John Gartland

Nong Kai Train

An old Bangkok hand, 
was drinking with me 
on the Nong Kai train.
“Same old story, I’m afraid,
‘Don’t ever rent a room without 
a spy-hole and a chain, my friend.
The girl says she’ll get more to smoke,
and calls someone, then gets the door,
they burst into your hotel room,
she’s gone, and now you’re ransom bait 
for crooked cop extortionists
that work out of their station
in Thong Lo.
Your wrists are cut from
handcuffs, for a while, but …

The girl? … sold you out
to stay out of jail, probably.
None of them want to go back
to the monkey house, certainly.

In the station, as cops pocketed 
my cash, and checked my cards,
I recognized the officer in charge
as one of my ex-graduates 
from TLAK University. He’d been one 
of the few with any English skills.
Guess the family business never will be
sexy as the drug trade in a uniform.”

He laughed aloud, as the night blew in, 
and the fields rushed by,
and I’d rate that as a major high,
that night on the Nong Kai train.

“I got off with a less than crippling bribe.
He wouldn’t want the TLAK Alumni
tribe at their bullshit banquets,
hearing he’s corrupt. But, after all,
why else do people join the police?”

Never, never rent a room without 
a spyhole and a chain.
Sounds like a comic opera song 
or some virginal refrain; 
or the cool night breeze 
he’s shooting 
on the Nong Kai train.

“You bear the wounds of handcuffs
for a while, but …
that gut-paranoia never goes,
ammoniac fear that whips you sober.
Could be a social paradigm in there, 
who knows? For students of police states.”

The steward brought more drinks;
and the night was far from over;
with a sweet breeze off the ricelands,
as the night blew in, 
and the fields rushed by;
and we rode, with the immortals, 
on the night train to Nong Kai.

Kristin Garth

Mausoleum 

Manifest a mausoleum of the miniature house father fabricated the fall you turn four.  Erected where the backyard abuts the meadow and the edge of the marsh, you are instructed of its cherry wallpapered purpose before you skip through the bee balm towards it in a periwinkle pinafore.  

Enter a door without any bolts, too scant for adults, a place only accessible to the most minuscule.  Play there, wile away long summer days in a tiara and your step-mother’s borrowed jewels, practicing the rituals of becoming a nobleman’s spouse.  Perfect patrician place settings, calligraphy and walk in plastic kitten heels until you are old enough to be of use.  Old enough a father can ignore how you feel.  Can no longer crouch beneath its childish ceilings, cower inside its cedar pretense.  

Father offers your hand in town and considers candidates while you, morose, in a marsh in a gingham babydoll dress, layer two sets of long leather gloves — only the gardener ever requests you dress for experimentation rather than love; the very same man who taught you the names of each plant, the noxious as well as the nice.  Though he does not have a clue the power you derive from his horticultural advice. 

Fill your covered fingers then coffers with what resembles dried Queen Anne’s Lace though you would tell the truth of their toxins if anyone ever bothered to asked — 

water hemlock you save for your final disgrace Wind some around your locks as a crown.  Drown sorrows in a skeleton bridal teacup, hand painted at 12 and stored four more years safely away.  You knew the next time you would see it, it would summon tears with the most toxic of teas one must sip on that most miserable day.  It’s kept in the back of the cupboard in the too-small house where you played.  Skin a hip on its jamb as you crawl.  Another season, you would be married away away or no longer fit inside of this place at all.  Happiness you are outgrowing.  Rest in peace where you were small.  

Preacher Allgood

out of my league

a night so cold 
the river to hell froze over 
and I hotwired a Kawasaki mule
and I spun and skidded my way back among the living

why, the living asked

because, I said
I saw the ice
I saw the mule 
I didn’t hesitate
I didn’t deliberate
I didn’t ponder the consequences
I just hopped on
and goosed the shit out of the motor

no, the living protested
you didn’t want to be one of us when you were here
you wrote horrible things about us in your poems
you refused to make small talk with us in checkout lines
you spit on our holidays and mocked our beliefs
why would you come back and bedevil us?

for the cheap beer at Vern’s Tavern
and a game of eightball
I inform them

too many superb hustlers in perdition
they beat me every time
I’m so out of my league
I’ve been barred from the tables for eternity

Robert Guffey

mom 2.0

what’s far more painful than your absence
is the knowledge that you
lied to me 
and snuck around 
behind my 
back 
and refused to discuss your
feelings with me, 
despite the fact that for ten months I had to endure constant 
accusations
of lying cheating satanic sacrifice and murder, despite the fact that every emotion 
i could give 
was given willingly
with no strings attached, no recompense demanded–
except for openness 
and 
honesty.

odd,
now that i think about it,
how much you resent your mom for cheating on your
dad,
how much you resent her for not appreciating all he 
sacrificed for you, your sister, your mother,
how much you resent her for playing games with your dad’s emotions,
how much you resent her compulsion to shut down her heart when situations get too stressful,
how much you resent her for running away rather than face a difficult situation head-on,
how much you resent her for molding you into a newer,
more elegant and sleeker version,
of her.

