CLS Sandoval

Vice

 

Not a day goes by

without me wanting to smoke

or drink Malibu

Waiting for Something to Happen

 

I have my ringer on.  We’ve been on the waiting list to adopt a baby for more than two years now.  We had a match, but the mother changed her mind.  I had some time off that I was saving for when we brought home a baby, but time was up to use it, so now I took a year off and just wrote.  Took classes.  Volunteering in our six-year old’s first grade class.  Working part time at other jobs to pay down debt.  Not a wasted year.  But the something I wanted to happen just hasn’t yet.  It’s been a week of action. The dog threw up all night, my car was still in the shop, and the gas bill was triple that which I expected.  As I keep waiting for something to happen, I guess I need to be more specific as to what I am hoping for!

What We Lost is Our Inheritance

 

The handing down of loss and grief

from generation to generation

as each passes before the next

 

Mom used to always say

“We all go in order”

 

My best hopes

that I live a long and happy life

that my children will live longer and happier

will leave my daughter and my son with

this same loss and grief

Michelle Smith

Cog in the Machine

My equine meal includes 

the track and turnstile 

in two medium pepperoni and sausage  

crust stuffed and a liter of Coke

Domino's on speed dial is not a joke.

No sugarcubes or carrots 

 to remain woke.

My stomach envelops my hips 

The pear shaped bod

has morphed into an apple.

Jiggly wiggly everywhere

My nose breathes air peacefully.

Fierce head, eyes focused, there 

There is no option to look down.

My feet resemble horseshoes

and legs gallop at Sunrise to Sunset.

Trot 12 hours 6 am to 6 pm with blinders.

My vintageness, dare you place a bet?

Clocking out the tiredness 

is an arthritic reminder 

to my body's temple I

need to be kinder. And envy

is too strong of 

a word that reveals.

My hobbies and classes have ceased.

Since I have become

 a cog in the working wheel. Hectic hours 

 of the AM shift float to the PM

since CM's have called off.

How much more can I take 

of this shit?

I mean shift,

No I truly mean shit.

 ADL assistance and 

the change of an incontinence brief

Even the seniors call them diapers

Not Depends or Always

must be done prior to bedtime sleep.

Damn it's 4:30 am.  Time escapes me.

Stolen from the sandman thief.

Last night’s drink of  envy

 from my wine glass

chilled Cupcake Chardonnay

The 13 percentage dazes me.

I pour  another drink in my head.

In eight hours I shall gallop 

from the mane to the tail.

A horse to the work racetrack 

smooth and sleek. Not the pace

of a snail.  With blinders

 to the starting gate.

My jockey prepares for the 

Win, place, or show

Trot my hooves on the 

smooth gravel and dirt

Run like my life depends on it

For the win, place, or show.

Mary Langer Thompson

Inebriation

 

She left me

in the liquid warehouse

to find the one true wine.

She traveled the concrete paths,

the aisles towering

with breakable glass and wooden barrels.

When I found her,

she was slumped on the hard, gray floor

by her basket, loaded with bottles.

She was muttering:

“Middle Sister, take a Stag Leap.

Unharness the Wild Horse in Castle Rock,  

Geyser Peak, or Oyster Bay.

My Black Stallion wears Nine Hats on Chalk Hill,

has a Yellow Tail and goes Barefoot.”

“Have you been drinking?” I asked.

“I’m a Smoking Loon whose only begun 

to sample the delectable labels,”

she said, and continued rambling:

“The Naked Grape met Seven Deadly Zins

on his Stomping Ground.

One sin, er zin, involved a Menage á Trois,

even though he loved a certain Lady La Femme.”

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Cry, cry, cry

Tears orange like peach pie

Flowing down my cheeks

Like upside down tributaries

Weep, weep, weep

Fear quite steep

Frozen at my knees

Sob, sob, sob

Charlie Kirk deserved so much better

Jimmy Kimmel so much worse

 Bob, bob, bob

ABC late night talk show host dark and dastardly in licorice black suit for 23 years

Tinseltown clown

Weave, weave, weave

31-year-old Right wing political activist

Not perfect but lived according to spiritual and religious creeds

Cry, cry, cry

Coal-colored Hearse

Soaring in the cobalt sky

My, my, my

Angels walking the interstate late

Drinking nectar of Bonnie Raitt

Rye, rye, rye

Genius never dying

Flexing and flying

Why, why, why

This country one bullet

Shy of political suicide

Lie, lie, lie

Unless Americans drink from the same

Freedom and Democracy will be a lost game 

Tears and Toys

Pain leads to rain

Suffering same

Power brand new insane

Death old last name

God a smooth lane

Never lost in

Poisonous bane

Transparent refrain

Hands drowning

In stars

Cars and

Corrupt bars

Please Los Angeles

Lose yourself in fears

Not gears

Broken years

Time has seen

Dirty jeans

Barbaric means

Filthy greens

Licorice scenes

City of Angels

Protect me

Guide me

Sustain me

Forgive me

In my hour of bleed

Moment of greed

Second of need

Down minute of seed

Floating Fairly

Inside outside

Outside inside

Up down

Down up

All around

Scarlet Spine

Magenta mine

Crimson Rhine

Sweating crime

Sipping wine

Licking time

Sucking nine

Ripping Lime

Daunting shine

Nursing children's rhyme

Black bear slime

On a single dime

Lizard climb

Gerbil's fine

Neon grime

Alaskan mime

For Anchorage

I pine

Like a lost vine

Underneath over

Meditating below

Contemplating beneath

Mesmerized by truth

Destroyed by hate

On a lunch plate

Gone too late

Wrapped in scotch tape

Chimpanzee on

Frozen sea

Molesting me

Patricia Murphy

Drink And Down

My father used to drink and down

Beer very quickly.

I never liked the taste of it.

It made me sick and tired.

Alcohol is like a drug.

Once you start drinking

You can't stop.

It compromises your health

And well being.

AAA can be a life savior.

It's helped millions of people.

War id aide

And it helped my dad

Who was sober at thirty-eight-years-old

Drink and/or Down

When you are down

There's no clowning around.

It's like a sound

That abounds.

Without a grown.

