Scott T. Hutchison

RUNNING FROM COPS

You should. You should take a stab at
a little larceny, a modicum of mayhem,
theft and vandalism in a modest amount.
And when the blues roll in on you,
put those flash-footed shoes
in the night wind. Allow alarm
to become a racing joy.

Avoid humiliation in central processing,
enduring the texture and smell of steel bed
and the piss pail--hard and stinking real--along with
the unbreakable bars, the monsters
and the screws—these
destinies reserved for the hard time future
and lockdown outcome
plaguing slow-dumb stumblers,
junked-up foggers.

But you, just do a little bit of bad.
Keep the clear mind, know the slick
sprint routes, the creative lose ‘em corners
and the daring darts into darkness—you don’t need
to hurt nobody calling down the heat--just get loose,
let your mischief do a light boil, and when righteous pursuit
is hot on your ass--breathe deep through those fiery lungs
feel the adrenalin conspire and laugh
through your hard-working thighs—be smartly scared
of the incarcerating possible, but be doubly awed
by the chaotic power of your lively escape
beneath the winking stars.


Scott reads "Running from Cops":



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Scott confesses: "Anyone having run from cops can tell you: there's a special adrenaline fire in your feet. Such running can be fun if you were only doing mischief and you got away. Then, when the heart slows down, you can kind of laugh. You got lucky. I've had that fire in my feet. I enjoy it as memory—not something I continue to choose as an experience. Even with the extra boost in the blood, I can't imagine running that fast ever again."

SCOTT T. HUTCHISON's previous work has appeared in Loud Zoo, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Massacre. Poems are forthcoming in Louisiana Literature, Appalachian Heritage, The Adirondack Review, The Comstock Review, and Tar River Poetry. A new book of poems entitled Moonshine Narratives is due out in late 2018 from Main Street Rag Publishing.

David Spicer

TAZ

I’ve caught my share of crooks:
bank robbers, grifters, puppet masters,
loudmouth frauds. I don't hesitate
to feed my ego by bustin' their cornflake
balls even more. My favorite was a barmaid
named Tasmania who answered my questions
in the box with a pause and then,
Say what, boss?
and sometimes said,
I'd love to kiss your mustache because you
make me hotter than a horny furnace.
She gazed out to Main Street and asked,
Do you like cemeteries?
Why? I said.
Because gravestones remind me
of mushrooms, Deputy, and I wanna eat you.
Back to business, Taz. Can I call you that?
She said, Sure. Impress me.
Why'd you to try to pass
off the grape juice for wine? I asked.
Lawyer, she said.
I frowned like a famine in a desert.
Lumbered toward the door.
Hey, Penny Dreadful, she said,
tell me when my limo's here,
’cause you ain't got a blind steer's chance
in Pamplona of nailin' me with your bullshit.


Gerald So reads "Taz":



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David confesses: "I watch a lot of Investigation Discovery shows, and they rarely disappoint. I've always been fascinated by the interrogations that cops conduct and the idea of what would happen if a totally nihilistic, uncooperative suspect and a tough-guy cop ran into each other in 'the box'. And thus 'Taz' was born."

DAVID SPICER has poems in Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, unbroken, Raw, Rat’s Ass Review, The Ginger Collect, Easy Street, Yellow Mama, Ploughshares, Scab, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of Everybody Has a Story and five chapbooks; his latest chapbook is From the Limbs of a Pear Tree, available from Flutter Press.

Caz Potterton

MY WAY

A broken doll, a millionaire's plaything
So easily replaced, there's a roaring trade
A cold eye flits over her, a pang of regret?
Perhaps a conscience?

