The Sky is My Portrait: An Elegy by Michael Anthony Ingram

As soon as my time comes,
please allow memories to paint the sky,
not with bright colors,
but with a soft whisper.
The outline should trace the paths of dreams I have pursued, and roads I have traveled both new and old.
It ought to recount the kindness I practiced,
and the quiet strength I showed in every smile I gave out.
It should be a tapestry of love,
stitched with threads of hope from above,
not an object of ego,
but rather a soft reverberation of a remembered name, a lasting echo of me.

--

Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram, host and producer of the globally acclaimed poetry podcast Quintessential Poetry: Online Radio, YouTube, and Zoom. He is a retired university professor who champions the arts, especially poetry, to highlight issues at the intersection of power, privilege, and oppression. A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, he is also celebrated internationally as a spoken word artist. His eagerly anticipated second book of poetry, Metaphorically Screaming, will soon be released. For further details about the podcast, please visit www.qporytz.com.

Over a Decade Ago by J.J. Campbell

the people that tell
me to pray to god
make me laugh

god gave up giving
two shits about me
over a decade ago

the poems have
never been better

the alcohol tastes
better

the retort is always
if i believed in god
i would be in a
relationship

no need to make
my hands jealous
at this point of
my life

--

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, Mad Swirl, The Beatnik Cowboy and The Rye Whiskey Review. His most recent chapbook, with Casey Renee Kiser, Altered States of The Unflinching Souls, is now out in the world. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Barren by Kelly Moyer

This night,
‘kin to no other,
my pouch
remains clean,
albeit empty.

Ha! Let her,
the witching hour,
deem grief a poet.

I am nothing
but a wombat
in mourning.

--

Kelly Moyer is an accomplished poet, photographer and fiber artist, who pursues her muse through the cobbled streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter as well as the mountains of North Carolina. Hushpuppy, her collection of short-form poetry, was released last year by Nun Prophet Press. Notecards containing a few of her most popular images are available at www.etsy.com/shop/theunfazedmoon.

Traveler's Advisor by Paul Dickey

How to explain survival? Say
that coming home you caught sight,
swerved the car to avoid a deer.

Sometimes you have. It would be
in a town where you lived once,
and now drive quietly through,

Do not allow that like some fool
you may have lost the route on which
you were nearing a destination.

The flurries fixed my attention, and
I kept going. A storm then might
have caused me to alarm, pull over.

I talk to myself. Perhaps some force
wants me on streets I have not chosen.
The snow becomes heavier.

In the middle of nowhere
I lose visibility, and regain it.
A truck stop is tucked into the hills.

Safely inside, I am hungry for nothing,
but a good home-- Dutch Colonial,
four bedrooms, formal dining. Evidence

shows on me like stains on clothing:
There was no deer. In an old,
residential section, I missed my turn.

Then the road veered and startled me.
We knew that one of us had to survive.
We do not know how many of us have.

--

Paul Dickey has appeared recently in Plume, The Midwest Quarterly, Laurel Review, I-70 Review, Plainsongs, failbetter.com, and Apple Valley Review. His recent book of poetry volume was released in September, 2022 in Anti-Realism in Shadows and Suppertime. He has also released in the past year a volume of flash fiction by What My Characters Should Have Said and a poetry chapbook A Reading of Dali (Likely Misundersood) Which is Twenty Meters Becomes This Poet's Self - portrait.

The Local Diner by Brandon Shane

Has cooks with enough
rotten teeth to employ
a ward of dentists
on a twenty-four hour
schedule, and the waitresses,
waiters, all the plastic dreams
between them will ensure
a future legion of surgeons
in West LA, good or bad work
they don't care, anything
is better than the present,
especially if it's done
in white rooms
called sterile
on sheeted beds,
and they're so cool
wearing tight swimsuits
in summertime on Seal Beach,
with aching joints
that justify the painkillers
jumping in their pockets,
haggling at grocery stores
(to no luck)
and getting it back
or losing their checking
at the Hollywood Park Casino,
their car goes
when it goes,
no insurance,
no family to give a break,
just ocean wind
off the pacific coast,
with their thumb high,
hitching a ride back
to Melrose Avenue,
aside winners and losers,
all of them look the same
as everyone here shuffles mirrors
like vampires in denial,
a gentile teen writing
to be the next Bukowski,
or pretty boy with a mouthpiece
thinking there's room
for another Brando,
and the delusion is
that someone will pick them,
these future employees
of the local diner,
and they exist
on the forgettable
streets
you don't see,
trying to do
something big,
trying to do
nothing.

