Organic Assholes by John Grochalski

the organic assholes
are making a big show of it
in the chain supermarket line
they’re acting like aliens
they’re acting like they have to slum
at least they have self-checkout machines in here,
one of them says sarcastically
and I laugh as they get out of line
because the self-checkout machines in this joint are always broken
what pedestrian bullshit, they say, getting back in line
do you even ever really shop here?
one organic asshole asks the other
um…no, the organic asshole says
would I shop somewhere that has no cauliflower rice
no pre-made salads and no craft brew?
I mean they sell kraft products here!
and they laugh at that
the organic assholes are holding something dewy and green
that I don’t recognize
collard greens, one organic asshole says to the cashier
even though she didn’t ask
we’re making a brisket tonight and we just had to have collard greens
but there’s no farmer’s market until the weekend
and trader joe’s let us down so…
the cashier nods and says nothing
do you know how I make mine?
the organic asshole asks the cashier
she shrugs
with bacon, vinegar and garlic, he says
only local sourced pork, the other organic asshole adds
then she holds up cheap chocolate bars
and they both snicker at them
it’s my mother’s recipe, the organic asshole says
cool, that’ll be $2.95 the cashier says
of course, the organic asshole pays with a credit card
um…we don’t need a bag,
the other organic asshole says to the cashier
and she takes the wet collard greens out of a plastic bag
holding them up like a dozen roses
before the two organic assholes
walk out of the grocery store like the prom king and queen
over to their waiting labradoodle mix
as the cashier picks up the sopping plastic bag
and throws it away.   

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

How to Steal from Rich People by Henry Stanton

Intoxicate yourself with purpose
and leave drunken from
their huge and brilliant puny house at night.
Leave it behind.
Abandon
all sparkling fluids the musical insane laughter shimmering gowns
that clinging.
Back there
behind in the spinning room what remains of who you were.
Follow the path to the retreating beach.
Look the moon
in its brilliant eye my god!
It buries itself in the ocean depths and remembers.
Remember who you are
what remains what memory the swirling foam
drowning
give it all away
sink to that love rise to that terror
and repeat again
a fleeting life in dreams.

Henry Stanton's fiction, poetry and paintings appear in 2River, The A3 Review, Avatar, The Baltimore City Paper, The Baltimore Sun Magazine, High Shelf Press, Kestrel, North of Oxford, Outlaw Poetry, PCC Inscape, Pindeldyboz, Rusty Truck, Salt & Syntax, SmokeLong Quarterly, The William and Mary Review, Word Riot, The Write Launch and Yellow Mama, among other publications. 

                   

His poetry was selected for the A3 Review Poetry Prize  and was shortlisted for the Eyewear 9th Fortnight Prize for Poetry.  His fiction received an Honorable Mention acceptance for the Salt & Syntax Fiction Contest and was selected as a finalist for the Pen 2 Paper Annual Writing Contest.

A selection of Henry Stanton's paintings are currently on show at Atwater's Catonsville and can be viewed at the following website www.brightportfal.com.  A selection of Henry Stanton’s published fiction and poetry can be located for reading in the library at www.brightportfal.com. 

Henry Stanton is the Founding & Managing Editor of The Raw Art Review - www.therawartreview.com.

Fucking Spaz by David Boski

We were stopped at an intersection;
I had grabbed my phone to view
a text when suddenly I heard a tap
on my window and saw a female
police officer standing beside me.
I let down the window: “license
and registration” the officer said.
I put up the window, looked at my
fiancé and signalled her to retrieve
documents from the glove compartment
all while yelling out “are you fucking
kidding me? you fucking cunt!” in frustration.
I heard another tap on the window: it was the
female police officer again, standing there with
a look of shock and disgust on her face.
I let down the window: “excuse me sir,
did you just call me a cunt?” the officer
asked angrily: “yes, you’re pulling me over
cause I looked at my fucking cellphone at a
red light?!” I said: “no sir, I pulled you over
cause your sticker is expired!” she answered.
I handed her my documentation: “is there a reason
there’s two different addresses here?” she asked:
“I forgot to change my address” I said: “ok, please
pull around the corner, to the other officers over there.”
I put up the window, looked at my fiancé, and she said:
“Jesus Christ David, you’re a fucking spaz!”
I waited for the tickets, feeling like a proper cunt.

David Boski lives in Toronto. His poems have most recently appeared in: Down in the Dirt: Synchronized Chaos: Rusty Truck: Zombie Logic Review: Winamop: Beatnik Cowboy: he has a forthcoming chapbook being released by Analog Submission Press later this year.