The silk tie re-knotted around his neck
His suit sharp and sleek
He runs his eyes over a new doll
So many to choose from these days
Choices are options, a dark chuckle from within
Just like a famous burger joint – he wants it his way

His conscience is silent, it's helped him become rich
He makes his choice, lays down his coat
Smiling, he settles for the wait
"I'll do it my way" he whistles softly through his teeth

The new doll is wrapped up and handed over to him
A thick card, certificate of ownership, a limited edition no less
Another card with her name, other details...all pre-ordered

Once payment is made, he is handed a leash
Humming under his breath, he leads her away
Whilst far away, a mother’s heart breaks for her lost daughter

Handing the leash to his assistant, he chuckles once more
Thinking about Sid Vicious’s version of the song...
Maybe, that version would be more appropriate?


Gerald So reads "My Way":



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Caz confesses: "This poem was inspired by human trafficking. In this case, women provided to the person with the most money and are treated abhorrently. They become disposable like a toy – easily replaced and not considered a human being but rather a commodity."

CAZ POTTERTON is a forty-five-year old widow with an eleven-year-old son and a nutty dog. She is studying part-time with the Open University for a Bachelor of Arts with Honors in English literature and creative writing.

Nancy Scott

THAT ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE

I was the one dispatched when a call came in
to the child abuse hot line. Denials fit
a similar pattern—a wife who wouldn’t let me
in until I agreed to interview her husband
in the basement, and would I please park
my State car in the street, not in her driveway?

As I sat in a plastic lawn chair while the washer
whirred its cycles, I questioned this chemical
engineer who worked for a multi-national company.
The allegation accused him of molesting
a four-year-old. Of course, he denied everything.
A few months later, he got caught again.
This time he landed in prison.

Now I’m sitting across from my new therapist,
who’s telling me, by way of example, how to deal
with disappointment; how he straps on camera gear
and takes the train to Philly, where sometimes
he succeeds in luring (my word) young women to pose
for outdoor "glamour shots." Promises free photos
if they come to his studio, wonders why they never
show up. Not even a call to cancel, he complains.

I'm getting a migraine. I/m tired of dealing with creeps,
especially this one in whom I've confided.
When he asks if I'm coming back next week, I say, Yes.
No need to explain why he'll never see me again.


Nancy reads "That Alternative Universe":



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Nancy confesses: "Working for the State of New Jersey was an eye-opener. I had no idea the range of mostly men, who molested children. When the licensed therapist learned I wasn't returning, he wrote the U.S. Constitution gave him the right to photograph young women and began stalking me. I went from the hunter to the hunted."

NANCY SCOTT has been managing editor of U.S.1 Worksheets for more than a decade and is the author of nine books of poetry. Her most recent, Ah Men (Aldrich Press, 2016) is a retrospective on the men who have influenced her life. She had a long career as a social worker for the State of New Jersey. which inspired many of her poems. Orginally from the Chicago area, she has resided in New Jersey for many years, but considers herself a Midwesterner. www.nancyscott.net

Charles Rammelkamp

GROOMING

"I thought I should give something back,"
Joe started his story,
"so even though Dontay had a record,
might have been considered sketchy, unreliable,
I sponsored his rehab, helped him
start his own barbering business.
I came out of the ghetto, too, after all,
  before I joined the investment firm."

Joe hadn’t heard from Dontay for a while,
then it turned out
one of Dontay's clients was shot to death
while he was sitting in Dontay's chair,
getting his hair trimmed.

No doubt a deal gone wrong.
A couple young guys in hoodies
came in through the back door,
shot the guy three times in the chest,
kept on going out the front.

"Dontay's a good man," Joe assured.
"He does good work,
and I've always got his back.
But I think I’m going to start
going to The Hair Cuttery instead.”


Charles reads "Grooming":



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Charles confesses: "I overhead this at the gym one day, pedaling away on an exercise bike. Joe was relating this to another guy, Nick, his main point being the tough life Dontay and people like him face every day, But I thought I’d inject a bit of self-interest into the story."

