A Plunge into the River

can’t escape the blank slate
that chalk can’t ride
letters, much less words,
fall
hit their cursive heads
flatten like an education
without liberal arts
or song
or the articulation of questions

words fly by in the mind
river-moon-sky-fire
a rote of words
sheep or baseball batting averages
or the earworm of an Annie Lennox tune

I say river to myself
leap in, am carried away by the current
the froth
the rapid bounce and dash
flash of a cry for help
but
thrown out
nothing to say
like Heraclitus
just an average Greek
clinging to Athena’s ankles
asking to be saved
from Sparta, Xerxes, Thermopylae
the river of arrows in a narrow
pass
a history test of fact, fiction
and don’t ask
for Socratic logic
in a poem flowing
through the sound and texture of words
bird songs greet the sun
poets run, leap into language
cannonball
what a splash!
and some poems drown
because they are about nothing
really
really?
the quibblers come with arrows, axes
critical seminar notes
boats don’t float
that violate the academics
the middle-aged ladies
throwing fruits, vegetables
haughty little *******
and that word I’d write
except I’m not into hip hop
so let us wrap the rap
and look on the river flowing past
looks like the water fallen
from Niagara
the chop and plop
in the narrow canyon
sluicing to the St. Lawrence

I am on the bank
left bank
being liberal
and wannabe French
I watch nonsense
say Dada
but he is dead
that makes me sad

Ash(ley) is a country-girl, romantic scum, pastoral eroticism poet. She’s genre fluid; and her style—she got it at Ross and stock shows. Her poetry as been put blished in Bullshit Lit’s Second Anthology, Tiny Spoon, Sage Cigarettes, and SWAMP.

Instagram: @c.ash_m
Twitter: @ash_m_c

Every time I get paid, I always go straight to the grocery store to buy new panties. Always thinking that they are going to fit me perfectly and I am going to look soooo sexy—like the models on the packages…always look so effortlessly mature, classy, wise… with their French Cut casual sex glamour.

But when I get home, it’s always the same. Polyester chaffing, loose elastic wedgie, poor fit sadness. Yet I can’t stop buying panties from the grocery store. I am hooked. So now, I turn my panties into canvases for words that share some lessons I learn or reflections I ponder while wearing them.

Fruit of the Loom Claim to Fame: Poliester Princess

These panties were worn when I finally fucked my hot crush and right when things were getting hot and heavy, he asked what I wanted… I said “Cómeme con los chones puestos. (Eat me with my panties on.)” and he said “mmmm que rico sabe el poliester. (Mmmm polyester is tasty.)”

Fruit of the Loom Health PSA: “COME FRUTA: para lograr una pH vaginal adecuado.” / “EAT FRUIT: To achieve a balanced vaginal pH.”

I wore these panties the second time I fucked my hot crush. And since I had been on a poor-poet diet of sardines and rice for a long time, I made sure to eat my fruits and veggies for a balanced pH… and less of a polyester, iron rich experience.

Fruit of the Loom Reality Check: I swore I’d never wear granny panties.

I remember the times I would see my mom in granny panties. She was maybe in her early thirties and I, a fashionable middle schooler who saved money for fancy panties at Ross. I always told my mom, “I will never wear granny panties when I get older.” And here I am now. Never say never.

Vividly playful, lyrical and savage, this collection is a hell-raising romp through the dreamscape-daze and knightless badlands of sleepwalking hearts bleeding out, and rag dolls rubbed raw. No apologies, no rules, no nightlights and absolutely no rest for the crybabys, Let NightMARE tuck you in for a lucid-dark lullaby. You’ll wake up rocking if you can relate to the hell-and-back heroine.

Nobody puts this cunt in the corner, or shoves her in the backseat. Not too bright…

Kiser’s irresistible quip and lyrical dark humor reigns in this brand new punk poetry collection w/savory horror undertones. “Ruthless and borderline everything, including campy yet, blissfully dark and weird as waking life.”

— RaVenGh o st Press

Close your eyes tight and pull the covers over your head, but there is no escaping the dark disco-ball delirium of NightMARE Crush. Kiser digs deep to exhume the bones of things most of us would rather leave buried, a menagerie of living terrors and undead traumas guaranteed to send your therapist to their therapist ad infinitum. Take my advice and don’t get on her bad side, unless you want to wind up in a poem.