To down is to

Abound it 

Until it sticks

Like glue

In the hue.

For when you

Are blue

It's like stew

In the blue

Of a midnight sky.      

We ask why

Yet have no answers.

At best

We must pass the test,

And go on with our quest.

R A Ruadh

A drought of equinox

Month after month

the parched fields bared

their barrenness to the sky

only dead grasses left

with nothing

to drink

Lightning without rain

dug deep into remains

of wetlands and marshes

wandering and rising up

for gasps

of air

Last night it finally rained

every sprinkle and drop falling

to be absorbed with grateful greed

the soil drinking down

to desperate

roots

There were no puddles

no mud or softness underfoot

although the riverbed meandered

less rocky and with a little bit

more water as a sort of

promise

And somehow the maples

still glory in red and orange against

the cobalt sky as I drive down the road

drinking in the autumn afternoon

which against all the odds

survives

Promise of rain

Once again

rain was promised

Never more than 80% chance

meteorologists hedging their bets

preferring 30s or 40s

so as not to disappoint

I’d ceased to expect

any pattering on the roof

Then as I sat up reading

it slowly invaded my consciousness

a scatter of static above my head

gathering into rolling drops

So wondrous it was

I could not sleep

Slowly the wind picked up

the showers became real rainfall

and I could hear the thirsty ground

swallowing the sky

I had to see it

so went down and outside

The rainfall cooled down my neck

as I lifted my face to drink the clouds

slowly the earth began to breathe

joyful dampness into the night

A promise made

and kept

Jeffry Jensen

DOWN WITH A GUZZLE

Bring on the blotter to soak up a philosophy

That will keep me one step ahead of grief

Disciples who may be worthy of respect

Have left me high and dry on the outskirts

It is a wonder that I did not have a coronary

With an ex-wife hauling away my buttons

In a parallel universe that purrs if discovered

I missed the last off-ramp before the desert

Could dry up all of my liquid courage

That was intended for one of my last nightmares

It is Vegas baby with chicks screaming

For a full-length mirror to muffle my stares

A road turned churchly mid-stream down guzzle

I could no longer play the pioneer rum poet

While coyotes were painting mustaches on the moon

I had to be a real mother and push

My adolescent prayers into the side-pocket

As the sun did its best disappearing act

Behind a mountain of rum bottles thickening the air

Belinda Subraman

Predictions for the Sea of Tranquility

a prediction is not a promise

but a calculation

based on probability

not the sudden shifts in nature’s mood

rouge waves on an open sea

breakers near the shore

In the womb of mother

the sound of water moving

70 percent 

of the earth and ourselves

from the moons of Mars

to an unknown galaxy

further than we can figure out

through birth/death and seasons

we are tokens moving through cycles

with answers and wisdom everywhere

a key message through all eternity

we are mirrors by the millions

we tunnel inward back to Mother

bodies inside bodies ad finitum 

the family tree backwards 

until we are One

and only the soothing lull of swells

remain

whispers over waters

a knowing

Charles Harmon

"DRINK IT ALL DOWN, BEETHOVEN!"

"Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news!"

Thus spake Saint Chuck Berry, father of Rock and Roll.

Don't believe me? Just ask his home boy, Marty McFly!

Well, hey! I love rock & roll, but I also like folk, jazz, country,

and so much more including classical and much foreign music. 

I always heard that heavy metal can make go you deaf, and in the

case of Beethoven that's what happened. Not exactly the music

but the metal. I grew up with classical music and enjoyed Beethoven,

Bach, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and so much more, not that I know much

about it, but I know what I like. So, I knew that Beethoven went deaf 

in his 30s, and that although he was writing some of the world's greatest

music, and conducting it with great orchestras, he could not hear his own  

compositions, although I am sure he could hear it in his head, just as I am

listening to the 9th at this time. But Beethoven is thought to have gone deaf 

from drinking too much wine, although Germany has always had great beer 

also. But back in the old days the wine had many impurities and so they added

lead acetate, called "Sugar of Lead" to sweeten it. Sometimes mercury and 

arsenic were also added to flavor the wine. And these were all toxic! And some 

of the side effects were that they could cause deafness and make people 

angry, moody, and depressed. But there were a lot of rough edges from the 

fermenting process. But they caused many bad symptoms in Beethoven.

How do we know all this? Classical musicians were much like modern rock stars,

and had many fans, many of whom were adoring women who wrote romantic 

letters to their idols. And Beethoven was one of the most popular and would write

them back, perhaps to arrange trysts. And we would send locks of his hair to his 

lovers and most were saved as keepsakes. Many of these samples were analyzed 

and found to contain high concentration of lead, mercury, and arsenic and other 

toxic heavy metals. Not only from the wine, but from the potions and medicines

early doctors would prescribe, many of which just made things worse. 

So, the next time you visit the Hollywood Bowl and are listening to Beethoven 

or anything, enjoy a bottle of wine and the music, and be glad it won't poison you!

Da Da Da DDDAAAAA!

Heather Romero-Kornblum

Liquid Lightning

I survived 

a 17-hour 

epinephrine

drip

My body 

on

liquid lightning

pulsed 

alive

Easy

I was like honey 

to you – you went down 

easy and smooth 

How quickly I forget

the other part of it

My Tears Don’t Make Sense

I fused glass at an art studio

gluing jagged multicolored shards

tack and shallow slump

bubbling up and out in the kiln

not suitable to eat off of

or drink out of

I am a baby racoon

rejected by my tribe

I wanted to inscribe on your heart:

        Heather was here

PJ Swift

I tried

I tried to make a list of things that will never happen

But I wasn't able to write it down

Because I never did

Because I could never cross anything from that list

Dry Ride

S. spent several days floating languidly down the river, enjoying the casual turns, and the evolving change of scenery.  It was a relaxing and edifying journey that enriched his soul and enlivened his spirit.  Only after a significant jaunt downstream was S. alerted that the river was dry.  It had no water.  S. immediately collapsed onto the harsh, arid riverbed.  He was now scratched by the dry rocks and errant debris and sullied by dust.  He no longer enjoyed an enlightened carefree ride.  But he decided to journey onward, for what he would discover along the way was worth these hardships, and perhaps even more cherished than when effortlessly gliding by. 

