As In Editors & Dragons By John Patrick Robbins

I have learned not to toy with their patience.

This job instills a constant truth and a self-imposed isolation.

Chased and chastised are the souls deemed gatekeepers by halfwits 

who never grasp just how shitty this gig truly is.

I've seen people turn on a dime, fellow editors become toxic

if others dare hold you in a higher regard. 

You become a monster out of necessity, never from malice.

Honesty is the most feared poison known to creatives, 

for it solidifies you as someone willing to burn the fragile soul

to fragments within a second's notice.

I never sought the company of others, let alone the approval 

of their opinion. I drink alone for a reason.

Sometimes you meet that one person who stands his ground 

at the price of losing everything but his dignity.

My spine is made of sharpened steel, never papier-mâché. 

I won't break, but I will damn sure burn anyone down where they stand.

Do not disrespect my borders. These scars didn't get here by accident. 

Others paid the price for their ignorance,

and as you may have noticed, I remain where they have vanished.

Don't ever play games with someone beyond your level.

I do not play, and I never miss the mark.

The flames illuminate the night's sky, not as a threat,

but to serve as a reminder.

I exist; therefore, I do not care for your company. 

Never test the waters that are far beyond your depth.

Where there is smoke, I assure you there will always remain fire.

JPR, is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review his work has been published in Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash, Schlock Magazine, A Thin Slice Of Anxiety, Piker Press and The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Your Job That Will Be Erased By Chad Parenteau

Every day, for hours, for miles,

there is reassurance that this 

position--criminal in the eyes

of your apprentice, who never

takes up your mantle—this job

is politically correct, is God’s 

will, is what your father would

have wanted, is what your partner 

would rather have you do, is 

society working well, is whatever

you need to hear so you continue.

So God drags you on, and society

drags you on, and man drags you

on, and man drags you on, until

someone says just stop, and your

never-ending mission just ends. 

And what are you still doing here?

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston’s long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His work has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and The Ugly Monster. He has also been published in anthologies such as French Connections, Sounds of Wind, Reimagine America, and The Vagabond Lunar Collection. His newest collections are All's Well Isn't You and Cant Republic: Erasures and Blackouts. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine and co-organizer of the annual Boston Poetry Marathon. He lives and works in Boston.

LOVE By Susan Isla Tepper

Backed in a corner

love a fragment

scattered plans

One toothbrush left 

in the glass

another hiding

waiting for the bomb

the next explosion

Towels, too

reduced

in number

that rack is cold metal

A sculpture

unclear to you

You’d pass it by in a museum

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

finding love in a dilapidated trailer by Steve Maitlen

welcome to paul’s tavern where wanting 

our collective demise to coincide

and collide anchored to the end of the world at large 

and meet expectations

of evolving and growing and becoming more of ourselves,

while everything and everyone outside remains static

and unchanged and

standing in lukewarm urine before the communal trough

where someone likely just committed at least one cardinal sin

and bullshit stories no one asked to hear and 

here we are like rockstars breaching the stage

before sixty thousand strong

or maybe a motley muddy boots collective

drinking away daily aches and blues

welcomed by barkeep chuck

red hair, red flannel over white t

crossword puzzle always in hand

ready to trade a beer for a dollar or two 

always adding a buck for chuck

nursing away the day in a stupored haze alongside patrons

welcome to life introductions at twenty one,

three days removed

introducing a series of firsts - 

legally purchased beers with legitimate ids

& slow dances with blurry bar as background & seductive dances

leading to unsolicited amateur lap dances by 

promiscuous cougars on the prowl

serenaded by grunge rock - 

pure wholesome alcohol induced romance

fumbling & falling under dimly lit spells

and gyrating hips &

boldly asking if she needs a ride somewhere,

knowing neither could drive and despite

disparate dispositions, united by not having

somewhere to go and so nowhere to go but with her tongue

down the throat saturating both mouths

with well vodka and cotton blend ultra light cigarettes

leaning forward feigning disinterest

when she’d lost interest and moved on to chase a new jawn

zipper pressing sharp against a lifetime achievement erection

while enduring relentless witticisms from table mates

then stumbling forward into the concrete graffitied bathroom

piss trough swaying, but bound by faith to hit the four foot target

when Father Time arrived in an army surplus jacket

saying hey shot boy, i got something to put hair on your chest -

spoiler it didn’t and never would - 

producing a pint of 99 bananas from a ratty

torn interior chest pocket and with one of us being slightly 

more sober, complying and emerging a liter of cheap beer

lighter, two free shots sloshing about the stomach

with stories to tell and excitedly filling

multiple ashtrays and napkins and scraps of paper

with the next big novel idea and bits of disjointed poems 

that might go somewhere like right here,

right now, but didn’t know it then, still don’t now

and trying to spot the emergency community dollar

hidden in plain sight along the concrete crevices

surrounding the pisser backsplash and creaking

uneven floor matching the patrons 

stumbling up to the laminate pulpit

offering chuck advice he didn’t care to hear but made you

feel like you belong among the revolving cast of characters -

townie lifers and people like us, always us

clearly out of place any place, but here we take solace

achieving invincibility at the zenith last aluminium tainted drops

after vanquishing seven dollars worth - everyone 

feeling welcome even when the bar reached capacity

sweltering heat pushing past most breaking points

teetering on the edge of remaining on campus to chase tail, 

but paul’s offered respite from the heat, cold beer in hand,

although being the last party in

meant sitting under the rickety air conditioner, ancient, 

held aloft by faith and rusted metal shipping bolts

fearing for our lives every time the giant unit shook

and groaned and begged to be put down

all while witnessing our first mature fist fight

emerging from a light-hearted quip about somebody’s girl

hearing fist against flesh - never forgetting hey hey hey 

take it outside harmonizing throughout the room

as we elbowed sun-kissed men away from our table

resuming made up point for beer games involving 

trivia and song identification

or resolving philosophical problems

and points for id’ing the rare metallica or skynyrd b-side

or an extra point for cribbing and quoting

rolling stone magazine articles to add depth 

the well fed jukebox serving classic rock favorites

and on occasional idle tuesdays or wednesdays

some sad sack of blue collar honky tonk

solo occupied a four top, drinking full flavor bud

bottles, playing a laundry day’s worth of sappy

country crooning so we knew to steer clear

letting him marinate in heartache while feeling 

victorious - two handfuls of longnecks for the table - 

only short a ten spot with chuck tax.

