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. 

Heartbreak and Steaks in the Children’s Hospital by Alex Z. Salinas

Each page my eyes drift to the last word.

Noticing, Karina says: “We can quit if you don’t wanna.”

“It’s OK.”

My grip tightens. Gently, she taps my arm.

“I feel better today,” she says.

“Wonderful.”

“My dad told me you can only do one thing at a time.”

I repeat: “One thing at a time.”

 I glance at her bald head. I’m barely there, seeing the end already, but I hear everything.

“Otherwise you make steaks.”

Steaks. One of us smiles first; message received.

I start over from the beginning.

My eyes drift again — so I tell the story backwards.

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

Recovery Time. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I can’t stand all those extended fight scene movies from Asia.

The ludicrous way every dish washer is a shaolin monk in waiting.

Hanging in the air forever riding invisible bicycle sternums.

And recovery time is big with me.

Everyone seems invincible and I get lost 

in all the fighting.

But such obvious hustles must bank well.

They keep making them for the money.

Not mine, but that doesn’t seem to mean anything.

With all those sensational flare gun posters.

Even the extras defying the basic  

laws of gravity.

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.

Unwanted Miracles by Scott Simmons

Nobody is perfect,
and everyone makes mistakes.

That’s why I was Born.

Scott Simmons is the editor of The Dope Feind Daily and the Co-editor of the Rye Whiskey review. His work has been featured at Ariel Chart, Anti-Heroin Chic, Under The Bleachers, Horror Sleaze Trash, Medusa's kitchen, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Duane's Poetree. His "artwork" can also be found at deranged_texan on instagram.

JAN MY GOD SQUAD FRIEND By Bruce Hodder

Jan was a sort of friend of mine

when I was running low on real ones.

I would travel to her council flat

for my dinner every week or so.

But she only came to my house once.

Afterwards, even when we passed,

she wouldn't come indoors
It was because of all my Buddhas

and the Ganesha on my window sill
The Ginsberg picture on my wall
had made her apoplectic.

She thought, when I had seizures,
that the Man Downstairs and God
were having fistfights for my soul.
"You worship graven images," she said,

without a hint of malice.

This woman was a care assistant.

I heard her tell somebody, ‘Disability’s
God's judgement on the wicked.’
And she really meant it.

One day she landed on her face,

after tripping on a wet floor sign at work

with residents behind her.

Some stepped forward to help her up.

I hid around the corner laughing.

Surely, I was going to Hell.

Bruce Hodder lives in Northampton, England. His work has appeared in many magazines. This year his poetry collection ‘The Journey Home’ was published by Whiskey City Press.