—Arthur Graham, Editor in Chief of Horror Sleaze Trash

BUY A COPY HERE

“The world discovered Van Gogh after he was dead. Please world—discover Mather Schneider while he’s still alive. He’s that good. And The Bacanora Notebooks is Schneider at his best.”

-Mark Rogers, author of Uppercut

“A love story set in an American southwest colored by housefires and dumps, and bacanora. Frijoles charlas cervezas sudor pobreza plata y amor, stick your nose in Schneider’s working man’s border bible. One of the great reads of 2023, or any other year. Gritty and unapologetic.”

-Colin Gee, author of Lips

“In polished vignettes, Schneiders stripped-down prose exposes the hypocrisy, selfishness, and petty cruelty that’s ubiquitous these days, at the same time expressing great tenderness and compassion for both victims and perpetrators.”

-Mark Parsons, poet

BUY A COPY HERE

Leslie

She was desperate,
on the edge,
she was crazy,
she was beautiful,
she was doomed,
abused,
neglected,
cast aside
by family
and friends,
she was lonely
and vulnerable,
perhaps, naïve,
she was honest,
she was lost,
abandoned,
cast into a
desperation
and into
drugs and
prostitution
and beatings
and 
homelessness,
she was strong
and graceful
and held it
together
before she
fled the scene
into suicide
from the roof
of a 
multi-storey
carpark.

Poppie

I want to write a poem about losing my virginity, not the erotic awkward momentousness of the act, but the one second where I’m on the mattress of a creaky fold-out couch in this tiny, dingy studio with the radiators hissing and I’ve already come once before even entering this young woman who is nine years my senior but who somehow thinks—I know how, I lied to her—that I’m actually four years older than her—and yet I’m nineteen, I’m still raring to go and go and go and her tits are nice though I’m not even really sure I like her but she likes me and that’s more than enough and she tells me soft-like, sexy, in a purring tone I’ve never heard before outside of pornos and once through a motel room’s thin walls, to put my dark little dick between her white, white tits and she has these big green eyes, her second nicest feature, the first being that she wants to fuck me, and I shake my head like Jerry refusing to eat the food Poppie made, you know the episode, because Poppie is sloppy, because Poppie didn’t wash his hands after he took a shit, but I don’t know what this refusal means or suggests or reveals, because I’m hard and she’s wet and I’m nineteen. I want to write a poem about that but I don’t know where to start.

Demon Therapy 

At eight O’clock on Saturday night Duke and Sally heard some thumping from the bedroom.  They climbed the stairs with baseball bats and slowly opened the door. 

They saw a couple of humanoid giants on top of each other thrashing about. 

Duke “Night Angel – you’re back.  I haven’t seen you ….“ 

Sally interrupts “And Night Monster.  You too?” 

Night Angel explained “That’s right.  The two of us helped you with your –uh-difficulties – before you got married with the workouts we gave you.  We snuck in the last few days at night.  It looks like you could use us again.  We decided to practice some of our lessons before you showed up.” 

“What do you mean?” Duke asked. 

Night Monster explained “You don’t even touch each other much anymore.  You’re too young to give up on the sexual side of life.” 

“It’s not true, Sally and I got it on just, uh when was it Sally?” 

“This year for sure.” 

“Ok, tell us this.  Can the two of you take a refresher course?” 

The humans looked at each other, thought about what they were doing up until the last couple of years and said “Sure.” 

Night Angel said “OK, let’s start with the basics.  You both work.  Try not to take anything home with you. Cut down on the alcohol and fast food.  Eat healthy food.  Get outdoors and move around as much as possible without wearing yourself out.  See if meditation will clear your mind.  Try to follow those steps for about a month before you go for more intimacy.  You have to get both body and mind in shape.  Hugging and kissing help too.” 

Ten days after the initial session a package from N. Monster and N. Angel appeared on their doorstep.  Sally picked it up and asked Duke “How do demons send packages?” 

