Piranha Juice and Panther Piss (Bussokusekika)

It was another
night of throwing back double
shots of piranha
juice and chasing them with tall
glasses of luke-warm panther
piss, and that’s when she walked in…

---

Until Further Notice

Seems like nothing productive
ever gets done on days like today
(not without a costly uphill battle, anyway),
here in this Any Ugly Cow Town, U.S.A.:
mid-July, no wind and 97-plus degrees in the shade
and God’s murder-red eye cocked and burning at us
in such a way as to suggest he’s been having second
thoughts about the human race (if not all of creation).
Meanwhile, cars continue to zoom their fleshy,
semi-sentient contents from one climate-controlled
environment to another, buses barrel and
bounce along on fluffy clouds of diesel fumes
and pedestrians do the heat stroke zombie shuffle
up and down the street, hoping to find that one
retail purchase that puts it all into perspective.
In other words, nothing much is happening
(at least not in the immediate vicinity of yours truly),
certainly no sexual or romantic intrigue to speak of,
no unforeseen meeting of great minds,
no major contributions to, or advancements of,
the arts and / or sciences on our part (those of us
who’ve somehow managed to find ourselves
(and each other) in this mercifully cool,
night-dark bar in the middle of the afternoon).
Probably safe to assume (so we might as well
get used to it), until further notice, there will,
most likely, be no retying knots that
should have been left untouched,
no putting the fallen baby bird of our lives
back in its nest.

---

Intimations of Mortality
Through a Mad Dog’s Eyes
(or, Lamar Pye Contemplates,
What Could Be, His Last Supper)

Through a mad dog’s eyes,
the right subtle shift in perception,
like the tumble and click of a combination lock
or secret code or complex equation,
suddenly fathomed at 3 or 4am, maybe,
can bring you to your bended knees
on the cold flower-patterned linoleum
of God’s dungeon floor.

Soon you find yourself there, nightly,
supplicant and luridly genuflected
before the smooth, round ass of Lady Death,
(of which, it is rumored, tastes faintly
of French Vanilla, Mimosa and black powder).

Looking through a mad dog’s eyes,
one can even come to admire
the legendary phantom sniper
(your long-lost evil twin, perhaps) who
has suddenly begun to appear, everywhere:

on rooftops and overpasses and grassy knolls ,
in the backseats of unmarked cars,
in the cruxes of the tallest trees
and ‘round every other corner
in the corners of your eyes.

It is whispered among the elders of the tribe
that he’s put many a mad dog into a shallow grave,
and lately, the tiny mosquito frequency of his cross hairs
has been tickling your ears and purring, incessantly,
around your sweaty furrowed brow.

But, meanwhile,
just outside of town,
all the bloodshot TV-eyes
are turning away from the senator’s aide
and the half-naked cheerleader
who are being pulled from the lake,
and the cops are all out raking the cornfield
with hounds teeth and itchy trigger fingers,

hoping to find a trace
of the raggedy, rangy scarecrow of a man
with the nail in his foot and a bullet in his side.

But, we all know it’s you.
You’re the one.

And you’re just kickin’ it,
sittin’ inside your Naugahyde booth
in the diner by the side of the road,
takin’ it all in from the big-screen picture window.

And they’re comin’, boy,
they’re comin’ for you.

They’re lookin’ for somebody’s crazy uncle,|
somebody’s low-down, good-for-nothin’ son,
somebody’s shit-head brother-in-law,
written off for dead ten years ago —
one more dirty white boy
that no one but his mama could ever love.

But she died.

Yeah, that’s right, this has been just another sad
cocaine / Cadillac cowboy song
about one more unwanted lone wolf  /  black sheep  /
red-headed, hair-lipped step-child of God,who got tired after all the years
of trying to tell the old man what he wanted to hear,
tired of tryin’ to do the right thing
and always getting’ it thrown back
in your face all wrong,

tired of tryin’ so damn hard to be good
when the world just begs you to be bad.|

And there he is, boys,
just sittin’ there,|
beamin’ out a wounded tiger’s smile,
pickin’ the last little bits of his last meal
from his fearsome teeth
with a thorn.

Jason Ryberg is the author of twenty-five books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and countless love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in- residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His work has appeared in As it Ought to Be, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Thimble Literary Magazine, I-70 Review, Main Street Rag, The Arkansas Review and various other journals and anthologies. His latest collection of poems is And When There Was No Crawfish, We Ate Sand (co-authored with Abraham Smith, Justin Hamm and John Dorsey (OAC Press, 2025)). He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO, with a rooster named Little Red and a billy goat named Giuseppe, and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters. 