Drink it up

Traverse the world as fast as you can.  Gather the exotic impulses of the everyday.  Turn and grab the next experience, and the next, and next.  But who will buy you time to connect with the eternal Bards and inspire you to build forth from their wisdom? Who has the insight to redirect your own energy, so that it aligns with and drinks from the poetic spring?

Shih-Fang Wang

The Last Smile     

In a war-torn city

a long line of people 

awaited food 

A young boy’s turn finally arrived 

with a radiant smile 

he kissed the helper’s hand 

his joy spilled over into the crowd 

For just a moment

his world seemed perfect

but then exploded

a bomb dropped down

engulfing everyone

Still clutching the bread in his hands  

he never had the chance to eat  

Drunk

Oh, the evening breeze— 

Is like sweet wine,                   

So intoxicating 

I cannot resist it

My senses drink it in            

I feel entranced,                    

I see two moons in the sky

beckoning me to dance

I wish they could come down          

And accompany me                      

for another drink

Mike Turner

Vine’s Fruit

Give me hearty bouquet

With a well turned nose

Though my palate is not so refined

A sparkling white

Or a blush rośe

Fish or fowl with which to dine

Fruit of the vine

Juice of the grape

Decanted from bottle to glass

Thunderbird or Ripple

Boone’s Farm, Mogan David

Gimme more, and pour it fast!

Time to reset and unwind

Let off a little steam

One last choice for the day

Jack Daniels or Jim Beam?

Scotch, Bourbon or Gin

Whiskey, rye or vodka

Scotch, bourbon or gin

I don't care which one you got

Grab a glass and pour some in

Champagne, bitters, sweet vermouth

Hard cider or beer

Set 'em up and make it quick

Don't want to see or hear

Those deep red lips, that whisperin' voice

The temptation of sin

I need some courage to head on home

Gimme scotch, bourbon or gin

Trish Saunders

Use of the word ‘indolence’ in a poem about drinking 

“Nobody but you will get it,” she says, while

pouring herself another glass of wine.  

“I don’t care if it’s one of your favorite words.”

I can’t think of a smart  answer,

too busy watching her tee shirt

sliding down her shoulder,

not in a good way,

definitely not a “hey there, sailor”

way, more of an,  “I can’t be bothered to fix it” way. 

Yes, I use the word indolence a lot 

a nicer word than ‘lazy’

to me, it means standing around

drinking coffee with a strong dose of sugar,

cream, and Kahlua mixed together,

preferably with eyes closed 

preferably in your own home,

wearing only an old blue shirt 

with maybe ripped khakis 

or just your underwear 

and the sleeve will slip down your arm

and you won’t care. 

They can’t reach you there

in your own home,

safe with your own bones 

and your favorite memories

hidden in your sock drawer--

things you want to remain

exactly the same 

in your life, your indolent life. 

Joan McNerney

Falling

Down through blackness

into dusty subterranean

tracks where trains race.

Silver rods speed through dream

stations transforming tunnels

with bolts of blue white sparks.

Falling

On a steel car looking out my

window. How many times will

this bullet train spin off rail?

                                                                 

How many times must I ride

that dark horse called nightmare?

in air off course tumbling down.

Falling

Dangling on thick utility cables

over edge, through trees into lights

crashing fast against buildings.

       

Now flying through space.

Careening in pitch black night,

my silver train shattering glass.

Tumbling through time

As today falls into tomorrow and we feel beaten down by that relentless clock then let us remember we have not truly fallen but our low whispers and loud voices will be heard echoing in the dust.

When days spill over as quick as mercury counting each minute across this moist blackness of night now almost finished searching for you as you are searching for me tumbling through time.

We are not forgotten nor truly fallen as memories moan past us in the tumbling of time as we search through darkness down into that velvet night where all our thoughts unravel.

Trance-like tracing and retracing small footprints unraveling thoughts following us while our days become a blur through this waking sleep tumbling in then out of this world as we cross velvet nights.

Again and again yet now again we hope to be remembered and lifted up as we search that enigma of time as it tumbles so quickly and we find some lost promise in seasons unraveling before us.

Luis Campos

Pam Ward

The Gaming of Emmett Till

A-tisket, a-tasket*

A black boy in a casket.

He wrote a letter to his mother

but Mamie never got it.

They got him. They shot him.

The river to the bottom.

A girlie cried. She lied & lied

A crime played out so often.

These lynchings. These fishings.

The wrong side of a fence in.

A bludgeoned face.

A child erased.

But Mamie made us watch it.

This taking. This clocking

A black boy getting gotten

A coffin sighs

A life floats by

And silence is accomplice.

These billys. Be hilly.

The games they play so chilly

They alibis

They river rise

They Tallahatchie bodies.

So nephew, be careful.

And double-check that venue

They play to win. They sink your swim

So bring somebody with you. 

*A-Tisket, A-Tasket" is an American nursery rhyme/children's game where a child drops a handkerchief, and another child picks it up and chases him. Emmett Till was chased and brutally killed after being accused of whistling at a white girl.

Pamela Shea

Autumnal Equinox

A most vivid dream

I had an epiphany

Words flowed from beyond

My phone became my paper

Let the transcription begin

Of otherworldly transmission

Jennifer Rudick Zunikoff

 

Marieta Maglas

Losing Hope

She doesn't lose her hope while

praying. 'Tis not simple at all,

especially when the bells ring

for everything that can rise

and doesn't rise, but sinks.

A scream may mean

a nightmare or a fence 

circling the holiness

when the infinite is inward.

Life is an illusion or

a mask of an ego to roll it down

into that chaos bigger than 

Mare Imbrium or Sea of Showers. 

She thinks she has enough.

 

Yet, she is thankful to God,

though her empty-eyed life looks like

a glass-blowing robot or like

an empty crystal of Murano.

Maybe she wants an ending,

not to be saved.

Maybe she needs to think

and to understand the senselessness

of her human condition.

She cannot keep up with anything new

while being blocked in between

disappearing things.

Her shadow grows inwardly,

grows into a gnawing fear,

and draws an eerie silence on the walls.