they being they so they say it’s about the journey,

truth in layers beyond the destination, but most folks

don’t make it and console themselves in being losers,

second rate excuses, and commiserating at a home

away from home at paul’s and feeling warm

like flickering fluorescents and stale cigarettes

and tequila shot residue at the bottom 

of the shot glass when the wallet tap dries and 

last minute gas station christmas gifts - scratchers 

and chocolate covered cherry cordials - hastily

wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper

less chuck’s crosswords.

paul’s welcomed a dapper bunch of misfit boys - 

names and faces evolving 

waxing and waning with life circumstances.

welcomed as an ode to a bygone era

eventually succumbing to corporate greed

and replaced with a dollar general

and a namesake never known.

Steve Maitlen resides in the countryside of Huntingburg, Indiana and is an indie poet and photographer who holds a BA in Political Science and Philosophy from the University of Evansville (2004) and a BS in English Literature from Indiana University - Bloomington (2005). To date, his poetry has appeared in Alien Buddha Press, Blood+Honey, The Literary Underground, Mad Swirl (including recognition in the 2025 Best of Mad Swirl Anthology), and Pure Sleeze Press; his photography has appeared in Tickets to Midnight Vol. 4 (Pure Sleeze Press). He has regularly performed in Evansville, Indiana at Poetry Speaks (Indiana’s longest running and most prestigious open mic series), Writers Guild of Bloomington (IN) Spoken Word Sunday open mic series, Tell City Regional Arts third Thursday open mic, featured at Dirt Boys in Scottsburg, IN, and has shared his work with high school senior writing classes in southern Indiana. He is a member of the Tell City Regional Arts and serves as Treasurer on the Executive Board. His first chapbook, don’t lap the fat kid (Pure Sleeze Press), will be released in autumn 2026.

BROKEN OMNIBUS By Strider Marcus Jones

in

out

about

another

day

of centrifugal

do

and

doubt

at home

in town

going down.

so out

the sun

like some

great

worshipped one

looks on

this

primitive

petri dish

thinking

back to the

beginning

one time

thinning

bliss

in opus

of ordinal

opulence-

such unfurled pus

unevenly spread

like jam on coronation crust

seduced by alchemy's golden thread

to Mephistopheles sun splashed bed

but seeking exodus

with the Creator

back to nature

in a broken omnibus.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford,

England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of

Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of

The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington

Post USA; The Crossroads Magazine, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.

Even The Best Known Is Truly Unknown By Leon Drake

They tell me I am known.

Which is funny.

Because the cashier at the grocery store

still asks if I've found everything alright

as though I haven't spent twenty years

trying to lose it.

A poem gets published.

Someone shares it.

Someone quotes a line

beside a photograph of a sunset

that had absolutely nothing to do with me.

For a brief moment,

I become important enough

to be forgotten by strangers.

That seems to be the arrangement.

A man spends half his life

building a name,

then watches it float away

like a grocery receipt

caught in a parking lot windstorm.

The birds know more about me

than most readers.

At least they see me regularly.

The crows inspect my habits.

The gulls critique my posture.

One sparrow has followed my decline

with admirable dedication.

Meanwhile,

someone introduces me as

"a well-known poet"

and I nearly choke on my coffee.

Known?

I can't remember why I walked

into the kitchen this morning.

My own reflection

looks vaguely familiar at best.

The truth is,

everybody is a mystery

wearing a nametag.

Some are simply printed

in larger fonts.

The celebrated,

the forgotten,

the drunks,

the saints,

the editors,

the men feeding ducks

behind abandoned shopping centers.

all of us carrying entire universes

that never make it into conversation.

So yes,

perhaps I am known.

In the same way

a lighthouse is known

by ships that never step ashore.

They recognize the light.

They never meet the keeper.

And even the best known among us

remain wonderfully,

ridiculously,

unknown.

Leon Drake's work has appeared in Spill The Words Press, Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, S.A.V.A. Press and The Crossroads Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review and The Literary Underground.

When words become shallow~ By Tracey Sivek

Vacant eyes with recessed soul engage with the daily routine outlined.

Forged from cellular memory navigating life from the shell and shadow. Always observing, avoiding the engagement. Passive grey.

Vulnerability suppressed the flame. Clouded the undertow of passion. Leaving a sadness imbedded deep within the well of souls.

Release

Decay

Pause

Seeking redemption, the reigniting of life force. Seeking the touch…simplistic yet bold.

Remembering myself here in the fields of flowers and honeybees. Sipping wine while gazing at the blue skies. The sound of nature soothes my senses.

Here the void doesn’t exist. Life spills out joy within every breath.

I see you and I sharing the depths of passion here..in this, my place of serenity.

Completion.

Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan. 

 She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel. She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.

Her publications include .

The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.

Her latest book For The Love Of Lily is currently available on Amazon.

https://a.co/d/0hSH9eG9