Difficult Words

The humble poet
shares his most
difficult words
of love,
oblivion,
make-shift
cemeteries
buried in snow,
freedom
blinded
by dark shadows.

Twilight
contemplations
of missed

opportunities
fill his verse.

Life’s
absent
pauses,
carried off
by runaway
winds.
The color of
sunsets
draped
around
skyscrapers
and mountains.

The disgrace
of men
who do not
have the shame
to go away
like the sunset.

---

The Stone That Wants to Be Human

The stone wants a voice.
It wants a nurturing mother.
It wants love’s caress.

It wants to grow limbs.
It wants to change its form.
It wants to sleep away its sadness.
It wants to experience death.
It wants to smile at lovely faces.
It wants to perfect silence.
It wants to take a warm bath.
It wants to taste the sweetest of fruits.
Immobile, it fantasizes of walking,
of being a man or woman.
The stone wants to be human.
It wants to be more than a stone.

---

No End (Addiction)

There is no end to this night.
There is only the beginning.
It started off promising
only to become so sinister.

I watch the stars fall from
the skies, and the moon
awash with blood, dripping
like red rain over humanity.

I hear the faint song of a

nightingale, sounding like
a muffled cry. There are
feathers falling as well.

There is no end to this night.
There is no end to this night.

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His last poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press.

A HEARTBEAT BETWEEN

They’re sitting on the patio outside.
Three people, a woman and two men,
perched in black onyx chairs
at a matching round table.
Summer heat and sunlight retreat
to autumnal cool and
the ink-gray wash of twilight.
The season is
a different animal at night.

They talk, calmly, of everything
and nothing—a conversation
that could be happening anywhere,
with anyone on any evening:
in Egypt, on the banks of the Nile,
during the heretic reign of Akhenaten;
in Rome, with Vandals clawing
at the empire’s gates;
in modern America, within earshot
of a Midwestern city’s death rattle.
The falling darkness seems
to insulate them from time.

Three explosions, in quick succession,
scare the words away. A shootout?
A drive-by? Rioting?
Any one’s a possibility.

The woman and the men,
jolted from their dream,
retreat quickly from the patio.
There’s no insulation.
There’s only here, now—
a heartbeat between
beginning and end.
As ever.

---

REFUGEE FROM A LOST AGE

Wexford, age 55,
and Lorca, age 34,
are warehousemen.
They’re sitting in the employees’ lounge
on a coffee break—
though neither of them drinks coffee.
Somehow, the topic of conversation
drifts to the TV shows they watched as kids.

“Black Sheep Squadron,” says Wexford,
between sips of Gatorade.
“I loved that show.
World War II fighter pilots,
zooming over the Pacific.”

Lorca stares at him blankly.

“You must’ve seen it,” says Wexford.
“It starred Robert Conrad.
You know, Robert Conrad—
from The Wild, Wild West?
It was a pretty big deal.”

Lorca cracks open a Red Bull
and takes a big gulp.
“Sorry,” he says, burping.
“Never heard of it.
That was your time.”

The way Lorca says “your,”
with a mix of puzzlement and pity,
makes Wexford realize that
he’s not Wexford at all.
He’s actually Rip Van Winkle,
refugee from a lost age.

Jack Phillips Lowe is a Chicago area native. His poems have appeared in Cajun Mutt Press, Clutch 2025 and The Literary Underground, among other outlets. Lowe’s selected poems, Flashbulb Danger (Middle Island Press, 2018), is available from Amazon. His newest chapbook, Brautigan’s Blue Moon (Instant Oblivion Press, 2025), is eagerly awaiting you at lulu.com.

The Cough

Hell if I know where it came from.
Maybe I caught it at work,
Or hanging out at the bars too much.
Something has come over me,
Has taken a hold and won’t let up.
Now here I am popping prednisone
Before my morning piss, benzos
Every eight hours,
Washing down horse size doxycycline
With full glasses of water
When the only results I seem to be getting are trips to the bathroom.
I blow into an inhaler for the wheezing
That feels like the devil is whistling Dixie
In my chest. I tell them everything about me
At the urgent care clinic, checking the only two boxes
That pertain to my health. Amlodipine for the hypertension,
Metformin for the borderline diabetes.
Bad blood runs in my family. The nurse pokes and prods
My nose to test me for Covid-19.
The doctor steps in armed in blue, wearing a face shield.
He greets me with a latex gloved knuckle bump.
A series of questions roll off his tongue.
A set of answers push past my lips into unsterile air.
He presses the bell of the stethoscope
At different points in my back as I take deep, labored breaths.
He moves around the front of my chest
Checking for any signs of crackling.
I hope he can do something. I pray he’s the angel
That can kill this devil.
I prepare myself for any blood they may need.
I feel much better than I did Saturday night,
Coughing uncontrollably into my comforter.
Not even the thought of blue eyes could lull me to sleep.
Perhaps this is my punishment for the company I keep,
for all the whisky I drink,
For not introducing enough vitamin-c
Into my diet of fried and fast food.
Has a curse been put on my name?
Who walks around with a doll in my likeness,
pulling at the seams?