While chewing all her cubic dreams,

she is afraid either of losing herself,

either of her metamorphosis.

The return into her inner hole

is a ringed crawl, not a resignation,

and maybe a rocking laugh.

 

Above her head, a few clouds

stand on the verge of their lightning.

Maybe she needs God,

but she thinks of those questions

without answers; drowning 

her needs in drinking.

She falls into another psychedelic sleep

in which she cannot pray.

Maybe to be in the arms of Morpheus is

a haven to wake up in Heaven.

When should a word be considered lost?

 

 

Dancing Samba Touré

 

On a samba touré from the Sahara,

a new blue dance meets the heat of the sand

and impregnates souls with love.

There is no chance to see God, 

but to feel Him in a cosmic way.

The same tattooed sadness and

its subconscious asceticism are released

in the burning, hypnotic air. All

feelings can return to what they once were ~

cyclic evolution in perfectionism.

 

These free people,

who are like bluebirds of happiness,

touch a sky-dancing Takamba.

Some shadows of the day

fly in the moonlight to cool down.

Old ghosts of memory are invaded

by the ancient spirituality of

the whole world in their thinking grain~

a need to survive.

 

Aubade

 

That sonata comes from your desire to

explore the exquisite crush of 

certain musical ideas.

I am staring at ‘The Sky’, 

a masterpiece painted with

scissors by Henri Matisse, 

while I listen to you.

 

Those soaring white birds have 

the appearance of

moving hieroglyphics. 

It seems so different

this Sunday dawn in our 

ancient sunlight of concealment!

A few golden rays weave a web to create

new complex and eye-catching life spirals.

 

Dreams rising and angels falling is 

the theme of your piano piece. 

This unusual rocking time is

gradually whitening your hair. 

Two Mizutani shears

appear to have been forgotten on 

a chair similar to

those found in cut and curl shops.

Never for haircuts and curls, 

our salon is intended

to be a gathering place for 

numerous artists.

 

The house has spiral stairs 

that go down to Lonely Street.

Sundays are not consequential 

in our household,

but I think they should be since 

they serve as a reminder

to folks to spend a lot of time in prayer and

contemplation with the Lord.

 

One door, that one guarding 

your safe room,

moves, shattering the silence. 

Now and then, I hear your sonata’s notes 

vanishing in the air

like all the footsteps in our hallway.

It’s a new Sunday, 

but old tears fall from

the clouds’ eyes. 

Still, the critics don’t want to

miss hearing you perform on the piano.

A sense of dawn and 

some ancient hieroglyphs

shine in the music’s lyrics.

 

To wake up next to you makes me happy.

Tamara Madison

 

Meri Tumanyan

 

jf giraffe 🦒

AN ATTACK ON OUR SENSES (Haiku)

News is a downer 

Each day feels so horrible 

Never seems to end

LACK OF HARMONIZING (Haiku) 

Love drinking coffee 

International choices

Wish world mixed as well 

MAP OF CONFUSION (Haiku) 

Uptown or downtown 

Different meaning but the same 

That's a lot like life 

Ellyn Maybe

Golden Rule is Missing (Haiku) 

How we treat others

is what it all comes down to

in our fragile world 

The Beat Goes On (Haiku)

Joni Mitchell sang

Down to You on an album

Still reverberates

The City that Sings (Haiku) 

Drinking it all in

Praha looked so beautiful 

Moonlight serenade

David Fewster

WHY PATTI SMITH AND I ARE NEVER SEEN

TOGETHER IN THE SAME ROOM

So, I was watching Conan O'Brien a few years back.

He announced Patti Smith would be the musical guest.

She would be singing a song from her new album.

I was so excited.

Not excited enough, however, to watch the insipid drivel

that is "The Late Show,"

so I turned down the sound until it was time

for Patti to come on.

Finally, there she was. She looked great!

Just like "Horses," only grayer and crustier,

but in a good way, like gray and crust

were the two coolest things in the universe.

I turned up the volume as the band started playing.

The first four words of the song were Patti groaning

"In my Blakean youth."

Wow!

57 years old, 30 years in show business,

and Patti can still hit you about the face and neck

with the Pretentious Stick

hard enough to make you bleed.

"In my Blakean youth..."

What the hell does that mean?

It doesn't mean a goddamn thing!

It doesn't mean a thing even if you just got done

reading the 800-page biography of William Blake

put out by Oxford Press.

Patti, give me something I can hold onto!

Like MC Billy C. Williams said,

"No ideas but in things."

Let me give you an example from MY youth.

I can remember when they invented 40-ouncers!

It was San Francisco, 1982.

Imagine a day where, if you wanted 

a single large container of beer,

the biggest you could get was a quart bottle.

It was all there was,

so we never worried about whether it was enough--

we just made do.

Still, there would be those times when,

having called in sick to work,

because, after all,

I was an Artist, not a drone,

I sat in the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park,

pen, paper, and brown paper bag

of Carling Black Label beer in hand,

and, just as inspiration was about to coalesce,

I found I was down to the very last sip.

What to do?

Nothing for it but to trudge back up to Haight Street

for a refill where, likely as not,

the Muse would flee before I could plunk down

the price of a Colt 45.

Another day wasted, another cruel reminder that

Time is the bane of the poet's existence.

So, imagine the glorious morning as I stroll

into the local Mom & Pop store--

there in the cooler, next to the Rainier Ale,

is this apparition--

Big as a golden silo--

"New! Olde English 800 in 40 oz. bottles."

As an introductory offer,

the new Uberbrew was scarcely more expensive

than its punier cousin.

It didn't take a genius to do the math--

8 extra ounces into 32 is

TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT MORE BEER

for only pennies extra.

Truly, Rimbaud himself could sail his Drunken Boat

in style with such a surfeit.

Still, advances cannot be made without some sacrifices--

the new bottle was more unwieldly.

The old quarts had a tapered neck,

perfect for throwing great distances end-over-end

when you were finished and exploding dramatically

by the monkey bars in the children's play area.

The new ones had to be clutched like a football,

good if you were John Elway,

but much less effective for regular folk.

Also, the 40s stuck far out of the pocket of your pea jacket,

so everyone knew what you were up to.

So what! It was San Francisco, 1982.