Haight n Ashbury by Joanne Olivieri

I wanna be a hippie
wearin’ flowers in my hair
all over my body
Smokin’ joints
all afternoon
sittin’ on a stoop
Playin’ the dead
rockin’ n rollin’
all mornin’
Makin’ love all night
to “Piece Of My Heart”
Janis, you ROCK!
But, I was born too late.

Joanne has been writing for 50 years. She is a published poet and photographer. Her works have appeared in numerous in print and online publications such as The Parnassus Literary Journal, Westward

Quarterly, Cajun Mutt Press, The San Diego Arts and Poets Magazine, Nomads Choir, SP

Quill, just to name a few. She was awarded a round-trip ticket to Hong Kong in 2007 by Cathay Pacific Airways for her winning entry in their poetry contest. Joanne is the founder and editor of Stanzaic Stylings

Literary Ezine.

Joanne enjoys reading, writing, collecting old poetry books, live music concerts, roaming art galleries and museums, leisurely lunches with

friends in diners, getting out in nature with her camera and making toys for and playing with her feathered companion, Sammers  You can learn all there is to know about her by visiting her website/blog

http://poeticshutterbug.blogspot.com

All My Clocks. by Doc Sigerson

All my clocks crouch 

poised in disagreement,

no two sharing the same face.

Threading disparate points,

as if dodging traffic cones, 

I navigate my day.

But ach! Predatory clocks, 

preparing to pounce, 

like cats upon prey.

There ought to be a law.

Doc Sigerson lives in the Seattle area. He is a military veteran, works in retail, and leads a sedate life. He has had the wonderful fortune of having his published work disappear when online sites lose their domain rights and the terrific good luck to have his printed work fade to obscurity when those publishers would rather buy cannabis than cough up contributor copies.

The Early Hours by John D Robinson

I was lying , drunk and stoned
on the lounge floor of a friend’s
apartment: I could hear moans and
whimpers and groans of sex
coming from the bedroom:
I was suddenly seized by these
deep, vicious, loud bastard
hiccups that echoed throughout
the building: I held my breath
but this only seemed to antagonise
the situation and the hiccups
grew more aggressive, frequent
and louder:
the noises in the bedroom began
to quieten down and then without
warning, gas surged through my
being and released itself in a
ferocious and thundering fart,
nearly lifting me off the god-dam
floor, scaring the hell out of
me and ridding me of the
hiccups:
‘I can’t stay here with the
fucking noises that creep’s
making next door!’
I heard a woman’s voice cry,
a couple of minutes later I
heard the clacking of shoes,
the front door open and slam
closed:
I heard laughter and the
light was switched on:
‘Fuck man, that was a fucking
noisy performance  you
gave’ he said looking
bemused and grinning and
holding a couple of chilled
bottles of beer:
‘I’m sorry’ I offered, taking
a beer, ‘I hope I didn’t
interfere with your
performance’ I said grinning:
he started laughing, sat down
beside me and embraced me
as his fucked- up friend:

John D Robinson is a UK poet: hundreds of his poems have appeared in small press zines and online literary journals His published solo chapbooks are

‘Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Press 2016)   scars.tv/

‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016   sold out)

‘An Outlaw In The Making’  (Scars Publications 2017)

‘Hitting Home’  (Iron Lung Press 2018  2nd edition)   ironlungpress.bigcartel.com/about-iron–lung–press

‘In Pursuit Of  Shadows’  (Analog Submission Press 2018  sold out)  www.analogsubmission.com

‘Echoes Of Diablo’  (Concrete Meat Press 2018)  adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress

Too Many Drinks Ago’  (Paper & Ink Zine Publications) http://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/PaperAndInkZine

Pushing Away The Hours    2018   www.lulu.com/.../john-d-robinson/pushing-away-the-hours/.../product-23872337.html 

‎ ‘Hang In There’      (Uncollected Press  2019    USA)  therawartreview.com

Proto U.T.B. by Todd Bagger

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To Oblivion. by Ethan Goffman

North is the opposite of south 

yet also the same

if you go far enough 

you get where you came. 

We arrive at winter every year 

the primeval frost

the frozen soul within us 

and without.

Without us the planet still revolves 

around itself 

an infinite journey to oblivion.

Our own journey is much shorter.

Whether we face 

nuclear winter 

or climate change summer

how capable we humans are at finding 

ways to destroy ourselves. 

Fire and ice.

Summer and winter

swallowing each other. 

Yin is yang is yang is yin.

Ping is pong is kong is king.

There are no opposites 

Just a continuous line

North 

to a blurring white 

a frigid nothingness.

Ethan Goffman accidentally became a poet by tagging along with his wife, the far more talented, harder working, and prettier Marianne Szlyk, to poetry workshops.  He is still not sure how, but somehow his poems have appeared in BlazeVox, Mad Swirl, Madness Muse, Ramingo’s Porch, and Setu.