As embarrassments go by Michael Dwayne Smith

caught jacking off to Marlo Thomas bouncing her

bob around in That Girl gives a guy pause,

not to mention the masterful mosaic of deception

elaborated around the beautiful but not so sweet Mary Ann

(and later, a simpleton’s faith in the idea that

telling women the truth will set you free).

Terrible the episodic yearnings for Ginger in an apron,

shipwrecked in the kitchen. Laughable the yearner

in a recliner, afloat in the warm television current.

Clarity: there are no bikini bombshells

asleep in a bottle beached at the doorstep of manhood.

Where were all the men meant to mentor us? Cheers,

as it turns out. Married, with children. Sermons and

bible stories always end in fire and rot,

so no rescue expected, but getting that girls were people,

just like me, buoyant with all the same flaws, well,

that was disappointment. As letdowns go, caught

swallowing a fistful of sedatives, a la M*A*S*H, stops

a man in his tracks, not to mention the reality

TV of Mary Ann dialing 9-1-1, matter-of-factly

reporting the “accident,” then strutting out the door.

The world through a hospital window looks yellowish

small, but spring trumpets wildflower revival—

remember mythologizing her while hiking, stoned,

under Yosemite stars? Believing you needed

to believe you loved her? Meeting that bear face-to-face

by a lantern of full moon was a wakeup call.

As epiphanies go, it didn’t amount to much more

than adrenaline, but that immediate deep need

to apologize to the bear, to Mary Ann, to yourself,

unfroze every muscle, heart included, and (in sauntering

away) we were free and clear, absent any desire

to consider anything not right here right now.

So, as certainties go, between girls and boys and bears,

for certain we have this truth: only them that’s

reborn as wilderness gets to see the promised land.

Michael Dwayne Smith lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued animals. His most recent book is Roadside Epiphanies (Cholla Needles Press, 2017). Nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his work haunts many literary houses--including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Star 82 Review, Blue Fifth Review, Skidrow Penthouse, Word Riot, Rat's Ass Review, Gravel, San Pedro River Review--and has been widely anthologized. When not writing or teaching, he edits Mojave River Press & Review.

In The Third Row Of A Baseball Game. by J.J. Campbell

stunning beauty in the

third row of a baseball

game

she's probably fucking

one of the players

of course, that could just

be the cheap beer talking

then you happened to 

notice the rock on her

finger

well, she's doing more

than just fucking

and it's not like you

ever had a chance

you could lose weight,

change the last thirty

years of your life and

you still wouldn't have

a damn prayer

you take a quick nip

from the flask in your

coat and laugh

perhaps

but i would be one hell

of a dirty memory for 

her

that's definitely the

alcohol talking

J.J. Campbell (1976 - soon) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Fourth and Sycamore, Pyrokinection, Dodging the Rain, Midnight Lane Boutique and Rusty Truck. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was recently published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Stinking Christmas. by Robert Ragan

Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas motherfuckers.

Every year my family buys me tons of gifts — heavy ones in shiny wrapping paper. Picking them up, I'm shaking 'em thinking, Wow! I wonder what this is.

Fooled year after year. Because when I open these presents, they're always the same. Boxes filled with bars of soap, body spray, cologne, razors, aftershave, and deodorant.

Last year I started to say, "You guys must think I stink." Instead, I kept my mouth shut and plotted my revenge for this Christmas.

First of all, I haven't shaved all year. The plan was to show up stinking and looking raggedy as hell.

While everyone showered and dressed up nice, I went and pulled a pair of jeans and a shirt out of the dirty clothes hamper. It wasn't enough that I hadn't showered or brushed my teeth since late September. Oh no, I put on the worst smelling shoes I had with no socks.

It was hell wearing the same boxers with skid marks and cum stains for months.

My teeth were yellow as a school bus. My breath would back down a fire-breathing dragon. Stinking armpits and feet that smelled like stale corn chips just weren't enough. I wanted to smell like I'd spent the year locked up in a chicken house.

Instead, I got this bright idea as the light bulb in my brain came on. Walking outside, I'm in the dog pen rolling around in shit. The labs licked me in the face. One of them cocked up their leg and pissed on me.

Rubbing behind his ears, I said, "Good boy."

Standing in the cold, I'm gagging. I stunk so bad it made me throw up. Of course, I made sure to puke all over my shirt. The smell of my vomit would go well with the shit and piss.

My family's house was brightly lit with blue Christmas lights. Getting out of my car, I walked up to the front porch. Looking through the window, you've never seen such a cheerful, happy family. Ringing the doorbell, I'm standing there freezing and holding my breath.