Nobody cared about alcoholics back then!

Yes, with that extra dollop of beer

at last I could paint my masterpiece.

I was Baudelaire, Verlaine, Jarry and Poe all rolled up in one.

I saw God! I fell asleep in parks.

I passed out in a lot of parks back then.

Let the rapper kids on MTV sing a song about that.

Oh wait, that's right, they can't--

they're not old enough to remember it!

Only you and I, Patti, were there

and we'll always have Paris,

only, for Christ's sake--

Stop dragging Dead Romantic Poets

into it.

Chad Parenteau

Update

Poetry is not dead.

It's waiting for you

to die first.

Dares you to write

like drunk lover

dares you to care.

Tries to slip

things in your drink

and give you a room.

Hopes you'll hang

yourself with pen,

paper, a blog post.

Dreams of muse

talking you daily

into suicide.

Imagines police

find no evidence

muse spoke to you.

Wants someone

other than you

to eulogize passing.

Dan Flore III

At a Burger King 20 minutes outside of earth

I slipped off the planet

now I’m in line for a double cheeseburger

I can sense earth from here

it smells like a dumpster

and it looks like blood

I’m off somewhere outta earth

outta the century

I’m scared

and my eyes are blurry

I’m somewhere outta the moon

I look at the Milky Way in my ice cream

it’s all nonsense

to try to make sense of

how the clouds are grey, look stupid

nothing has any meaning

that’s how I know I’m close to earth again

GENX SLOB

I was sitting on the deck 

at around 3:30 in the afternoon 

when I took my final swig 

of an energy drink 

and let out this huge belch 

when this teen appeared below 

on the sidewalk 

looking up at me like 

you GenX slob 

guess you think you got all the answers 

but all you can do is sit up there 

and be disgusting 

I didn’t snarl back 'cause she was right

Joe Grieco

No Means No Country Churchyard

Let’s go back to petty tragedies

--you brought them on yourself--

like the time when postgrads came around 

to argue English prose and poets

drink after drunk, bottles downed

lost in the winedark literary labyrinth,

one lens must have fallen from your tortoiseshell glasses

When she came out from the bedroom in PJs 

“I fucking can’t stand it. Stop reading out loud. I’m trying to sleep.”

And you cocked back, “I’ll just finish this Donne,”

causing the goddess to go berserk

 and the shit to hit the crannied wall

“Okay,” you paused, you squinted

through the one extent optic still in frame, 

“Okay. I’ll stop.”

But you didn’t.

Maria A. Arana

all looks the same

the painting by my window

hovers against a grassy backdrop

that shouldn’t belong inside

even the bookcases vanish

blending into the grassy plain

 

the painting stares at me

still life on black

white highlights

accentuate the round bellies

I reach out to steady it

but my hands vanish into the green grass

 

turning away

my room spins on its side

my bed is pinned to the wall/floor

and the painting crashes down

the grass consuming me

and all is the same

 

 

Blow

missing

            missing beat

talking like the words mattered

            but steps glide

                        gliding

            past it

 

no no no

            no

he can’t use words like that

no no no

            no

he can’t come in here

    thinking like it’ll all pass

 

missing

            missing beat

thumping heart slow down

            but steps glide

                        gliding

            past it

 

then all the words unsaid

            can’t be used like that

no no no

            no

they can’t

 

Ode to a Pen

 

when I wake in the middle of the night

it is you where I reach

my fingers wrap around you

 

I can scroll down words

Recently conceived in dreams or nightmares

thoughts on scenes for my latest novel

 

when I seek comfort from the keyboard

I reach for your cylindrical body

and ink on paper ensues

 

you become the extension of what I am

what I think

thoughts which cannot escape unless jotted down

 

when the cold metal contacts my fingertips

I warm you up with my palm and together

we form the strength to produce various words on the page

 

don’t take it the wrong way

if I tire of writing

it’s only the arthritis

 

but you know you’re the first one I go to

whether black, green, blue, purple, or red

thoughts never die

Tim Tipton

Going Nowhere

Mother is at the wheel of her yellow

Porsche rolling down a California street

The son is tired and anxious

They are looking for a new home, a better home

near the mountains, near a good school,

away from the past, far away from family,

but the organization of finding one has no

shape or sense, everything is at the mercy

of random energy, taking us every which way

The search has brought us down a long

throat of a road swallowing them up

Behind them, a liquid light morning, at the

windshield a handsome hitchhiker with

cool white teeth tries seducing a ride

If the mystery is solved, the case is dropped

in the case of finding a home, the mystery is

never solved, so the case keeps on. Keep

coming up. Over and over again.

Asleep at the wheel

Shaking lines

Broken lines

Yellow lines

Solid line

Double line

Broke down

Broke down

Hitching for gas

In the dark

Stranded

Road signs

No cars, some cars

The sanctity of headlights

And turn signals

Searchlight

Spotlight

Flashing light

Carburetor

Regulators

Internal combustion

The loneliness of

The California night.

Robert Fleming

man rage

getting there is what matters most to

men.

not just in a truck but

getting off the highway

to a sext stop

to text how gray are the tire

blowout remains in the emergency kill lane.

if the road’s rest

stops would be better rest for men

then men resting off road

would eat Hostess ho hos and ding dongs

as sugar would ride down men’s throats to

esophagus to stomach

men would drink Dixie-cup

beer shots and for a dollar

men would hear you’re the smartest

and for two dollars

men would hear you’re always right

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

Nazareth as depicted on a Byzantine mosaic (Chora Church, Constantinople)

O LITTLE TOWN OF NAZARETH 1

There were no shepherds abiding in your fields,  

keeping watch over their flock by night. 

Nor angel with heavenly host appearing  

in your skies praising God, and singing,  

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth  

peace, good will toward men.”  

There were no magi 2 from the east following  

 a star till it came and stood over a niño wrapped  

in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger  

because there was no room for them in your inn. 

Nor did they fall down, worship and present  

to a baby born King of the Jews gifts of gold,  

frankincense and myrrh. 

But from you, a tiny colonial dot in the ocean  

of the Roman Empire, a carpenter was born 

and lived until he heard about a voice  

crying out in the Judaean wilderness,  

and decided to hike to the Jordan River  

and find out what’s happening. 