“They must do it at night.  Maybe they have a side hustle we don’t know about and have a checking or credit account.  They wouldn’t have any trouble selling their bodies to get the cash and could have done all of their ordering at night.  Let’s see what it is.” 

The package had brightly colored manuals and toys.  A note told them to have a blast.  Over that evening and into the next morning they had used ten kilowatts of electricity powering the gadgets and made it 12% of the way through the 2021 edition of the Readers Digest Kama Sutra.  

After a couple of months, the night demons visited the humans after sunset on a Friday.  Night Angel asked if they knew what a fluffer was Duke blushed and said that he did, and Sally nodded.  Night Angel said “Each of you could act as the fluffer for the other to prepare for sex.  Suction and manual stimulation works for both brands of genitals.  Have you done that before?” 

Both humans nodded.  More to the point, Duke said “We’re ahead of you there.  We have gotten the spark back with your excellent tutelage.  We discussed this yesterday and thought that we were ready for our final exam.” 

Night Angel told them “Go for it guys.  We like to watch, just like that guy in the movies.” 

Duke and Sally performed the three act play that they had researched the previous night.  Act one, fluffing like1999 in a Little Red Corvette.  Act two, reverse cowgirl.  Act three, a temporarily exhausted Duke struggled through missionary with an equally exhausted Sally. 

Towards the end of the show Night Monster and Night Angel were on their feet cheering and clapping. 

Duke thanked them and said “There is no way we can thank you for all that you did for us, but Sally and I were thinking if you could let us get a little rest and come back a couple hours before sunrise, we could, uhh … . 

Night Angel smiled and responded “I like the way you think.  You two were always our favorite humans.”

After a couple of hours before daylight the demons returned.  Partners were traded, new ideas were tried, and all of the parties were pleased.  As was always the case the demons disappeared at daylight leaving two very happy and tired humans to sleep all day Saturday. 

When they did get up, Sally said “What a visit.  Night Demon really touched me.” 

Duke asked “Emotionally?” 

“No, all the way to the uterus, with tongue and dick.” 

Duke smiled “I hear you.  Night Angel’s tongue and lips.  Mmmmmmmmmm.” 

Sally answered the phone and listened for about a minute.  “Good news.  Our demon buddies think that they should check on us once a month.” 

The Buddha in the Key Largo Swimming Pool

Ten potbellied air compressors 
sitting 
in the shallow end. 

They have come from the panhandle. 
They have come to release the pressure valve. 

They have come with Yeti coolers
brimming with Bud Light, 
bags of shrimp, other delights.

And on their radio: songs of pride.

These men are patriots. 

These men are men 
by almost anyone’s definition. 

But they are lesser 
versions
of their leader, the largest, the XL 
potbellied
air compressor. 

He sits in the center 
like Buddha 
in blue-lensed sunglasses, 
his massive arms propped on the ledge, 
his ten-gallon straw hat lolling 
as he proselytizes 
about somethingorother. 

I wade across the pool to find out what. 
I figure
it must be profound 
considering
all the reverence they’re giving him.

Then I hear it: “I sold that 
lot for two-and-a-half.” 

That’s all. 

But punctuated 
with a belch, and a thrust of his arm 
toward 
the Yeti cooler. 

“More,” he tells one 
of his
underlings.

And is served. 

Love Never Dies

In my nightmares
she’s still an idol
standing at the kitchen table
and gnawing at my fibula.

I remember red liquid
dripping down her neck.
She smiled and offered me a kidney.
“Where did you get it?”
An awkward shrug:
her right clavicle was in my hair.
“The neighbor came around.
The rest of him is gone.”

She fed a kiss to me,
a satiated lie.
It was her lover
I tasted in my throat
and then her screams and her despair
as I approached her with a knife.

And when I was alone,
I vomited her eyes up with a sigh.

Distraction Under the Sad Sonoran Sun

Two portable radios 
on two different stations,

one American sports talk radio,
the other Mexican music, sit side 

by side on the outside window sill
as a kind of fucked up compromise

while my Mexican wife and I work 
at grunt chores in the yard, 

pretending we are free  
of financial pressure, 

free of the imminence 
of old age,

free of the hatred in our hearts
and the numbness of our fingers

and have only the sunflowers
and arugula to worry about.