Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Five Poems By Jay Passer

Jay Passer's work has been all over the place and he has had a couple chaps published just last year, from Pski's Porch and Alien Buddha.


lingering at the bottom of a lake
fragile as cellophane 
the type that gets lodged in the throat of a fish
prior to suffocation.

I’ve been reading mysteries
and masturbating frequently
as the oceans infinitely roar
while the sky owns its own patent on symphony.

in the cosmic sense I just arrived
but I’ve pretty much had it up to here
an effortless drop in the bucket
a ballet performed on a frozen minefield


I am so tired
Tied to the bedposts
Revenge style

I write down thoughts
Like haiku
Without any poetic license

Medical examiners
Get away with more
Bad career moves

Locked up in the secured wing
Simmering in the soup
Of the sad-ass soul

I am exhausted
Looking forward to


how would you like 
to be
your mirror image
your trapped spirit animal
your incapacitating injury
your debilitating disease

covered by daddy’s insurance

don’t ask the billionaires for any help
your film idols
sports stars
entertainment whores

the animals covered with oil
after a tanker spill
the journalist posing the
these things matter little

when you’re extinct

quit texting your booty
you fucking self-serving

everybody oughta know

the duck
is your mortal


I’m thankful it’s raining today.
It justifies staying home, lying in bed
And not being shot by some maniac on the street.

Of course, an earthquake could hit
Or the psychopath in the White House could go nuclear
But today I’m optimistic.

If I were a hummingbird
I wouldn’t be thinking about anything like this
But I know I’d be glad for the rain as well


I know they won’t
but they ought to preserve my body 
for the scars alone
for proof of existence
scars don’t come easily

surely they’ll archive the Ray-Bans
for what they’ve seen through is
as hideous 
as a World War
sweating in the pocket of your pants

Monday, February 11, 2019

Three Poems By Andrew Rihn

Andrew Rihn is a writer of essays, poems, and scholarly articles. He is the author of several chapbooks, including America Plops and Fizzes (sunnyoutside press) and The Rust Belt MRI (Pudding House). Along with his wife, the writer Donora A. Rihn, he co-authored the chapbooks The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: An Election Cycle (Moria Books/ Locofo Chaps) and The Day of Small Things (Really Serious Literature). Together, they live in Portage Lakes, OH with their two rescue dogs.

morning song insurgent

we held
each other
like empty hands

we cradled
the open palms
of words

apocalypse blooming
like a fist 
with blood


not fitting
inside my own

between face
and mask.

between pain
and killer.

Burn the old leaves.
This is the way we build.

Today, The End of the World

Apocalypse: from the Greek,
to uncover, to reveal.

As you fly between this bad city
and the heat of my dry heart,
reveal the silence in our veins,
their brutal awakening.

According to my theory: I am here,  
almost apparition, a poem

with lines and phrases built
from anonymous statue,

threatening disdainful and
malicious prayer, threatening
to bring us to ruin.

Sunday, February 10, 2019

Poems By James D. Casey IV

James D. Casey IV is the author of six full-length collections of poetry, and Founder/Editor-in-Chief of Cajun Mutt Press. His work has also been extensively published by small press venues and literary magazines including Outlaw Poetry Network, Mad Swirl, Zombie Logic Review, Oddball Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy, Medusa's Kitchen, Triadæ Magazine, Clockwise Cat, and several others internationally. James is a southern poet with roots in Louisiana & Mississippi, currently residing in Illinois with his Beautiful Muse, their retarded dog, and two black cats.

Links to his books and other projects can be found here :

In a Band in the Rain in my Head

floating through the
Hall of Mystics
living in a dream
within a dream

slipping between realities
from planet to planet
star to star
dancing the dance of
a thousand sorrows

and the joy of
never living in one
for too long
so I don't get bored
running from the shadows
on cold nights under
chrome and glass

using regions of the
brain seldom used
feeling like a bad connection
to a whisper in the dark

here there is something
stronger than a hallucination

imagining I’m a changeling
imagining I’m a cyborg
imagining I’m a devil
imagining I’m a god
imagining I’m a poet
imagining I’m a postcard
imagining I’m a candle
imagining I’m crazy

keeping it all inside
loving every minute of it

in a band
in the rain
in my head

playing strange instruments
no one’s ever seen
let alone heard

it gets weird sometimes
but I love weird

once I caught myself dancing
to This Must be the Place
by David Byrne 
on repeat
wearing a big strap-on dildo 
carrying a butcher knife
slashing and fucking the air
to the beat

when things get crazy
all you can do is go with the flow
jump over the edge

the less we say about it
the better

imagine opening a window
imagine opening a door
imagine opening time

and stepping inside

when you can’t tell
one god from another

no skin color
no creed
no war

time isn’t holding us
time isn’t after us

just pale soulful light beings
from different planets
in this crazy magick ceremony
called life
in so many different dimensions
same as it ever was

