Not Much . By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

You know the braggart,

the one who drinks half as much 

as everyone else 

and makes twice the noise,

back in the bathroom every three minutes

as though standing vigil over some 

shaky deathbed ugliness 

and if the relations are not in blood

or some trusted pavement burn equivalent,

what are we left with?

If the answer is not much,

I am good with that.

The clock 

mounted there on the wall

like an unwanted sexual 

partner.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly,The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.

Equinox By Alex Z. Salinas

I hear defeat 

In Coltrane’s

“Equinox,” his

Sax desperate

To slither out

Of Wittgenstein’s 

Suicide bottle, 

Yet Elvin Jones’

Drums protect 

Earth from caving

In, McCoy Tyner’s

Piano satisfies 

Like the meal my

Aunt treated me to

In grad school, 

And on this bright 

Cold morning 

Same as night,

It isn’t fair I 

Climb this hill

Alone, drag 

My feet with 

Knowledge you’re 

Gone, still I 

Zigzag to Coltrane

Up down around

The dead-end trail,

Perform for

Birds ‘n crickets,

Fly musicians

Crying chords

Of presence, 

Survival. 

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His full-length poetry collection, WARBLES, Is out now released by Hekate Publishing .

He is poetry editor of the San Antonio Review, and his short fiction has appeared in numerous publications online.

https://www.amazon.com/WARBLES-Alex-Z-Salinas/dp/1912017857/ref=sr_1_1?qid=1573663241&refinements=p_27%3AAlex+Z.+Salinas&s=books&sr=1-1&text=Alex+Z.+Salinas

Truth And Pavement Hurt. By John Patrick Robbins

              
He told me .

"Man the problem is your just much better at this everyone else."

The kid didn't understand the sacrifice I made getting to this point .

And I prayed he never would.

This was a hollow existence filled with jealous fools and false hopes.

Empty nights and enough vices to kill even the strongest man.

He admired my page and I admired his promise for something else .

I was bound for the crash.
Strapped in for certain destruction .

To be great at anything means to be alone amongst many .
I would take happiness over accolades any day of the week .

A life seemed far better than a legacy .

I rolled the dice .

And in secrets and shadows often confessed my regret.

Now I sit atop a mountain .
A fools king with the loneliest view .

John Patrick Robbins 

Is the Editor-in-chief of The Rye Whiskey Review , Under The Bleachers, Drinkers Only and The Angel's Share Magazine. 

His work has appread in.

The San Pedro River Review , The San Antonio Review,  Piker Press , Ariel Chart , As It Ought To Be Magazine , Oddball Magazine , The Blue Nib , Punk Noir Magazine .

He is also the author of Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press and Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown from Soma Publishing. 

His work is always unfiltered.