every memory is a scar
people tend to think
i'm joking when i tell
them i have no interest
living past my expiration
date
they tell me you're
only 50
you have so many
years in front of you
that always makes me
laugh
they don't understand
how every memory
is a scar
every scar is years
upon years of an
endless journey
that at least one
of us knows is
going to end
no one seems to like
talking about death
other than those of
us whom understand
exactly what it is
nothing to fear
only the natural
conclusion to life
the only way out
of this fucking hell
Robin Shepard
The Dog and I
When the dog and I walk,
we walk together. At my side,
stopping to smell a tree,
he picks up the scent of
another male, and leaves behind
his own ingrained calling card.
Pissing to communicate is ancient,
a transmission of chemical
commands not so different
from arguing with the woman,
that hot stream of invective.
When we walk, I forget
about disagreeable things.
I think of meadows and flowers
and rushing mountain waters.
I think I’m somewhere else.
The dog is always in the moment,
head down, sniffing a trail
ahead of us. We never argue.
We are both relieved to
discover we can empty ourselves
of the waste inside of us.
Daniel S. Irwin
Bugs
The world is full of fuckin' bugs.
People are just so damn screwed up.
We could make English the official language
Of the US but the catch would be that
People only hear what they want to hear.
It's an age-old technique that makes things
Easy on them but 'fuck you' if you can't get
What you want, let alone what you need.
It's not a matter of anything hard or difficult.
Just morons running loose in their own
Pitifully crazy-ass world avoiding exercising
That rabbit turd in their skull they call a brain.
It's only an exclusiveness to bolster the ego.
The 'ego', meaning their ego. Dig into Freud.
Sigmund wrote volumes on the stuff and was
A cigar smoking nutcase himself. Like he said,
It's all a sex thing. Some people just like
Fuckin' with everybody.
Another Chance
If I had another chance,
I wouldn't let her drift away.
Younger days and lots of laughs
Kept most things light. But
Everyone's cool and everyone's
On their own trip so that choices
Pull in different directions.
Back then it was just moving on
In pursuit of elusive happiness.
You go one way, she goes another.
Sometimes paths cross but never
At opportune times. Feelings
Are still there. It's hard to let go
Of deep emotions.
Orman Day
Thumbing in Australia
The burly truck driver
glances my way while I gaze
awestruck at kangaroos
bounding across
the barren Outback, grunts,
“To me, they’re nothing
but bumps in the road."
Philip Ash
LONGHAIR
I was an aggro teenage skinhead from NYC. Cro-Mags sounded great live at CBGB. I was used
to risking life and limb on the subway at 4 a.m. Never got mugged. People were afraid I’d mug
them! Puerto Rican kids pounded on train door glass. Cop just laughed. I used to act crazy and
curse on the subway, until it wasn’t pretend.
Relocated to too mellow San Diego in my junior year. I embraced thrash metal and grew my hair
long. (Nazi skins pissed me off.) Discovered high school football to vent anger. I shoved my left
hand under an opponent’s shoulder pads, jammed them into his neck, right fist punched the
exposed solar plexus, did the swim. . . made defensive All-League.
Smurf had a parrot. We blew pot smoke into its cage until it fell over. I drove to Santa Monica
Civic Center with some long-haired buddies at 110 mph in my huge Buick LeSabre. Saw
Megadeth and Motorhead. Later, John jumped off the La Jolla Clam with his arm cast. We heard
him yell from the water below. He ran away to Seattle and worked on a garbage truck. I threw a
half-full keg through a window. We made homemade sangria in new plastic trashcans by beach
bonfires. Pals traveled to TJ to see Masters of Reality, but the Ramones were in town. Nobody
else showed up. “Play! Play!” We got to hear their soundcheck.
And that nice, plain girl asked me to the prom. I said no and went with artsy Sophie who grew up
on a Tahitian island near Marlon Brando. She planned to commit suicide at 50. After the prom,
I got a fifth of Jack Daniels. We went to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Allegedly, I tried
to strangle my best friend. Now, years past, after heavy medication, sobriety and bits and pieces
of Eastern philosophy, I wonder if my prom date actually killed herself. She was there when I
painted an inflated brown paper lunch bag in red, white, and blue, and popped it behind the art
teacher. “Pop art!” I yelled. He gave me an A.
HEAVEN OR HELL?
Illegible black and blue scrawls fade
in your high school yearbook. If only
you’d caught the screen pass on 3rd
down. You wouldn’t have grown
that resentful rectal tumor following
years of depressive self-hatred.
Trade up relationships and get traded.
AIDS is more treatable, though sport
fucking remains unsatisfactory. Use
others like commodities. Sell high.
Middle-aged respectability gives
way to silver-haired playing the field;
widows, widowers and divorcees
swipe dating apps along with Gen-Z.
Try and remember why you tied
a string around your big toe. Clip
coupons for products you can’t
comprehend. Take a nap as ceiling
fan slices daily memory debris.
Pour a mix of experiential dregs
through time’s funnel. Inhale fumes
after you lick life’s last drops. Slide
under your grave while Betty Boop
cartoon headstones laugh and sway.
Afterlife involves watching unscripted
reality TV reruns on a sagging couch
and scarfing processed junk food.