--

Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka Japan. You can see his work in the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Heimat Review, York Literary Review, Mersey Review, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English. Find him on Twitter @Ruishanewrites

Cinco de Mayo, 1969 by Bruce Morton

Marines don’t cry. But these did.
I saw it, I sat there and watched.
They were sucked in by the draft,
Riptide undercurrent we all feared.
Commanded by General Hersey
To report, so they reported and
Were told to stand and swear
An oath then were told to count off
By fours. By force of concentration
Tried not to lose count. Number
Threes step forward, “You are now
Marines!” Holy mother of shores
Of Montezuma! Semper shit! What
To do? Fall in. Hope to survive.

--

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

Welcome to the Darkside by JPR

Where the Queens sing show tunes and the boys all want to be girls as the girls just want to be left alone with their umm, best friends and maybe a few glasses of wine.

The polys just want to love everyone. I can't handle dealing with my issues let alone fifteen others but props to them for multi-tasking you naughty children of the night’s uncertain and often delicious promise.

To the S&M freaks who need a good spanking to all the kinks of this strange party with an exquisite soundtrack.

Minus the dipshits who hate everything and who secretly yearn to dress up like adult babies who just need to snuggle with a sweet leather daddy in the shadows. Your secret is safe with us, of course, wink wink.

To all the nutcases: if you’re not crazy then you're just plain boring or one of those other people.You know Jesus loves you but you're going to be pissed when on that sad day you arrive at those pearly gates.

To have the big boss greet you in heels and body glitter with a little poodle in hand and a pool boy within arm’s reach to look at your repressed ass and say:

“Oh girl, strip off those clothes and hop in the pool, you uptight sexy bitch, you!”

Remember you’re a socially repressed, quasi nazi. Bullshit ain't fooling nobody; we know deep down you are secretly a princess, my dear.

Come on over, sugar pants, admit it.
You always wanted to hang with freaks.
Dominatrix you surprised, saggy diapers.
Admit it turns ya on.

Dedicated to backward dipshits everywhere who hate what they all secretly yearn to be:

Free…

John Patrick Robbins passed yesterday, yet he managed to write this bio today.

He runs his cult on Knotts Island, NC, where he also runs his private zoo with his twelve wives.

He is seldom seen and is thought to be able to teleport into other dimensions. He is also the inventor of Spanx.

He recently sacrificed Scott Simmons to gain the power of never losing the remote.

He is currently working with Netflix to bring his musical to the big screen based on the life of Flipper.

He is part owner of Instagram and can secretly see all those private selfies you take in the bathroom. By the way, someone needs to flush.

He will be on tour this summer in Norway, opening for the black metal band Rotting Corpse to support their children's album Murder Your Parents And Eat Your Neighbors.

He is the author of one million books within his mind.

He is allergic to oxygen and happiness and owns a thriving cemetery business in Rhode Island.

He enjoys serial killing and collecting the finger paintings of Betty White.

He is recorded in the Guinness Book of World Records as the Greatest Bio-writer in history.

He has never eaten at the Olive Garden.

He likes fine wines and boobs.
You read this entire thing.
You really need a hobby or a cocktail.

Or maybe some soothing shock therapy to celebrate Mental Health Awareness Month.

Also, everyone is out to get you. But no, your house isn't haunted because even invisible people don't like you.

He is also an Employee of the Month down at the Piggly Wiggly.

So, suck it and have a nice day.