CHARLES RAMMELKAMP is Prose Editor for BrickHouse Books in Baltimore, where he lives. His most recent book is American Zeitgeist (Apprentice House). A chapbook, Jack Tar’s Lady Parts, was recently published by Main Street Rag Press. Another chapbook, Me and Sal Paradise, is forthcoming from FutureCycle Press.

Ken Meisel

1956 PACKARD (NEBRASKA)

From nauseous storm clouds and ill hallucination,
from crass matter-of-fact violence and perversity,

and from whatever psychic piece of the world
we can never quite repudiate, nor ever finally choose

the exact right photograph to best construe it,
come Charles Starkweather and Caril Ann Fugate

in a stolen 1956 Packard – too large for them
to drive: its black-crow color and hooded headlamps

recessive, and suspiciously gazing out from the front
fenders, and its blood red taillights, set deep inside

those conservative fins. It was too difficult to drive –
with the police in pursuit – a rich man’s car. They stabbed

the owner to death, and twisted the dog’s neck and filled
the Black Packard with stolen jewelry, like it was some

flagship of the wrongly-made. Now, in the dust
of the highway where beauty and regret take shape

in a restless sunflower, the crickets chirrup, and a lonesome
heathen of a bird starts singing in a dried-up cottonwood.

The sun escapes the highway and hides itself behind
a ridge of trees. Buildings become frightful, cold-hearted.

He slips the radio dial, twists it past a bible station
and a car commercial, lands on Bruce Springsteen,

Nebraska: From the town of Lincoln Nebraska,
a sawed-off .410 on my lap, through the badlands

of Wyoming, I killed everything in my path.


Ken Meisel reads "1956 Packard (Nebraska)":



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Ken confesses: "This poem directs its attention to the odd inclusionary interface of crime, automobile, and song. The aesthetic is Noir American Gothic. The car, amidst the horror of the crime, is weaponized. The Springsteen song, of course, memorializes the horrific perversity of the killing urge. The poem elicits the crime's lonely, desolate aftermath."

KEN MEISEL is a poet and psychotherapist from the Detroit area. He is a 2012 Kresge Arts Literary Fellow, Pushcart Prize nominee, and winner of the Liakoura Prize. Recent books include Mortal Lullabies (FutureCycle Press: 2018) and The Drunken Sweetheart at My Door (FutureCycle Press: 2015). He has work in Midwestern Gothic and Rattle.

Alyson Faye

TIGER-WATCHING AT YORKSHIRE WILDLIFE PARK

Eagerly we hurry,
free of our grey boxes
for the day’s entertainment.

Anaesthetised.
Caged.
Transported.
To our drab, windy shores.

Our sat.nav got us here,
Our iPods jangle in the
manure-stained air.

From metal walkways
we gape and gawk.
While you pace,
your miry compound's ground.

What do you see,
when you look out?
Your stripes interlacing
with the wire mesh?

Disdainful, of us-
a clicking, chattering,
rowdy group of bipeds.

Do you yearn for
your topaz jungles,
moist with prey?

A tail flicks.
We are dismissed.
The mud records
your departure.

We drive home,
through taupe housing estates,
around snaking ring roads,
switching on our headlights.

Night draws in.
We are both prey and
hunter, in our metal
boxes on wheels.


Alyson reads "Tiger Watching...":



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Alyson confesses: "This poem was written after a visit to Yorkshire Wildlife Park, home to the rare Amur tigers, and though it provides a rare opportunity to view these animals and the programme of the park is all about conservation and breeding—I couldn't help but feel it's a crime to cage these beautiful animals for the purposes of a day's entertainment for us. It is a complicated and emotive issue."


ALYSON FAYE lives in West Yorkshire with her family, including 3 rescue cats. She teaches creative writing classes and works part time as an editor/proofreader. She is one of the writers in Women in Horror Annual 2, (2017); her stories can be downloaded at www.alfiedog.com as well as being available in numerous ezines and on sites like zeroflash, Tubeflash, 101 words, three drops from a cauldron and (most often) at The Horror Tree (www.horrortree.com). Her debut Flash collection, Badlands, from indie publisher Chapeltown Books is available to buy on Amazon. Her poetry has appeared in varied small press magazines like iota, Bennison's Books Indra's Net, Raw Edge, jotters united, and later this year on the Nature Poetry-inspired website Words for the Wild.