Smart remote becomes eternally stuck
within a cushion crack. Pizza delivery
stays forever 15 minutes distant.
Zhu Xiao Di
Day and Night
I am accustomed to failure
Rooster, mailman, grains of sand
All bring bad news
Darkness doesn’t belong to night alone
Why does the sun rise so late
It never enters my study before noon
When light finally spills its warmth
I hear dusk knocking at my door
Night comforts my stomach
Making room to absorb and enthrall
To dream what I want
And lose it all at daybreak
Alan Catlin
old age comes to the flower children
The look had been
new
fashionable in the 60's
The Songs of Innocence
and Experience
verses tattooed amid
the Wildflowers and
cosmic symbols
the yin and the yang
of their bodies
though,
now, after decades
of aging
and abuse,
the look was
burned out
heavily weighted
onto the experience
side
downcast
as sun
flowers weary
of time
Richard LeDue
“As The Pink Cloud Turns Grey”
Whisky doesn’t need a voice,
but instead stares at me
as if it’s hooded death,
knowing the sweat
on the back of my neck
could easily be made of tears,
while I roll over in bed,
hoping that that dream of falling,
like another unloved raindrop,
will splash better than most.
P.A. Jones
What I Do When Anger Wants the Wheel
Anger shows up in my truck at dusk,
door already open,
boots on the dash,
mud on the floor mat I just washed.
It smells of old arguments and sweat.
It knows the roads better than I do.
It tells me to drive faster,
tells me every light is an insult.
We pass the pawn shop with barred windows.
We pass the church with the empty lot.
We pass the house where I learned
how to turn silence into a weapon.
Anger taps the glass with one finger.
Every face outside becomes a threat.
Every memory turns into a blade.
The past climbs into the back seat.
My hands tighten on the wheel.
The engine swells with heat.
The speedometer rises toward confession.
The road narrows into a dare.
Anger tells me to say the thing
that burns bridges to ash,
to make a clean break
with a dirty mouth.
I pull into a gas station
with one light working.
The clerk doesn’t look up.
The floor carries a thousand nights
of spilled drink.
The freezer hums with buried hunger.
I shut the engine down.
Silence fills the cab with weight.
Anger curses the quiet.
I stay in the seat.
Keys in my fist.
Breath stacking slow in my chest.
The blood cools its fists.
Anger slouches in the passenger seat,
mouth full of smoke,
eyes hunting for an exit.
I don’t throw it out.
I don’t give it the wheel.
I start the truck
when my hands stop shaking.
We leave the lot
at the speed of staying human.
Unarmed
Listen.
Violence don’t start with fists.
It starts with fear.
Fear of losing ground.
Fear of being seen.
Fear that if we stop talking
the truth might speak first.
So fear puts on a clean shirt.
Signs papers.
Prays in the pew.
Calls itself necessary
and sleeps fine.
Faith gets drafted.
Not to heal,
but to steady hands,
to bless force,
to make panic sound holy.
Meekness gets laughed at.
Softness gets you killed.
Certainty grabs the mic
and nobody asks who wired the sound.
That’s the game.
Keep it loud.
Keep it moving.
Keep everybody reacting.
No time to notice
your jaw locked tight.
Because if you stop,
really stop,
the story don’t hold.
The body knows.
Chest tight.
Breath thin.
A man can shout God all day
and still feel fear chewing his ribs.
So I step into the quiet.
Not hiding.
Not holy.
Just a place where nothing works
except the truth.
No weapons here.
No slogans.
No crowd to disappear into.
Just breath.
Just fear.
Just staying put long enough
to see what’s actually driving.
And once you see it,
you don’t get to unsee it.
Violence ain’t strength.
It’s panic with permission.
Faith ain’t certainty.
It’s staying when fear
demands an answer
right now.
So I don’t strike back.
I don’t harden.
I don’t pretend I’m clean.
I refuse to let fear
finish the sentence.
A small mercy survives this way,
quiet,
stubborn,
strong enough to tell the truth
without raising its voice.
This ain’t peace.
This ain’t victory.
This is a man
standing in the noise,
choosing attention over armor,
learning, slow and honest,
how not to become
what he’s afraid of.
Daniel S. Irwin
Eventually
When you reach a certain age,
Newspaper obituaries usually
List someone you know
Or knew as the case may be.
Old farts don't last all that long.
You remember when they and you
Were a whole lot younger.
Wild younger days when you
Never expected to reach thirty,
Never mind collecting social security.
After a while, the news isn't sad.
Passing is just a day-to-day thing.
So, it's all come to this. Now,
I'm too weak to hold the gun
And pull the trigger. Should have
Thought of and done that sooner.
Eventually, I'll make the paper.
The Claim in Question
The claim in question was that
Perfection is random and that
Chaos is the order of the day.
Quantum thought dictates that
Every choice leads to a different
Random existence within an
Endless multitude of futures
Uncontrolled by any will or reason.
The hash may be pure but, when
Smoked, the dreams seem tainted.
The atheist was finally convinced
That there was a God. After all,
Who else would be sending the
Devil to fuck with him so often.
At that point, the sloshed brains
Matched coins for the next round.
The Beatnik Cowboy 