1 During the life of Jesus, estimates suggest that Nazareth had a population of approximately 

200 to 400 residents. — EasyAsk from a DeepSeek app

2 Astrologers

FASTERS AND FEASTERS 

Juan el Baptista’s disciples and the Pharisees had a habit of fasting. Some people asked Jesus, 

“Why do Juan ’s and the Pharisees’ disciples fast, but yours don’t?” 

Jesus answered, “How can the guests of the bridegroom fast while he is with them? They cannot, 

so long as they have him with them. 3

 “To what, then, can I compare the people of this generation? What are they like?” Jesus asked. 

“They are like children sitting in the marketplace and calling out to each other: 

While Pedro pretends he’s playing a flute, Maggie snapped her fingers and danced as she sang: 

“We played the pipe for you, 

and you did not dance.” 

Andrés clapped his hands. “Sock it to me, hot mama!” 

Santiago in a mournful baritone sang: 

“We sang a dirge, 

and you did not cry.” 

Jesus said, “For Juan el Baptista came neither eating bread nor drinking wine, and you say,”  

‘HE HAS A DEMON,” Natalia shrieks.  

“The Son of Man came eating and drinking,” Jesus said, “and you say,” 

‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and cholos” Felipe said with a snarl 

as he pointed to Jesus  

“But wisdom is proved right by all her children,” Juan said. 

“Pass the wine,” Jesus said. “I’ll drink to that.”

3

 According to Dominic Crossan Major differences between John the Baptist’s and Jesus’s 

views  was John the Baptist said, “God is coming soon—Be ready. You fast in preparation for 

what is coming.

 Jesus on the other hand said, God is already here—Be obedient. You feast in celebration for 

what is already here. A mustard seed may be small but it’s already here

 God’s imperial reign was not an apocalyptic event but a process.

Mary Mayer Shapiro

LIFETIME

Sit there

Looking out

The window

Drinking in

The sights

Enjoying

Solitude

Taking time

To smell the

Roses

Watching the

Daily routine

Of others

Hustle, bustle

No time to stop

From birth

Onwards

Play, work

School

Maybe a vacation

Or two

Then retire

Now you sit

And relax

Watch others

Run through

Life

Without living

Sitting

By the window

Take one day of rest

Think

Meditate

Put thoughts of

All work away

Wishing

You took

Time

To smell

The roses

TOAST FOR GOOD WISHES

Make a toast

Drink a sip

Do not guzzle

Gently swallow

Just consume

Do not Drain

The glass

Simply imbibe

Enjoy the taste

Listen to the

Words taken in the occasion

Birth, graduation

Wedding

Enjoy the

Moment

Words for all praises

Good wishes

Make a toast

Drink a sip

Do not guzzle

Gently swallow

Hope for

The best

UP AND DOWN 

Looking down 

From the Mountain top 

Admiring your 

Climb 

Path varied 

From hard 

To easy 

Straight 

Uphill and down 

Rocky and smooth 

Look down 

From the mountain top 

See the base 

Of the start 

Know how far  

You have come 

Touch the clouds 

Floating 

Feel the droplets 

Of water 

Over head 

Begin your 

Journy down 

Come to the foundation 

A circle of life 

Edward S Gault

 "Shot, he fell stone dead,

Having been Death's alter boy

~ Radio Hate Man.

At  the River Styx,

He saw hundreds of children

~the gunman took down.

A father himself,

He then saw the pain he caused

~ families torn apart.

Too late to mend damage done.

Too late for lives taken young"

Lynne Bronstein

What if 

What if all the guns were fired

and only the proverbial flowers of peace

emerged from the barrels?

What if all the weapons were de-weaponized

and the curse words were only to laugh at

and each hostile thought

was only met with a feeling of regret

and even the most justifiable rage

only left a lipstick kiss mark on the wall

where a fist had punched.

what if all the hate within us

simply evaporated

and we couldn't remember why we hated.

what if every time we felt angry

we took it out

in the form of a poem

or a painting

or a song

or a delicious cake

or the anger crumbled

and tears fell instead.

what if we just cried and howled

and reached out with our arms

and someone else reached back.

Jackie Chou

On the Balcony 

I drink in the nectar of the night

the sky a blanket

soaked in prune juice

The stars are puncture wounds

the waxing crescent a widening hole

where silvery streaks spill out

I drink in the syrupy rays

that permeate the mountains 

where windows open

like eyes to the city's soul

It is nights like this 

that I wonder about you 

looking back at me

among a thousand lights

Five Percent Alcohol

I drink down wine coolers without being cool

Waiting for its effervescence to rub off on me

Berry-flavored alcoholic drinks make life less cruel

Faraway I am from the aquamarine pool 

Where youth opened doors to what one could be

I drink down wine coolers without being cool 

This beating red heart is my only jewel

For I own neither a sapphire nor a ruby 

Berry-flavored alcoholic drinks make life less cruel 

For my idealism, they call me a fool

Who will heed me when I lose my beauty?

I drink down wine coolers without being cool 

I don't mind living on meager gruel

As long as what I do makes me happy 

Berry-flavored alcoholic drinks make life less cruel 

Bending, following, and defying the rules 

I immerse myself in the craft of poetry

I drink down wine coolers without being cool 

Berry-flavored alcoholic drinks make life less cruel 

Unsweetened 

I go looking for diet Snapple iced tea

only to be convinced 

by the owner of Happy Wok

to try some choice oolong

which leaves a sweet aftertaste 

I pay him for the lukewarm tea

sipping from its styrofoam cup

wondering what happened 

to my Snapple 

fruity teas and juices 

in plump glass bottles

l’d grab one from the fridge 

at the school cafeteria 

while laughter and conversations 

bubbled all around me

I make a detour now

every time I pass

the gray windows of Happy Wok 

Lynn White

Drinking Together

It was your idea to take shelter here,

warm and dry with good company, 

you said

and we could drink a coffee

until the rain stopped.

So we did.

It was fun.

But still the rain kept falling

so we played a game

took turns

to place

one hand above,

one hand below

then pushing each other away

so we could create space

for us to come together

that first time.