Peter M. Gordon

FLORIDA MAN

When breathing air feels like drinking swamp water
and sweat falls unevaporated to sizzle on sidewalks

Florida Man emerges, to start a fight in a pizza joint
when wrong cheese is applied to his garlic knots.

Florida Man provides pot and ecstasy to reward his
children for good grades. Florida Man writes his cell

phone number and address on the stickup note to
make it easy for the teller to send more money after

the robbery. Only Florida Man snorts bath salts and meth,
walks next door to bludgeon his neighbors and eat their flesh

raw, in their driveway, where everyone can see him.
Perhaps it’s this thumb-shaped peninsula’s fault, the

right-angled thrust into the Atlantic that causes lightning
to clash over its center, illuminating all our dark places,

that makes us all a little bit Florida Man, waiting for the
weight of sin to sink our sandbar into primordial swamp.


Peter reads "Florida Man":



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Peter confesses: "Even though I've lived in Orlando for almost a quarter-century I am still amazed at what some of our citizens do. This poem arose from my reading Florida crime news and from my worry that there may be something in the air that gradually infects everyone that lives here."

PETER M. GORDON has published over 100 poems in publications such as Slipstream, the Journal of Florida Literature, Poetry Breakfast, and others. He is the author of two collections: Two Car Garage and Let's Play Two: Poems about Baseball. Peter earned a BA from Yale and MFA from Carnegie-Mellon, and teaches in Full Sail University's Film Production MFA program.

Rosanne Limoncelli

THOSE LOUD NEIGHBORS

I am disturbed by voices
not imaginary ones from my crumbling sanity
but the all-too-real voices that permeate
the walls that surround me and from the ceiling above
unavoidable-inescapable-thundering noise

I cannot verify
if they are screaming with glee
or for help-help-help
help me
in one moment I'm sure
that one or more women
are being brutally-violently-noisily defiled
and in the next instant-second-moment
I’m certain they are
cheering for a goal on TV

is that kicking-pounding-banging
above my head
an expression of unadulterated (adult) joy
an explosion of (not-so) private pleasure
or an unleashing of vitriolic violence
an eleventh-hour entreaty for ecstatic escape

perhaps I am paranoid
there is much evidence to that as
previous investigations of mine
have only revealed sardonic looks and middle fingers
these erstwhile lessons have taught me to
mind my own business
to live and let live
but if I do
will it be Kitty Genovese all over again
in which case live and let die

HOW LONG CAN I HOLD BACK
from running screaming upstairs with a gun
to catch them or save them or stop them
to put an end to the reason-occasion-justification
for the deafening disturbance

or should I just shoot myself?


Rosanne reads "Those Loud Neighbors":



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Rosanne confesses: "'Those Loud Neighbors' was inspired by some folks who used to live upstairs. Lying awake in bed, very late at night, unable to sleep because of the noise, my imagination went wild. Could someone be in danger? Do I hold their life in my hands? Am I crazy? The frustration and anxiety eventually led to creativity."

ROSANNE LIMONCELLI teaches filmmaking and story writing for Tisch School of the Arts at New York University. I would rather be reading or writing crime fiction and poetry than anything else. My short stories have been published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine and Suspense Magazine.

