Another Dream. By Puma Perl

Someone asked me
what kind of audience
my shows attract.
Recently released
mental patients and people
who are obsessed with me,
I replied.
Life imitates dreams.

Puma Perl is a poet and writer, with five solo collections in print. The most recent is Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque Books, 2019.) She is the producer/creator of Puma’s  Pandemonium, which brings spoken word together with rock and roll, and she performs regularly with her band Puma Perl and Friends. She’s received three New York Press Association awards in recognition of her journalism, and is the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing.

Photo, Dina Regine

Ode to Judge Judy. By Vicki Iorio

Every afternoon, mom, the cat and I watch

Judge Judy. Mom is 98. Guppy the cat,

in dog years is not too far behind.

Each has a basket of meds on the kitchen counter.

Their medicines are the same: heart medication,

blood pressure pills, miracles for constipation.

I administer the afternoon doses before we watch the Judge.

Today Judy has a new hairstyle. It looks like a George 

Washington pony tail. The diamond studs in her earlobes

are almost as big as her head.  We know these rocks are real and try

to calculate their value. Her bailiff is buff and sexy. His name is Byrd.

I thought it was Burt before I googled. If he were a bird, he would be a

condor. We love Byrd, he looks up prices of old cars in the Kelley Blue Book

and helps Judy with math. When the defendant and the plaintiff

are there because of an altercation, Judge Judy calls this a kerfuffle.

Mom smiles and says that’s a Yiddish word. The internet disagrees

and says kerfuffle is of Celtic origin. I don’t want to have a kerfuffle with mom,

let her have her moment. After Judy, I make mom a light supper of eggs

and matzah, I give the cat a fresh can of cat food, and go to my room

with a chardonnay and the penal code.

Vicki Iorio is the author of Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press and the chapbooks Send Me a Letter, dancinggirlpress and Something Fishy, Finishing Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals including The Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, poets respond on line, The Fem Lit Magazine, and The American Journal of Poetry.

Gaming At A Friend's. By Alyssa Trivett

When it comes down to it,
I'm truly only good at
lottery scratching for the
winning number of 7 and
settling for a stern 6 in the boxes,
but my Nintendo controller and
arcade drone tendencies from '93
suddenly show up at the door
and sink back in, finally.
My character trots and
plays charades in the form of
my shaky espresso hands
trying to find my You Are Here
on the screen.
I huff and puff from running amuck.
I've got guitar player blisters
on my fingers
from joystick bliss and
my fading red target
might as well be
lost in a difficulty level of expert
but my high score mistakingly
ran up as a thermometer
under hot water and the
enjoyment aspect was
far greater than I imagined,
last evening.

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she chirps down coffee while scrawling lines. Her work has appeared in many places, but most recently at Ex Ex Lit, and Duane's PoeTree site.

Bar Food is Always Questionable. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I tap her on the shoulder 

and she gives me the once over,

smiles and leans in, 

trying to give me her number

as I tell her I just want by.

Pointing towards the bar at the back

from a busy dance floor.

Embarrassed in front of her friends.

All those ladies that drink for free.

Bar food is always questionable

and the music very loud.

She gives me the finger 

so that I think about how those many

white wedding photos will look.

What a lucky man he will be 

on that day before the full scope of the nightmare 

finally becomes apparent.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.

Oscar Wilde Knows What Stupidity and Misfortune Are. By John Doyle

 Oscar Wilde knows what misfortune and stupidity are,

this is the second gas-station gig

I've dragged myself into.

Steph appointed herself supervisor - the manager -

a guy from Cork who looks half-Viking, half plain-stupid

says nothing. So every-time Steph is finished her shift

she tells me which of the two bathrooms I should clean,

writes notes in the diary about the dirty weekend she'll have,

a little pencil caricature of herself beside vague details

of aforementioned dirty weekend. 

There's a kind soul here who should be called Cletus.

Him and me wonder what Steph means by dirty weekend, 

I shout a few suggestions from the bathroom 

as I clean it and he guffaws like a hyena. Customers look around,

remaining silent - I should probably care.

The final ever Evening Press arrives.

Cletus has a good laugh, a good wholegrain mustard laugh,

plays W.A.S.P. tapes on his car 

which draws the ire of the queen of sophistication Steph -

back from her dirty weekend 

which consisted of looking at Prêt-à-Porter.

This escapes our manager from Cork,

who instead uses his Oxbridge days and silk-smooth tongue

to tell me what will happen to my career

if I leave the can with skidmarks in it again.

Oscar Wilde knows what stupidity and misfortune are,

can he do a Nostradamus too?

See this hulking slab of lard with Albert Trotter’s beard in 25 years

recovering from his third nervous breakdown,

Steph running mindfulness clinics 

for couples with sons called Jude?

I hope not. It's far too frightening: 

those poor lost and helpless shits, 

the two of them.

I look for Cletus on Facebook.

Still nothing.

John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.


He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.

A Guide To Truck Stop Dharma by Scott Simmons

Drunken Texas asshole is a state of mind achieved only by proper mayonnaise saturation.
This involves coating body in the stinky white goo of Billy Ray Cyrus.

Then you must rub it in, rub it deeply in until you see a unicorn's golden shower.
As soon as it is in your sights you must attack with all of your ever lasting virginity.

Also I don't know why daddy doesn't love me anymore but I'm still pretty damn it!
Not that I'm desperate but will you please tell me I'm pretty?

Oh anyways yeah just drink the golden shower or whatever and get into a toaster oven
with a two bedrooms or something else that I quit giving a shit about like 5 minutes ago.

All I'm saying is that,
I'M STILL FUCKING SEXY DESPITE WHAT YOU TOLD ME YOU FUCKING BITCH!

SO "RUB THAT ONE IN" YOU FUCKING COUNTRY ASSHOLE!

Scott Simmons is an aspiring dental floss basket weaver/samurai cowboy located in Compton New Jersey with a severe masturbation addiction and a dick that is too small to find with a electron microscope. He is also available for rentals as a truffle hunting gimp that has discovered the magic of friendship and duct tape/rope if interested please contact Issac Newton at sexysciencebitch69#lickdeeznuts@yahoo.com 

EMPTY INBOX SATURDAY NIGHT. By John Tustin

 He made a Facebook post

He sent out a Tweet

It said, “Show me your tits,

Let’s see your feet.”

His penis was limp

His inbox was bare

It was a ghost town

Nobody was there

He thought to himself

He thought long and deep

Could I be so lonely

Because I’m a creep?

He dismissed the idea

No way that was why

So he remained thirsty

His inbox stayed dry

“I won’t ask again,

I’ll just go to bed.”

He closed social media

And jerked off instead.

John Tustin might like pix of women's feet sent to his Facebook inbox but he hates to write third-person bios. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.