It was fun.

And we drink down another coffee

before we notice

that all the others had left.

Nor did we notice

that the rain had stopped.

It still makes us smile

together.

Sipping Sangria

As we drink down the white wine sangria 

between our lips and our sips,

a broken stream of words.

“It’s not that I’m not tempted,”

she said

“and I don’t want to offend you.”

She took my hand briefly, 

to show no offence 

was intended. 

I held on to hers.

Then we walked in silence

for quite a long way

enveloped in the dark night.

Hand in hand.

Quiet footsteps

that didn’t break the silence.

She looked up at me and smiled.

I smiled back.

Or was I the first to smile

and she smiled back?

I don’t remember.

It doesn’t matter,

but we still don’t remember

as we smile afresh

drinking down our white wine sangria.

It’s Bizarre Said Mike

“It’s bizarre,” said Mike,

his head sinking lower 

to drink down his pint

on the evening before

his Business Class flight.

A London stopover was agreed

with a night at a fine hotel each way.

It gave him time to go to the ANC office

for briefing or debriefing - as always on these jobs.

“It’s bizarre,”

said the Anti Apartheid campaigner,

drinking down another beer

in the back street pub.

“It’s bizarre,” 

said the Young Communist

grown older

sinking more beers.

“It’s bizarre,” 

said the Professor of Criminology,

employed by the government of South Africa 

to advise on policing the townships,

as he ordered another beer.

“It’s bizarre,” said Mike

his head sinking lower

to drink down his pint.

“It’s bizarre.” 

He ordered another beer

just in case they’d noticed,

just in case it was his last.

Written in memory of Mike Brogden

Susan Isla Tepper

Photo by Glenn Bowie

Worm

 

Midday, maybe a dozen down

from my usual spot 

where the old bar curves

 

this tall loud guy

huge bright false teeth 

biggest I ever seen 

Gets up swinging a bottle

taking his time down the line 

of hunkered drunks—

grinning, pouring.

 

Tequila! somebody sputters.

 

They drink, 

a few salute him. 

Floppy, off-kilter

his straw cowboy hats

seen better days.

 

Cigarette smoke encapsulates

the bar in a gray fog.

Free booze perks up the mood.  

By the time he gets to me

the bottle is depleted

but for a trickle.

 

His voice gone sombre

big teeth in hiding

He whispers There's still the worm.

 

Waving the bottle in my face I panic.

 

Shaking it again, he’s saying: This here is Mezcal, Missy.

That down there what you see at the bottom is holy.

Lorelei Kay

kilter blink   

the edges don’t match up today

no string to pull me through the fray

bleak clouds twist twisting in long links

suds drip dripping from my sink

      keep dripping downward in my sink

the center’s scuttling away

old blue canoe begins to sway

my skates keep sliding off the rink

my ducks all teeter on the brink

      teeter totter on the brink

inside my music’s in a haze

my downbeat tilts in disarray

all rhythm’s drumming out of sync

          my silver bells no longer clink

      tarnished bells forget their clink

sky’s turning 50 shades of gray

my Queen of Hearts lost at croquet

that Cheshire Cat can’t wink or blink

and mad March Hare won’t share his drink

      March Hare won’t even share one drink

 

loose soil beneath me slips away

world’s changed to 60 shades of gray

fat Cheshire Cat begins to shrink

damn suds keep dripping from my sink

      gray suds drip drip dripping down my sink

Tim G Young

Whiskey

I can't find the right glass for my whiskey

They're either too big or too small

So I says to myself why bother

I'll just drink off the bottle that's all

I'll just drink off my bottle of whiskey

Don't need a glass, no never a straw

Just open my mouth let the river run in

Till it's gone and I see nothing at all

Now it's later and I'm seeing double

But no shot glass was ever in view

And I'm happy in my world of whiskey

Cause now I know what to do

I'll just drink off my bottle of whiskey

Don't need a glass, no never a straw

Just open my mouth let the river run in

Till it's gone and I see nothing at all

Till I'm drunk and I see nothing at all.

Drink Down

When I drink

It goes down

Like my glass

Falls and breaks

On the ground

I better put

My shoes on

My toes exposed

Would get cut up

My bloody foot

In a stirrup

Wiggles to get free

I have to get out of here

The end whispers to me

Lawrence R Berger

Drink down

“a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down.”

but peaches don’t grow everywhere.

Caster oil has the opposite effect 

when you drink it down

I was hospitalized 

over Fourth of July weekend 2025

 for being too sweet

My bgl was 499

They wouldn’t let me eat anything 

but insulin for the first two days!

I couldn’t stop peeing!

Every ten minutes a nurse

Some males

Some females

All with two urinals a piece 

I always filled both.

On the third day it went 

To every fifteen minutes and they

 let me have a cheese omelet

best meal I’ve had in years!

Three cheers for hospital food.

A nice cognac and a good ice cream 

would have been better though. 

Charles A Perrone

three thoughts about what to drink:

festive red wine night

I deserve the very best

and so shall it be

Coffee tea or be

a new liquid still unknown

to those who imbibe

ten empty beer cans

now adorning the gutter

weekend has begun

 

Getting My Act Together

Aha! it did come to pass that the one last chalice

of wine made redder with my very own blood

should be shattered by a straying bullet shot

from a hard-bottomed glass pilfered in turn

at a local bar and grill without legal license

nor any certain geographical orientation

as line by line all the contents dispersed

while patrons went to exchange names

with diminishing returns and dreams

of future investment dancing with

the remaining customers whose

notions of reduction rode the

waves of praise and doubt

full of foam and groans

caused by subtraction

or by simply looking

at the edge of cliffs

over which some

might fall soon

or some later

rather than

at the end

of a fray

left to

drink

ante

and

an

A

Tonight I reject fright and might even have a drink

on account of our discoveries of treasure troves of

sound archives related to youthful adventures over

at the dreamy inns downtown destined to defer to

the deleterious designs of all profit-driven projects

propelling development and expansion at all costs

with no regard for the soul-saving noise needed to

make way for people-oriented spaces and decisions

about the dominions and realms and headquarters

of totally new corporations sans old-school values...