John Jeffire

ACE

Johnny Ace step out his Caddy
Curbside the Page One, March
Evening, Detroit iced to the nostril,
His boy Lights Out undefeated
And Boom Boom on the get,
Johnny Ace rolling in green,
Yeah, you just wait, we just
Gettin’ started, Holmes, this
Here ain’t no nothin’.
That white flake shake three
Straight day, don’t never slow—
I’m Johnny Ace, boy, you
Don’t never call me Smith,
Not no chump hangin’ off
The backside no red rig, naw,
Not no Gold Glove welter, naw,
Now we got diamond knuckles
Rollin’ chrome spokes over 7 Mile.
Johnny Ace, he on the prowl, got him
Bennies to burn, Banks coyote coat,
Platform lace-ups, Boss Man lid
Like The Hammer, takin’ world
Championship distance.

Then the roll up—
No make, no model, burners out.
This city, you pay up or you pay.
Blow gonna blow but the wind
Always forever rage in your face.
Bell don’t even ring and Johnny Ace
Know the count, boom stick
And a 9 bark, five slugs dig
His ribs, lead kidney punch,
Jab jab to the chest, down
Go Johnny Ace, didn’t nobody
See nothing, don’t nobody know
Nothing when the coyote coat
Run red to the canvas, Johnny
Ace count the neons, point to
The stars, reach out for a rope
That wasn’t never there.


—for Johnny Ace Smith,
murdered, Detroit, 37 years old,
10 March 1989


John reads "Ace":



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John confesses: "I am a native Detroiter, and John Smith, better known as Johnny Ace, is part of the underground lore of the city. He was a firefighter and local Golden Gloves hero before he got into managing fighters, working with some big names like world champs James “Lights Out” Toney and Tom “Boom-Boom” Johnson. My father was a boxer, and he and my uncles were all on the Detroit boxing commission and got to know Johnny Ace and always talked about him as quite the character. The full circumstances around Ace’s death are still unclear, but I wanted to make sure this colorful, mysterious man was remembered."

JOHN JEFFIRE was born in Detroit. In 2005, his novel Motown Burning was named Grand Prize Winner in the Mount Arrowsmith Novel Competition and in 2007 it won a Gold Medal for Regional Fiction in the Independent Publishing Awards. Speaking of Motown Burning, former chair of the Pulitzer Jury Philip F. O'Connor said, “It works. I don't often say that, but it has a drive and integrity that gives it credible life....I find a novel with heart.” In 2009, Andra Milacca included Motown Burning in her list of “Six Savory Novels Set in Detroit” along with works by Elmore Leonard, Joyce Carol Oates, and Jeffrey Eugenides. His first book of poetry, Stone + Fist + Brick + Bone, was nominated for a Michigan Notable Book Award in 2009. Former U.S. Poet Laureate Philip Levine called the book “a terrific one for our city.” His most recent book, Shoveling Snow in a Snowstorm, a poetry chapbook, was published by the Finishing Line Press in 2016. For more on the author and his work, visit writeondetroit.com.

Abbey-Rose Chivers

LIFE IS SACRED

The walk to the chair is not silent.
Chains clink, too happy.
They revel in his misery.
So too, do the others,
whisper, whisper.
Look, there he goes,
They finally got him,
Down he goes.
They're better than him,
Of course they are.
Though their fate is the same still,
they laugh as the chains
Clink clink.
Such morbid joy must be a crime,
Surely?
To smile as the straps are tightened.
Life is sacred, no one can claim it,
apart from the state and the crowds
that cheer and clap as the lever comes down.
Coloured lights illuminate the dark morning sky,
A celebration, a celebration of death.
But he is fearful, shaking,
no longer a killer.
A prisoner, a number.
Dignity shaven like the hair from his head.
He is terrified, but still they cheer.
He is dying, but still they cheer.


Abbey-Rose reads "Life is Sacred":



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Abbey-Rose confesses: "I was inspired by the injustice of capital punishment and the willingness of the public to put criminals to death, essentially supporting the very thing they oppose."

ABBEY-ROSE CHIVERS is 27 and a full-time mum of one. She has been writing for ten years, dabbling in short stories and poetry, and is currently working passionately on her debut, a grimdark adventure set on an almost empty world. She has been shortlisted in Writing Magazine but is still hoping for a win.

