Desert Hairshirt Cactus debris invades my clothing, rubs against my body like sandpaper. Prickly pear underwear, cholla-filled leggings, and a patterned shirt stuffed with powdered thorns. Sandals, encrusted with the dried silt of desert plants. Each rake of my nails sheds a little more. Crone skin made tough by sediment. Lotion for every body part. Half-full plastic bottles perch behind my bathroom sink, protrude from shower stall crevices. Those cacti want to eat me alive, but I’m too stubborn to let them have their way with me. I dream of oceans and tropical storms in faraway countries, while the desert laughs at me behind my back. It will snack on my bones someday. Meanwhile, I can’t stop scratching.
Sayani Mukherjee
June June a mid afternoon slush Whispers of synchronized harmony A new era Flowscape Los Angeles's prized possession The East is exotic The fresh lime barn Haiku ridden mosaic scoops Fallen asleep Mid day June an aromatic floor Flaky sunchildren are asleep Tip toed motion roars June a hummingbird's last escape Monet's paradise in butterfly case A new era Kindred flames Droplets June rain down my sea scape My portfolios fragrance musks The amethyst I borrowed from June my flaky midair day Rain down on me.
Glenn Armstrong
DRAWN I am getting blood drawn down in North Park, and the young woman wearing a Beastie Boys t-shirt across from me says to her phlebotomist that she hates needles, which surprises her friends as she has so many facial piercings. But piercing needles are different, she does not mind those, she says. I am scared of hypodermic needles too, which is why I never tried heroin when I was young. “I can’t believe that’s my blood!” says the young woman as she leaves. I am wearing a Ramones t-shirt, as befits my age, and I reflect that, more than the Beach Boys, they are truly America’s band: conservative Johnny, liberal Joey, drug addled Dee Dee (though a genius song writer), and reclusive Tommy. My phlebotomist puts my blood vials in a neat metal tray and the procedure is done, so I drive to a nearby McDonald’s to get my customary post- blood draw hotcakes. Members of a church group in matching t-shirts mill about the counter, two day laborers in orange vests eat full breakfasts, and a gay couple, one with a cane, study a kiosk. The butter pats melt on my hotcakes, as I eat my hashbrown like a furtive animal, and drizzle syrup on the cakes. Three toy dogs on leashes scamper about as I sip my Diet Coke. I consider that one guy on my neighborhood dog path remarked to his girlfriend that people who wear Ramones t-shirts are drug addicts. She protested the stereotype, but he should have at least said former drug addicts. My blood may be middle-aged, but it is squeaky clean. FLUX The incense stick flickers out, and in that brief mo- ment, the flux of being’s fabric turns inside out with a slight shriek, as the air gets sucked out of the room, and I am left dangling in pure mental space. Where do I go from here, with no aches and pains, or trips to the physical therapist, or need to eat feta cheese and olives, and stay strictly on the Mediterranean Diet? Time is measured on Earth by the tapping of keys, or is that too old- fashioned in this age of voice commands and cable TV cutting, binge-watching, streaming aficionados? I just stay in my protective mental energy bubble until a car alarm wails outside. Pop! I notice the incense stick has gone out, so I put the laptop down, get up from my chair, and light another stick.
Robin Wright
Hitchhiker Circa 1969 He shivers by the side of the road, thumb stuck out from a gloveless hand, windbreaker collar pulled up to his ears. No hood, duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. Mr. Stevens looks at his wife of fifty-six years, her nod imperceptible to anyone but him. He pulls the Chevy Impala to the shoulder. As his wife rolls down the window, he leans across the seat. Hop in, son. I’m Mr. Stevens. This here’s my wife. The hitchhiker nods, opens a rear door, positions himself behind Mrs. Stevens. She turns, asks his name. John Doe. She glances at her husband. One hand on the wheel, he reaches for hers with the other. They drive in silence, stop at Betty’s Diner, pay for his meal, request another plate lunch to go, hand it to him on the way out. Mr. Stevens pulls a jacket from his suitcase in the trunk, hands it to the hitchhiker, offers bills from his wallet. Take care now. The hitchhiker nods, watches them get into the car. Knocks on the window. Mrs. Stevens rolls it down. I had other plans when you picked me up, but you were too kind. He smacks the top of the car once, grins then turns to go, thumb again slicing air.
Daniel S. Irwin
The Fish Thing Give a man a fish And he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish And he’s pissed off ‘Cause he’s gotta Go to work.
Howie Good
My Apocalypse The sun passes like a flaming sword overhead, and I feel it as a wound in my chest. Shingle roofs catch fire. Leaves on trees wither. Cars are soon covered in ash. In the days that follow, the sky when I dare to look is a dull orange, the ocean an unpropitious black. The smell of smoke spreads around the world and seeps into people’s food and sleep. “No gods, no masters / The revolution will be kingless,” someone has spray-painted on the bricks. Children on their hands and knees peck at the ground for seeds and insects and adults sniff around like dogs
J.J. Campbell
here come the angels and here come the angels choking on their vomit only the good shit gets served around here it separates the men from boys pretty soon you'll have a few fuckers out at the bar wait until they see what was charged to their credit cards it will usually be myself, the bartender and a woman well past her prime still going at the end of the night the woman will look down at me and i'll have that sure, why not look on my face she'll want to go to her apartment but settle for the parking lot the kind of woman that keeps society moving along ---------------------------------------------------------- fire up the imagination and here are the old women showing a little leg and my lack of morals starts to fire up the imagination the first love of my life just had her birthday doesn't look any different than she did twenty fucking years ago and here i am a fresh slice of hell cheated death a few times more scars than brain cells most days soon to be just another genius stuck living in a trailer park making the best of whatever the fuck this happens to be
Donna Dallas
My Sex is Homeless So dirt-ridden it’s caked with mud from rainy nights when it was whirlwinding through jungle after jungle a bitch-hot amalgamation Now a war veteran holed up in this trailer listening to Oprah clenched jaws of life wrapped around a beer bottle day after sluggish day it’s the under-voice of the have-nots and do nothing about it naysaying shit-talkers that believe aliens walk among us in Dunkin Donuts where I’ll stroll in the hopes to snag me one My sex is dying from starvation moved itself closer to other organs in my body just for comfort it’s aging exponentially well along with my liver I tried to leave it on the bus the other day the bus driver came after me with a stricken panic because it reeked of decay it’s a pre-dead borderline extinct relic
Jason Melvin
Making a living this is what I want to do for a living sit on a bench near the river near the train tracks near the highway and listen took half a sick day to get some skin cancer cut off my back it took 6 mins and I have hours to waste so I found a bench ate a BK burrito drank an iced coffee and watched the reflections of cars off the Ohio as they traveled on rt 51 across the river from me splotches of white and red zooming down the small ripples starts and stops where trees grow on the riverbank I pulled my phone out only to take pictures orange flowers a grinny in a drain pipe the way the light shined through the tunnel that got me here I listen to the way cars echo when under a bridge animals scurrying on the hill beside me birdsong the sudden train behind me I’ll be heading to work soon answering emails and questions interaction imminent but I know I could sit here 8 hours a day 5 days a week and never once get bored if only someone would pay me
Ken Kakareka
Something There I was on the brink of summer, nothing happening. Teaching a Zoom class in my apt., the dead weight of a summer afternoon crushing me. My neighbor lit his grill then fired up his loud speaker and played a song – religious, southern, & country. It swallowed me like plastic swallows the ocean. The smell of barbeque drifted in through my window. I muted my class, turned off the camera and reclined. Something had begun.
The Beatnik Cowboy 