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Inebriated Life

Life goes around inebriated

looking for a place to rest

its mud stained feet.  Its

mouth needs to drink up

something with sustenance.

In its desperation to conquer

the moment it arrived at

the crossroads and the end

of the world.  The vacant

offers of inebriation is

sobering. It only lasts for

the short-term and life needs

to wake up to construct

a brighter future for itself.

Devastating

Guard your name always.

The devastating night

does not abandon you.

The noble stars burn bright

like the tigers in the sky.

The fire rages and even

the winged birds are in peril.

The rainbow has a blood clot

weighing it down.  Somewhere

over the rainbow there is a

tailless horse running away.

Fog of Skulls

For as long as I have been in existence

I have feared the fog.

I wonder about skulls buried deep down underground

and how they died.  I

believe the fog to be the spirits of the skulls

coming up from the earth.

On earth the spirits roam around.  They

divide their time as

fog and haze.  These voiceless spirits cry out

and cannot be heard.

Together they cause traffic to stop and people

to take notice.

Dean Okamura

Returning to El Tepeyac to fill the soul

 

Some people say it’s too loud, 

but don’t you like hearing laughter 

spill from another booth? 

You ever try to converse over joy? 

You ever wipe cheese off your chin 

and not care who’s watching? 

That’s what this place is for, right? 

Not silence. 

Never silence. 

You notice how we always ask for napkins? 

Extra, just in case. 

Salsa spill. 

Sudden sneeze. 

tears from a dumb joke. 

The servers. 

How long have they worked here? 

Decades, maybe. 

You probably forgot their names. 

Do you say, "thank you"? 

Or just nod 

with your mouth full? 

I always say, "thank you". 

Sometimes they call me "boss". 

You know how that goes. 

There’s art on the walls, 

faded, barely holding on. 

Doesn’t that mean something to us? 

Like, we’ve all aged here. 

And the music, 

or no music, 

it doesn’t matter, right? 

The coffee machine hums enough. 

You see the mirror? 

It doubles the room, 

but what I like is 

how it shows everyone at once. 

You ever notice the altars? 

Little saints watching us chew, 

maybe blessing the chiles 

or our cheeseburgers. 

Yeah, cheeseburgers. 

You come to a spot like this 

and order one anyway. 

Why not? 

Ever hear the forks drop? 

Yeah, me neither. 

Plates crash, 

but who cares? 

It’s just part of the rhythm. 

They wash the dishes right there. 

You okay with that? 

It’s honest, isn’t it? 

No secrets behind swinging doors. 

It’s not a holy place, 

but it’s named after one. 

You think that matters? 

I think maybe it does. 

Pepsi in Coca-Cola cups. 

Isn’t that just life? 

Any brand. 

Any cup. 

Plenty of room for both. 

In every bite, 

with every sound, 

at every table, 

there is room for everyone. 

– Written at El Tepeyac Café, East Los Angeles. The restaurant is named after Tepeyac, a Mexican site of faith.

unordered corridors

 

          My own brain is to me 

          the most unaccountable of machinery — 

          always buzzing, humming, soaring, roaring, diving, 

          and then buried in mud. 

          And why? What's this passion for?

          —Virginia Woolf in letter to Ethel Smyth (1930) 

a window down 

   beyond which 

   exists a World 

a manicured 

   Garden of 

   Corridors 

      winding Maze 

Confusion requires 

   a Chaotic 

   Approach 

to Create 

   to Organize 

   to Complete 

      a Dream 

would you 

   be lost 

if I let you in 

   my Mind? 

Andy Palasciano

Drink, Drank, Drunk

To drink is to survive;

water and the lack of it

will kill us quicker than hunger.

But to be drunk is

different.

We exploit rejoicing.

We drink to celebrate that

it is Tuesday.

This is exploitation.

But shouldn’t we celebrate

that we are alive?

This also quickly becomes exploitation.

But this exploitation makes it

seem like rejoicing is evil.

That couldn’t be further from 

the truth.  Rejoicing is a 

necessary part of the fruit-bearing process.

It is necessary for life.

But when we stop exploiting 

and shoving the drink down,

we can rejoice that we are loved,

not that it is Tuesday. 

Connie Johnson

 

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Before It Was Torn Down

I’m 18 and she’s 21

Our first traveling date

The Long Beach Pier, old Queen's Pike

November 19, 1977

I've never been

on a roller coaster before

We strap in one that circles

t

h

i

s

w

a

y

It’s called The Hammer

Then we lean in

The Bobsled Run

around and

around and around and

around and

I scream She screams

We hold on tight We get off

I stagger

About 11 feet away

my stomach comes out

thru

my

mouth

So much for the date

She escorts me slowly to my car

A big '63 Buick

with vinyl brown benches

I lie in the back

ghostly

She talks to me

leaning over the front

seat

We marry

shortly thereafter

And divorce

almost as quickly

She becomes a nurse

And I'm still reeling

out poems

 

Downtown 

Los Angeles is

the shallowest pit

 

in hell

where tormented

 

souls lie

on gray sidewalks

 

half alive

below

 

tall

money scrapers

 

tie tied workers

drive by

 

to participate

deals go down

 

like prostitutes

in public

 

restrooms as

the red sun

 

rises again

to shine on

 

the territorial

pissing

 

those demented

mind

 

gamers

try to stop

 

the idleness

of being

directionless

on one-way streets

when everyone

knows

 

this is

erehwon

 

the place

to find

 

your personal

demon

 

quaking

at all

 

the wreckage

sleeping against

 

suburban

SUV parking

 

garages conveniently

priced so high

 

near Broadway

pawn shops

 

the dress

code is black

 

skin

or clothes

 

that hide

needled holes found

 

magical

as love

within hearts

looking for

 

fallen angels

who want to die

Upside

Down

The ceiling is the floor

The floor is the ceiling

Look up at the carpet

Stand on stucco

The furniture is too high

Step up through the door

Fall into the sky

Observe streets above

Amazing how cars and trees hang there

And planes and clouds swim in lower blue

Say goodbye to the wet welkin

Gaze down to the only void

Keep falling to be surrounded by black

Giant marbles all around float along

Now up is no longer relevant

But the existence of a soul still important