Zakariah Johnson

SENDING FIDO HOME

Her neighbor’s new pup from the pound,
Kept snuffling and scratching the ground.
So, she left poisoned meat,
On her stoop as a treat,
To ensure her old man was not found!


Zak reads "Sending Fido Home":



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Zak confesses: "I’m a big fan of rhyming light verse, of “campfire poems” of the sort that are easy to remember and share, like limericks and ballads."

ZAKARIAH JOHNSON is a New Hampshire-based writer and the cross-genre editor for FoldedWord. His prose and poetry, mystery and horror, can be found in such publications as BEAT to a PULP, Switchblade, Shotgun Honey, Yellow Mama, and Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. Visit him @Pteratorn on Twitter.

Sanjeev Sethi

CIVICS

Prosopographies exhibit the coulisses slipped into.
Eclipsed in them are personated villainies. When
deficiencies are covered up they seem well-done.
There is no consternation of in flagrante delicto.
Anecdata is for lovers and the like, the world chases
footnote of real facts whetted by legalese. In this
purview moral measures have no place.


Gerald So reads "Civics":



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Sanjeev confesses: "It worries me that contemporary public life is devoid of the moral angle. All decisions of the State are structured on the premise that they are within the legal safeguard. The righteous path is no longer an option. This poem is a cry against this and wishes for a change."

SANJEEV SETHI is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: The Broadkill Review, After the Pause, Chicago Record Magazine, Former People, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Stickman Review, Ann Arbor Review, Home Planet News, London Grip, Morphrog 16, Communion Arts Journal, Bold Monkey, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Rachel Lynn McGuire

NOT FOR VEGAS

Stephen Paddock was 64.
I can't help but wonder
How old will I be
when I finally snap?

No history of mental illness.
No religious affiliation.
Just a white millionaire
who chose mass homicide.

That feels like me.
The only evidence of
my violence is
a sea of strange poetry.

I confess this to my Lover.
He says, "Babe,
you're bigger than this.
You have so much love to give.

But it's ok if you can't
love with open hands today.
That just means today you need
to be loved with open hands."

My Lover is God for me,
and all this grace is what I need.
The wretch who takes a tragedy
and makes it all about Me. Me. Me.

My Lover doesn't fault me for this.
He just loves me. He just listens.
I let the grace wash away the crisis.
The gratitude helps me begin again.


Rachel reads "Not for Vegas":



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Rachel confesses: "The poem itself is a confession of my homicidal impulses. I fear my own capacity for violence. This poem is an honest description of my reaction to the October 1st, 2017 Las Vegas shooting."

RACHEL LYNN MCGUIRE lives in a small commune in Richmond, Virginia with her polyamorous family and their seven children. Her poetry has appeared in The Five-Two and Five 2 One Magazine.

J.H. Johns

CONSENSUAL CRIME

Consensual crime takes time;
did anyone say-
“Yes;”
did anyone say-
“No;”

what was a moment-
a fling-
yesterday,
will it still be that
tomorrow
and
the next day
and
week
and
month
after that;

it’ll be lost in time-
and minds-
so we’ll probably
never know;

was it chance;
was it planned;
was it taking advantage;
was it an advantage worth taking;

and, so,
will the memory
of the fury
in which they engaged,
persist
until sufficient time has passed
and
has now become
a different passion
of
cashin’
in;

consensual;
consequential;
a crime of “passion;”
a “passion” begs the crime-

consensual crime takes time.


Paul Churchill Mann reads "Consensual Crime":



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J.H. confesses: "I try to expose myself to as much information as possible. At the same time, I work hard not to make value-judgments about the info. Then, sometimes, maybe, it just comes to me. Of course, in my case, that means having notepads, pens, etc, around me- and within reach at all times. Because, it is fleeting- whatever you want to call it- put it down or else it will be gone."