Judge Santiago Burdon

Bad Poetry is Bad Poetry 

“I just can’t figure it out,” she moaned. “No one seems to be reading my poems. I post them in my writing groups and even on the rest of those bullshit social media sites. I’m not getting any comments or likes.” She

“Wish I had an answer for you.”

“I’ve been thinking I should change the font of my poems. Maybe print them in a classical style format. I know, then post them over an image of a scene that captures the poems’ themes. What do you think?”

“My opinion isn’t important. I’m not at all familiar with how to present a piece of literature. Marketing is a mystery to me. I have no taste. People think I suffer from ageusia.

It was my poor excuse for not wanting to give her the actual reason.

“Why won’t you answer my question? I would really appreciate your professional critique. I’m trying to reach a larger audience and I believe the reason for my poor readership is the way my poems are presented. If I make them more attractive by adding a few features to capture their attention, I will become more popular and recognized. Don’t you believe it’s true? Tell me what you think.”

“My professional opinion? I’m not sure I can be categorized as a professional. Okay, if you want my take on your conundrum I’ll offer my honest assessment. And please don’t get all defensive and uptight and shit. Don’t take it as a personal attack.”

“Of course not. I know you’ll be honest. Why are you going to put me down?”

“I’m going to offer my opinion.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“I think you’re way off course. You’re not seeing where the actual problem lies. The early classic poets didn’t have social media and marketing tools available to dress up their work. Dylan Thomas, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson and the Beat Poets as well, their poems became favored because of the content. The poem stood as a great piece of literature solely on the words alone. What is your reason for writing a poem?”

“I’m not really sure. I guess because it is something that is easy for me to do. Plus I think I can become famous and wealthy for my poems.”

“Your purpose for writing a poem is insincere. If your intention is to use it as a tool to attempt to win a popularity contest, receive sympathy, praise or become famous and shit like that, then you’ve missed what the purpose of poetry is about.”

“What, you don’t think I’m a real poet?”

“I think anyone that creates a poem is a poet. But not every poet is talented. Some just produce ‘bad poetry’ pablum, doggerel, drivel or pure shit.”

“So you think my poetry is shit?”

“Your poetry is always about you. About your thoughts, desires and dreams. You believe your experiences, your emotions and your opinions are as important to everyone else as they are to you. ‘Just because it happened to you doesn’t make it interesting’. You’re so depressed, so misunderstood. What I interpret from the poem is that it’s a pathetic cry for attention and sympathy. Then there’s the sappy, cheesy love poems filled with grammar school rhymes and overused phrases. Love and dove or above, home and roam. When’s the last time you roamed? Pure shit. How can anyone not see their poems as mediocre or ordinary? You’ve spent more time thinking about and planning the its presentation than the 10 minutes you spent creating the poem itself. And then you use cliches and idioms that were created by someone else and have been overused, worn out. Have you ever considered the fact you may just be a shitty poet? And as far as your ideas to gain attention, when I see a poem overlayed on a picture with fancy, hard-to-read fonts in some jumbled format, I don’t even take the time to read the title. I think if it takes all of that bullshit to giftwrap the poem, its content can’t possibly be worthwhile. Then people wonder why their poem has been rejected by every magazine they’ve sent it to.”

“You don’t have to be so mean. I just asked for help, not your degradation. Ya know what, fuck you. Your opinion doesn’t make you right.”

“That’s correct, I never claimed to be right. I said I would give you my honest opinion.”

“No sex for you until, when? Maybe forever.”

“If that’s the case I may as well add one other point. I see it so often that a poem with a creative theme turns into a mumbling, stuttering piece of rhymed words, completely losing the poem’s original theme. The emotions become secondary to a line or verse written to appease the rhyme. What’s left is that the feel becomes lost in a mixture of tangled words.”

“What makes you Mr. Know it All, huh? I don’t see your books on the bestseller list or your poems being quoted. Just who do you think you are?”

“Guess I shouldn’t have said anything like the hundreds of others that don’t read or comment on your poetry. Now here you are reacting exactly like everyone that doesn’t receive flattering comments. You said you wouldn’t become defensive. You believe everyone should shower you with praise. Do you know what else I see as a problem? There’s this undeserving praise or kudos given to someone who obviously has no talent for writing. They post their poetry and it receives a false positive response. What people are doing with their bullshit comments of approval is giving the person an unrealistic assessment of their writing. An untruthful evaluation of their poem or talent is a cruel act. False encouragement will backfire on them sometime. It’s considered being nice, but I’d rather have an honest critique of my writing, positive or not, instead of bullshit. I don’t need anyone to be nice, I prefer the truth. 

“You hurt my feelings. I thought you would give me advice, not belittle me. You don’t know what being nice is.”

“Please, whatever you do, don’t write a poem about it, trust me. I’m sorry if you’re upset but it’s just the way I see things. Ya know what, didn’t you take some painting classes a couple years back? Maybe you should take a shot at being an artist instead.”