Two by Two by Two

Blown mind slaves
upon the midnight hour,
in static
gone mad.
Lost in medicine chants.
Worshiping a liquid moon.
on lunar dunes,
no ordinary world.
A rotting deity
plays maracas
underneath a crystal
about the children of
cat people
with chatoyant eyes,
yet alluring.

Calling out lissome beings,
from in-between the mortar
of an evocatively bricked 

All standing
in a crooked line,
two by two
by two,
outside a wrought iron gate
in the land of Nod.

The entrance
to the final realm.
Here between reality and 
the devil's playground.
Most lack the wherewithal
made of fool's gold
to pay the cover fee, but
not this fool, I just so happen 
to be a card-carrying member.

Tripped the Light Fantastic

A cosmic rendezvous
At the Devil's Thumb
A seedy bar & grill
On the south side of the Milky Way
With alien gangsters from X Nibiru

They demanded to speak with the manager
Because their meat was undercooked
Mine was just fine
But then
Of course
I was high on space junk

The pink is better than the white
Good shit I tell ya

The manager man
If that's what you'd call it
Arrived at our table
With pug dog eyes
Protruding from a 
Thumb-like head
Speaking in clicks & whistles

My friends shot him on the spot
Killed him dead

They all laughed
I laughed along
Even though my blood
Felt like green jello

Fear is a funny thing

They threw a chunk of gold
Onto the table
Tipped the waitress
With some of the pink junk
And we tripped the light fantastic
Riding a shooting star
Down to the next whiskey bar

Gotta love those space gangsters
They keep it interesting for sure
But at that point
I knew
I was in way over my head

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

Poetry By David Boski

Poetry by David Boski

regretful ending

let’s yell at each other 
and call each other 
say things 
we can’t take
cause if we 
just go about this
like two mature adults
we won’t 
f e e e e e e l
now will we? 
go ahead 
let it all out
call me an asshole
tell me I’m a piece of
tell me I’ll always
be alone
and that I don’t
your love
or any love 
for that matter
but when you finish
it’s my turn
and I have a lot 
of things I’d like
to get off 
my chest
a lot of things
we’ll both regret 
later on 
but by then
it’ll be 
too late

A Scent

you always smell like
cigarettes and 
laundry detergent
she said 
we both lay there
post orgasm
waiting for the drugs 
to wear off
so we could
fall asleep
knowing that this
wouldn’t last
but enjoying 
the momentary 


it all drains you

. . .

the arguing
the fighting
the menial tasks
the day to day
the job
the relationships
your friends
your family 
the drugs
the alcohol
the madness
the death
the news
social media
phone calls
text messages

and so on
and so forth
and there’s nothing
we can do 
about it
which makes it
that much more

Urine Trouble

I awoke to what I thought was a running drain or a leak of some sort, when I noticed her sitting

at the edge of the bed.

“You hear that?” I asked annoyed, but she didn’t respond.

she had come to my place wasted earlier that night, and that’s when I realized what was


“Jesus Christ, are you fucking pissing on the floor?” I asked as I reached to turn on the light

switch in an angry panic.

The answer was no, she wasn’t relieving herself on the floor but rather the mattress itself.
“Sara, you pissed on the fucking bed!” I yelled as I tried shaking her awake.

“wh…uh…at” she slurred.

“what do you mean what? you pissed on the fucking mattress you fucking cunt”
“oh shit, I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one” she replied, suddenly awake.
Perhaps due to my yelling or maybe because she was sitting in a puddle of her own piss.

“It fucking stinks, where the fuck are we going to sleep?”

“I’ll get you a new fucking mattress. I’ll send you the money for it!” she yelled back at me.

“no, no, fuck that. you’re done, that’s it.”
“you’re breaking up with me?” she asked confused.

“yes, get the fuck out. I have to get rid of this and sleep on the fucking couch.”
“fine, I’ll send you the money you fucking asshole” she said as she finished getting dressed and

putting on her shoes.
. . .

The next day she transferred me the money for the mattress, but I sent it back and I took her

back instead.

A month later we broke up again.

But this time
she didn’t
any money.