J.H. JOHNS "grew up and came of age" while living in East Tennessee and Middle Georgia. Specifically, the two places "responsible" for the writer that he has become are Knoxville, Tennessee and Milledgeville, Georgia. Since then, he has moved on to Chicago—for a brief stint—and New York City—for a significantly longer stay. Currently, he is "holed up" in a small town where when he is not writing, he tends to his "nature preserve" and his "back forty." His goal is to surround his house with all sorts of vegetation so as to obscure it from the gaze of the "locals." He is assisted in this task by his coonhound buddy and companion, Roma.

Colin James

NORTHERN BRIDE

Birch trees cut into even lengths.
Beneath the pile of logs a foot explodes.
The body is not inexpressive, nude.
The white bark envisions eventualities.
Peripheral spiders crawl through black eyebrows.
A paper dress, the embalmer's nightmare.
Should she include this tentative cartography?
The map semantically emotive and crude.


Colin reads "Northern Bride":



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Colin confesses: "There are a lot of white birch trees about and I imagined them as brides with perhaps some complications."

COLIN JAMES has a book of poems, Resisting Probability, available from Sagging Meniscus Press and a new book of poems forthcoming from Wondor Editions. He lives in Massachusetts.

Patricia Lacy

GRIME

Walking the alley
in the dark of night,
my dog prances around the refuse,
sniffing hopefully
at piles of decay,
but then, even he trots away...

No use for all the trash,
Better to walk beside the river,
Where at least there's light.
Birds dive into ripples
As a boat floats into dock.

But all that's floating free
Is simply debris.
The plastic neck from a six-pack
To strangle a bird,
No twist or turn nor wings.
Beating wild...
Will save that bird to swoop over
whoever again strolls by...

A glass bottle drifts to shore,
Then crashes on a rock,
Shattering glints
Attracting wildlife,
Their true danger masked.

A grungy cigar butt, my dog chews upon,
We walk until he eschews the filth.
My bag at hand to clean with stealth
the regurgitate, butt et al.
Toss it into the waste can,
Wishfully thinking
It will be the last,

But knowing
More and more
will be
Left behind.


Gerald So reads "Grime"



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Patricia confesses: "I was inspired to write this poem because littering and poisoning our environment, even unintentionally, is a serious crime that many commit in their daily lives."

PATRICIA LACY has been President of the League of Women Voters Georgetown County, South Carolina and served on the board of Acton Stowe League of Women Voters, She is a member of Riverkeepers and is a staunch supporter SCELP and the Sierra Club. She writes poetry when she’s not saving the environment.

Susan Barry-Schulz

BODY LANGUAGE

What about this guy in the white Mazda
who pulls up behind me too fast
on Bainbridge Avenue in the Bronx,
skidding cock-eyed into my rear bumper
and somehow, in the time it takes me
to hop out and walk around back,
throws it into reverse
just enough

and as I stand there,
chin out/arms to the side/elbows bent/palms to the sky—
the espresso bronze finish
of my Buick's back fender
speckled now with flecks of fresh white paint—

gets out and closes the driver’s side door
chin tucked/arms raised/shoulders shrugged/palms facing forward
and says

I never touched, I never touched

and walks away without
a second look?


Susan reads "Body Language":



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Susan confesses: "This poem was inspired by true events and the question that I faced afterwards; 'Why didn’t you report it?' I wanted to explore how place and gender might influence our response. I am also interested in the way our body postures and gestures inform our dialogue. Plus I wondered what would it be like to be that guy?"

SUSAN BARRY-SCHULZ has been a practicing Physical Therapist/Healthcare Coordinator in Westchester for many years. Her writing has been published in the Journal News, the recent Barrelhouse POPLove! Series and in The Wild Word. She is a member of the Hudson Valley Writer's Center and the Mahopac Poetry Group. She grew up outside of Buffalo and now lives in a lake neighborhood in Putnam County, New York with her husband and one or more of her 3 adult children. It all depends.

