April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
The burly bouncer, seated comfortably on a barstool,
mumbled with a sigh of boredom that he needed some ID.
I told him that, most certainly, all of us have needs;
food, shelter, and clothing are the most basic needs.
Love, companionship, and sometimes just someone to lean on
are other important needs.
I told him I needed a beer and a restroom; not necessarily in that order.
For me, both of which were important needs.
Completely unflappable, he still needed some ID.
Telling him that he could probably satisfy this need
by looking in his wallet ended our philosophical discussion.
I pissed in the dark alleyway behind the bar,
and after taking a beer from the open storeroom,
ambled off into the still early evening.
It was Saturday night; Monday morning seemed to me
to be as relevant as the number of angels that could dance on the head of a pin.
—Roy Dorman
Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for 60 years. He has had poetry and flash fiction published recently in Burningword Literary Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Screech Owl, Crack The Spine, and Lake City Lights.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Drizzle
A fine drizzle softens the air
falls whisper-light
an almost-rain to glaze tired grass
and hard, cracked earth.
It lifts scents, musty cave odors
we love with our primal selves.
Earth stirs, the mist soft as a lover’s breath.
She sighs, content.
Drizzle
A fine drizzle softens the air
and falls whisper-light,
an almost-rain
enough to glaze tired grass
and hard, cracked earth
in denser shades of green and brown.
It wakes scents musty with the odors of earth.
She stirs under the touch, soft as a lover’s
breath.
She sighs, content.
no. 922
8 feb 14
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—Janet Butler
Janet Butler lives in Alameda with Fulmi, a lovely Spaniel mix she rescued while living in central Italy. “Searching for Eden” was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2012, “Upheaval” was one of three winning selections in Red Ochre Lit’s 2012 Chapbook Contest. She recently placed, for the third year, in the Berkeley Poets annual poetry contest. She is moderator of the monthly Poetry and Prose at the Blue Danube in Alameda, and is a member of the Frank Bette Center for the Arts, where she will teach a poetry course and Italian language class this spring.
April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
My center grows cold and heavy. In Nagasaki, the winter months move on slowly. With my cast iron heart planted firmly in my chest, I find that simple tasks have now become difficult: getting out of bed, grooming myself, getting ready for work. The heater has been on the fritz—that, or my Welsh roommate and I are simply too stupid to read the Japanese on the remote and can’t figure out how to turn it on. After fiddling with the remote for the millionth time, I set the thing down and forget about it. I crawl into the warmth of my comforter and futon mattress and wait for my heart to grow heavier.
—Daniel Clausen
April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
The burgers sizzled on the griddle. Bun, lettuce, onions and ketchup off to the side. I glance at the ticket. Drop the fries into the famished Canola oil. Nine more orders are tugging at my grease-tipped sleeves. Bring it on. I’m in the zone, slinging meat and killing potatoes. Sweat leaking from my ball cap. A welcomed type of sweat. Perspiration that pays. Heals.
I walked into this burger joint three weeks ago. Broken. Groveling. Borrowed a pen from the cute counter girl with a nose ring. Filled out the application, adding a few small untruths to cover the gaps of unemployment. My hair was unruly, my beard unkempt. Clothes outsized and pilfered from a church bin, shoes battered from pounding ashpalt. Walking to soup kitchens, walking to forget. Told the manager a sad tale. Homeless, formerly addicted, just needed a break. Pleaded softly. He stared. His eyes measured me, my eyes returned the volley with an inaudible prayer. Shook my hand. Start Monday he told me.
I flip a couple of beef patties and pulled the fries out before the coroner had to be called. Grabbed the pickles. Wiped my forehead, eight more tickets needing my magic. I wrap the burgers snugly and smiled at nose ring girl. Hope was percolating again. I shuffle over to the griddle, people are hungry, so am I. Bring it on.
—Chris Milam
Chris Milam resides in Hamilton, Ohio. He’s a voracious reader and a lover of baseball. A flash story of his was recently published by The Molotov Cocktail.
April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
She got a freaking tattoo! The nose piercing last year wasn’t enough. She had to get a Celtic arm band tattoo. She’s not even Irish.
I blame Janice for this—introducing liberal ideas into our home like some greenie on a mission. Still, when I told her, I expected her to be upset. I should have known better. “Everyone should be able to do whatever they want to their bodies,” she said. “It’s her body and her choice.”
Back in the old days we didn’t have choices. You either did what you were supposed to do, or you were put out of the house.
A freaking tattoo! My father would have used his belt. And I would have understood. Normal woman don’t get tattoos. They’re for biker chicks or women with weird hair.
“It’s my body, she said. “You don’t own me. I own me. It’s an expression of my rights.”
She’s got rights. She can vote, can’t she? Why does she need a freaking tattoo?
I blame Janice for this, introducing tofu and yoga into our home—the two goddamn things that have ruined this country. Now, mother and daughter go off yoga-ing together.
I wish I had a son. He would’ve introduced football, wrestling and NASCAR into the family. Good ol’ American-family sports. We could’ve gone bowling together. Not yoga-ing. We could’ve joined a league and worn those cool shirts with our names embroidered above the front pocket. We could’ve had a few beers together. We could’ve been a real family.
Instead we have greenies, tofu and freaking tattoos.
I blamed Janice for this. I stuck my finger in her face and shook it up and down. “Janice,” I said. “I’m not happy! Your mother has gotten herself a freaking tattoo and it’s your goddamn fault!”
—Gerard Bianco
Gerard Bianco is a playwright, author, jewelry designer, artist and filmmaker. he holds an MFA in Writing from Albertus Magnus College.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Snow on the iced-up steps
bits of slate broken,
a frozen rabbit skin dangled
from a hook near the door.
Come in, come in, you can’t
stay out there. This weather
is meant for bears
and even they are hibernating.
Snow piled high at the back
cutting the light, frosted glass
with elaborate designs. A fire
in the open grate. She buzzed
about the small kitchen
excitedly wiping her hands
on her apron. A mug full
of steaming coffee.
Dad, come and see what
the storm brought in. A big
old man bent under the arch
when he entered the kitchen
from the other room.
He chewed and smiled
and sharpened his axe.
—Rose Mary Boehm
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection (TANGENTS), her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in US poetry reviews. Toe Good Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Review, Pale Horse Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Other Rooms, Requiem Magazine, Full of Crow, Poetry Quarterly, Punchnel’s, Avatar, Verse Wisconsin, Naugatuck River Review, Boston Literary, Red River Review, Ann Arbor, Main Street Rag, Misfit Magazine and others.
