………….is
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>forming
IN
THE
BACK SWING

                                                                    ta = ■
                                                                    ya = ■
                                                                    va = ■

                           (((as grown so numb
                                through moving))

AGAIN IT’S GETTING

LOUDER
and
LOUDER
and
…
…
…

                       and that’s the way the
                         bell prefers to

s+o+u+n+d

[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]

                            wouldn’t you?

Nathan Anderson is a poet and artist from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. He is a member of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on twitter/x or Bluesky @NJApoetry.

Fog

This noise is taking me away
from the moves
that quickens me.

The guffaws don’t annoy:
This combat
is with me, myself.

Remember, there are others
who buck more sorrowful
summons?

Those unheard stories
will never disembark at the shore.
Is my stanchion secure?

Sanjeev Sethi has authored seven books of poetry. He has been published in over thirty
countries. In December 2022, he edited Dreich Planet # 1 for Hybriddreich, Scotland. In 2023, he won the First Prize in a Poetry Competition by the prestigious National Defence Academy. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Jacques LaCey is an amateur racket maker, a wordsmith of questionable talent and a modern day acid casualty, currently working from Spahn Terrace.

I Live for the Hunt

I live for the hunt
chasing dreams
racing goals.
Blue haze, orange desires
never knowing the wherefore.
My fingers curl around the sun
pulling down fire from the sky.
Burning, blinding
grail of life.
I seek green
youth of dawn.
Crumpled paper holds my truth
roadway to the stars.
The scent is beyond my reach
it intoxicates me.
I follow paths
brown, gray
forever in pursuit.

(Originally published by The RavensPerch, August 2021)

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers” 2020 and 2021.

writhes Of villain

emerges alien stallion prove
provocative cleavage departure
sully chemical comatose sense
apartness radiates empty apt
nest lukewarm fitted sheet
consumed knocking worst
knew notes millennium joist
heebie jeebies coffee grounds
full fritz nightlight subway claw
hall quipped expressive surrender
shimmering hilltop crayons
crawled subsided subjective
occasion melt bearded imp
funniest surcharge magic carpet
proverbial nose guard wise
beefcake trapdoor snore floor
sorely thwarted regard lens
flaring scarred wiggle rib
buns confront flex able
forearm charm brace tube
rumbled wrap balcony shine
biographical scapegoat host
perspective tied up link
acquaintance trolley
snow inclines rewinds
street level barrel kid
be rid skid markings over
toasted bean seem seething
tiny mustache shame

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker. He is member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books peeping sardine fumes (RANGER Press) and [Ruptured] >> Schematic <<  MAZES (Sweat Drenched Press). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com

Powder Kegs and Playing Cards

Switch-up your cartomancy fingers
… for warm, tingling hands
of gentle, caring ‘Healing’.
Before the Storm came crashing
… we were busy
nest-weaving emotions
from a pair
into a Union-Monolith.
You’re all curves and no curls,
eyes like beasts in heat…
and I’m no longer
doing cartwheels and handstands
for your playful, smiling attention.
This is where ‘Nature’
meets the ‘City’,
the throbbing becomes
tribal drumming.
We Ritual, almost unconsciously,
yet, completely,
and clairvoyantly in sync.
You start and finish my war-dance
… and you are the powder keg
which Kicks-Off my EXPLOSION!

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. 

Piss n Unholy Water

The damned get the party and the judgmental are left with the mess.

You seem lost as well. Let’s turn out the lights and see what else we can find in between the
sheets.

Sit down and tell me your worries.
Call me whatever, as I won’t even pretend to care but I will play whatever character gets you off.

Black rope binds as do equally lies we maintain to appease invisible forces.

To steal passions as we taste nocturnal pleasures to summon nothing but hangovers with some
blurred memories entwined.

John Patrick Robbins, is a souther gothic writer whose work has been published in, Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Spill The Words Press, San Pedro River Review, Piker Press, Svartedauden Zine, The Dope Fiend Daily and here at Fixator Press.