Gail Aldwin

PICNIC

Mist hung in the air; the lake glinted silver in the early light. Turner wore a suit, but the trousers were creased where his knees buckled. His fingers were spread in surrender and stiff. Gerri bent to examine his face. She knew that lying eye too well, but the gaping socket made her wince. Bits of brain like scarlet frogs' spawn spewed out. On the blanket, champagne spilt from the glass. Trust him to start on the booze. He'd arranged the plates, two of them, but the food had been scavenged by wildlife and the linen napkins gnawed. Over on the island, a heron flapped its wings, the only witness to the killing. Walking to the car, Gerri made a mental list of the possible perpetrators. She ignored the bird's pink-tinged beak and the splattering of droplets that stained its feathers.


Paula Messina reads "Picnic":



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Gail confesses: "The idea for 'Picnic' came during a visit to a wetland centre where there were herons strolling about. My young son was naturally inquisitive and as he was roughly the same height as the bird, I panicked about a possible attack and dragged him away."

GAIL ALDWIN's poetry is published by Ink Sweat and Tears, Slamchop, Words for the Wild, and Underbridge. Her poetry was commended in the Mother’s Milk Books Writing Prize 2017. One of Gail's poems appears in the Beaumont Park permanent poetry trail in Huddersfield, UK. In 2016, she won first prize in the Bournemouth National Poetry Day competition with an entry titled “Starlings”. You can find Gail on Twitter @gailaldwin and WordPress.

John Dorroh

ANATOMY OF A GOOD THING GONE BAD

Not that my kiss would have made her
a better person—or a better poet—but it
might have prevented me from making one
more person hate my guts for wanting to have sex.

It was late—or early—
however you want to
see it, and we had just
come in from an acoustic
set down in the Village.
Her apartment had no
heat. She begged to
come home with me
to stay warm
for just one night. (That's
how it starts. Just one night.)
I said yes. She brought a
small bag that she had
stashed under the bar
where her friend Joe
was making watered-down
drinks and stealing tips
from his fellow servers.

We fidgeted in the bed.
She rolled toward my face
and I felt like I was gonna
smother, and then I rolled
away, and then we ended
up belly-to-belly. We said
"What the fuck?" And we
did. We fell asleep. The body
heat was nice. She started
crying at 4:00 a.m. and I told
her to get up and go to the
kitchen. "Make coffee and
cry in there. I don't get it."

I didn't hear another peep.
Got up at seven when the
garbage trucks started clink-
ing-clanking their metal parts.
Went into the kitchen and
found her with her head
down on the table. There
was a poem scribbled on
a pad. It mentioned me
and none of it good. I checked
her pulse. She was more than asleep.

911 took her away and told
me not to go anywhere. I sat
in the living room and watched
the CBS news. I didn’t hear
what the reporters’ lips
were saying. My coffee was cold.

My cell broke the silence at 9:30. They asked me
to come to the precinct for questioning. I asked if I was
a suspect and they said, "...well, maybe... she has a poem
in her pocket that says you were jealous of some guy named Joe
...that she's stolen your credit cards and that you were going
to make her pay one way or another…you know anything
about that?"


John reads "Anatomy of a Good Thing Gone Bad"



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John confesses: "I was gift-shopping in a book store and picked up a copy of The People Look Like Flowers at Last by Charles Bukowski. Before I knew it, I had read half the book and felt obligated to buy it. I loved his style and attempted to write a few poems that channeled his essence."

The verdict is still out whether JOHN DORROH taught any high school science, but he showed up every morning at 6:45 for a couple of decades with at least two lesson plans in his briefcase. His poetry has appeared in Dime Show Review, Suisun Valley Review, Sic Lit, Walk Write-up, Poetry Breakfast, Indigent Press, and others. He has also had a bit of luck with short fiction with his book 99 Words.