Ken Kakareka

Jam

Now I know why 
Bukowski quit at 35 
and went on 
a 10 year drunk 
after 10 years
of hammering 
the keys 
with little 
to no return

I am in 
a similar boat
35 is a scary age – 
especially when 
you’ve worked 
so hard 
for so long 
at something 
with little to show

Especially in 
a society where 
we have to show
Maybe that’s why 
show and tell 
was such a big deal 
in grade school
Maybe that’s why 
there was so much 
ridicule 
if you didn’t have 
much to show

Bukowski didn’t have 
much to show 
after 10 years of 
pouring his soul 
through words, 
so he quit 
temporarily
Luckily, 
he bounced back
I don’t know 
if I’d be so lucky 
if I quit

I’m trying to use 
the wisdom at hand 
not to quit
It’s not my wisdom, 
but I’ll borrow it 
for the time being 
if it gets me 
out of a jam

Daniel S. Irwin

The Stranger

Now, here’s a bearded wonder
Wandering into the bar,
Red suit, boots, hat and all.
“Ho, ho, ho!  Drinks all ‘round!
When Santa drinks,
Everybody drinks.”  Okay,
Fine by me.  He could be
Tinkerbell for all I care.
But, I’ll have a drink
Or two or three on him.
Whoever this guy was,
He came in on ‘empty’.
Guzzled down whatever
Like he was a fish.  Hell of a
Dayshift bender.  Ol’ Nick
Could really put it away.
Then he headed to the door,
“Merry Christmas to all!”
Barkeep says, “Who’s payin’
For all this booze, Santa?”
“Why, my elves of course.”
“What elves, Mr. Claus?”
“My elves, everyone drinkin’
Here with me.”  Ain’t nobody
Pullin’ that stuff at Fred’s Bar.
Me, and the rest of the ‘elves’
Ran out the door chasing after
That fat bastard.  Didn’t matter.
He eluded us all.  That’s the fastest
I’ve ever seen a fat man run.
Drained our pockets and gave us
A good reason to look forward
To Santa’s next Christmas visit.
We’ll surely be waiting with
Milk and cookies and a
Baseball bat.

Damon Hubbs

Impression

after Thom Gunn’s ‘Expression’

for several months I’ve been reading
the poetry of my juniors
or maybe they’re my contemporaries
it’s hard to tell 

who’s who these days
there’s so many voices 
battling in best of 
the beat cover bands

and there’s still much talk 
of Mother, the abandoner
and Daddy, the angry alcoholic 
both hated equally

however 
all that hatred 
was confessed better 
long ago.  

I go to the Art Museum 
though I’m not sure what it is 
I’m looking for 

Pop Art 
doesn’t pop 
and Impressionism 
fails to make 
an impression 

then I reach it, I recognize it

I’ve acquired a taste 
more primary than art considers proper
so I head out the emergency exit 
to find a blowjob and a sandwich.  

John Tustin

Sex Games 

You could be younger
and getting wet thinking about
dancing for me,
aiming to please;
shaking that phat azz at the edge of my bed
while I get all worked up
over that mesmerizing shimmering flesh

or you could be getting old like me,
wanting the attention someone else
has made you feel like you don’t deserve,
finally emerging from that pit and into my arms,
wanting to be pawed all over.

I’ve played these sex games for decades
with women I’ve met –
at work
on social media
between the stacks of library books –
but it’s rarely worked out
and when it has,
it hasn’t been for long.
Now I’ve stopped looking
but I oddly haven’t given up hope.

If you think every whisper in the ear
must be I Love You
or if you think some words are never nice
and your gender studies professor 
or psychotherapist belongs in bed with us,
then maybe we should both look elsewhere:

and if you think rough sex just means
a man thrusting as quickly as he can
and if you think that being submissive
in bed 
just means letting him thrust like that
then it was nice meeting you
but let’s not waste each other’s time
any further:

I can’t thrust that hard anymore.

Robert Guffey

flop flip

she says, “this smokin’ hot japanese girl at the vegetarian  
restaurant down the street 
has been flirting with me every day.  she keeps asking 
to see all my tattoos, just to make me lift up my 
shirt and stuff—you know that ploy.  I think you used 
it on me, didn’t you?  she came all the way into fingerprint’s
just to give me some free coffee.  she used to 
have a multi-colored mohawk, but now she’s 
growing it out.  her tats are as hot as her tight body.  oh, 
man, I don’t know if I can take it anymore.  would you 
mind if I fucked this cunt in front of you and get it 
out of the way before I go ahead and cheat on you with
this little bitch?”

I say, “jesus!  why the fuck not?  how soon can we 
get this to happen?”

she says, “oh my god, I can’t believe it.  you would do 
that?  you think so little of our relationship that you’d 
let some chick you’ve never even met before fuck me
right in front of you?  how could you even stand to watch 
that happen?  how?  how?”

I whisper, “but… I… thought… you wanted that to 
happen.”

she says, “it doesn’t matter what i want.  what are your
priorities?  what matters most to you?  that’s what’s
important here.  is nothing sacred to you?  what’s wrong
with you?”