My cousin, Sid, opens the door and his smile changes to a look of terror.

"Merry Christmas," I say, and give him a huge hug.

Yacking, he immediately pinches his nostrils, "Jesus Christ Rob," he says. "What happened to you?"

The whole family seemed uncomfortable. Over half of them retreated outside to smoke. All the kids started crying. My cousin, Jen's daughter, buried her face in her mother's bosom and said, "Mommy something stinks really bad."

At the dinner table Sid's girlfriend, Beverly, throws up on her plate of turkey, dressing, and candied yams.

Finally, the eldest family members called me into the other room, holding their noses, they all talked in funny voices.

"Son, why don't you open your presents, then go take a shower?"

My sisters walk in, one of them says, "You knew better than to show up stinking and dressed like a bum." The other says, "Dad's so ashamed of you, he got up and left."

"You know what? Fuck this; I'm leaving!"

As I walked out, my Aunt Jane lost her Christmas cookies, puking all over the presents. My cousin Tommy says, "I love you boy, even if you do smell like a polecat's butthole.

Children cried, and I made everyone uncomfortable. Christmas was a huge success this year.

Don't mind me, I hate the Holidays like every other day, and I don't need a damn thing from anyone. It just irked me, like it's the families inside joke to buy me a ton of soap and other healthcare products.

It's almost January, and I still haven't washed my ass or brushed my teeth. Skunks run away from me, squealing in horror. They know their spray would have no effect on me.

Maybe it's time I finally cleaned up a little bit.

Robert Ragan, from Lillington, NC writer of short stories and poetry has been published online at Vext Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, and The Dope Fiend Daily. Alien Buddha Press has published his first short story collection "Mannequin Legs and Other Tales".

Government Informant. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I am a paid informant for the feds.

I don’t know if that is the sort of thing you are supposed to talk about,

but I have never really had a filter.

Use your indoor voice, the missus warns all the time,

and I am supposed to know that I have crossed the line again.

Talked about things you are not supposed to talk about.

Made everyone feel awkward.

I am a paid informant for the feds, they just don’t know it.

They have yet to pay me anything, but I don’t hold a grudge.

I consider it back pay for my many years of loyal service.

Spreading disinformation as though the Yeti

is on sabbatical.

Stop telling everyone you are a government informant,

she pleads,

people believe everything.

And there is no reason to doubt her testimony.

I report my findings to my superiors

through stuffed animal

intermediaries.

YOUR INDOOR VOICE, she chides,

YOUR INDOOR VOICE.

I lean in and whisper

that there has never been anyone

but her.

She wraps me in a big bear hug.

Kisses me on the right cheek several times.

It’s true.

People really do believe

everything.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.

The Dream In Which I Stub My Toe And Channel Sam Kinison For The Next Three Minutes. For Joe Milazzo. by James Barrett Rodehaver

because of course it hurts,
and i could almost laugh,
but what really pisses me off is,
i thought i was smarter than this.
i thought i cleared the piece of blasted furniture:
muse for how we forget to be careful,
ironic momentary antithesis of comfort,
god of manic sudden interior redesign.
you know, just because.
the acoustics in this room are perfect for screaming,
but the walls are paper thin,
and my neighbors are into arts and craftiness.
see, they've been making a jet black tally of all my misdeeds
for months now, endurance art,
and i guess they're hoping the landlord
is an art dealer, and a vengeful one.
bad sam kinision faced the world head on,
lungs made of steel,
angry even when laughing.
because the world makes us feel two things at once,
and one of those things is always pain.

James Barrett Rodehaver, an Alabama native son, most often known as "Bear," to those who know him, is a happily married 36-year old poet, author, and editor living with his husband in Dallas, Texas. He's the author of a book of poetry called "Strangely Wonderful," the co-creator and editor of "Not Dead Yet, An Anthology of Survivor Poetry," and has most recently published a two-volume chapbook set of poetry called "Time Travel For Daydreamers," which includes illustrations by Nadia Wolnisty and is published by Cringe-Worthy Poets Collective Press. He is the host of the Vellum Ouroboros open mic at Deep Vellum Books. His favorite color is purple and he wishes he could eat Cajun-style boiled crawfish year-round.

The Slow Burn. by Joanne Olivieri

He likes his whiskey

like his women

hot and tasty with a slow burn.

Light on the nose

earthy wood notes

sweet aftertaste.

A long, slow burn

sits on the tongue

down the palate

swallowed

intoxicating.

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

Of Course He Drives a Mustang. by Michael Dwayne Smith

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