---

Labor Room One

I saw the video about the first trimester
Sitting on top of the VCR.
This was different than snitching on you
For spilling Kool aid on the floor,
For not cleaning out the bathtub.
When the news broke,
It spread across the family like a fever.
I thought our father was going to lock you away
Someplace, cut off from all light.
Instead, he didn’t speak to you for days
Thinking he had lost his little girl.
Mother looked to me as if I had a backpack full of answers.
She shared her fears over grape soda & spiced ham sandwiches.
The Kleenex from crying
Was strewn across rose- pink carpet.
Karen in Queens was the first to be told.
The aunt everyone likes.
I watched your belly balloon
Under MC Hammer and Al B. Sure t-shirts,
Walking the halls of the house with shame in your face.
To think… you would be crowned mother in a matter of months.
Me, an uncle to your first born.
Our Father sat in his dark of disappointment
As mother held your hand through contractions,
I sat outside labor room one.
I sat outside fisting the cushions
Of the chair beneath me.
Hearing your sighs,
Your cries from behind the door.
Teddy stood over you
Waiting for fatherhood.
I didn’t think much of the man
Who knocked up my sister
I use to watch cartoons with,
I use to trade rap tapes with.
Hours later my niece slipped out into this world,
Her face full of life.
When we got home with our crowns,
Mother entered the house with rage
For a husband too angry to hold his granddaughter
She kicked his bedroom door open
Where our father was sleeping to have her say.
I went to bed, happy about the new edition to the family.
Shane Allison

---

A Chance Meeting

Walking home from a poetry reading one night
It began to rain. I popped the collar
Of my leather jacket up around my neck
As if it would be enough to keep me dry.
I lived in a beat up apartment
On Grove Street. It wasn’t five star,
But was in the village,
Blocks away from the bars
And boyfriend material.
I slept in my room with a butcher knife
Due to the mouse under the stove.
As I walked to dodge pellets of wet,
A man in a chef coat
Sauntered up next to me,
Sheltering us under his umbrella.
These things don’t happen
In my City town of Tallahassee.
He had to be heaven sent.
We exchanged names as if they
Were phone numbers
Written on receipt slips.
He worked at a restaurant
Whose food I couldn’t afford
On a work study salary.
I told him I was a poet
Who exchanged freshly squeezed
Sunshine for Lady Liberty.
Our walk stopped in front of Andy’s Deli
Where I would go for Chicken sandwiches
And Coconut crunch donut delites.
When he pulled the umbrella away,
I could taste the rain on my lips again,
Beads of it sticking to the frames of my glasses.
The face of this angel no longer in focus.
He had a train to Brooklyn to catch,
And I had a kitchen mouse to kill.

Shane Allison has been writing poetry since the age of fifteen, when he would hide off in the library writing sappy love poems about high school crushes. He has gone on to publish poems in a plethora of lit mags and anthologies. He has penned two novels, You’re the One I Want and Harm Done, both published by Simon & Schuster. He is also the author of Slut Machine (Queer Mojo Press), I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass (Dumpster Fire Press), and I Remember (Future Tense Book). You will usually find him hiding off in a corner at a nearby Barnes & Noble, composing poems about hot, stroller-pushing DILFS.

Background Conversation

I wish I’d learned to speak wave growing up.
And tree.
Maybe rain and creaky floorboard too.

I always felt there was stuff going on I wasn’t
privy to.
Something they were keeping from me.

Like meaning of life stuff, stuff that loses all
substance
when you try to express it in words.

I’m pretty sure the cats had a good idea what
was what.
You just had to look at them to know.

They were in the know. I knew it. I just did.
Little shits.
Not as deadpan as they like to think.

---

Always

…contraction of Old English phrase ealne weg, literally “all the way.”

There was never time for him
but he was always there for her
like a good bottle of wine,
one you keep for a
special occasion that never comes.

But not a really good bottle
one that might actually
be drinkable on the day.
Might being the key word, of course,
because uncorking can be…

Let’s just go with ‘revelatory.’

---

Essence

The absence of a mountain
does not presuppose
the presence of a hole.

The absence of a hole
on the other hand, is…
thought-provoking.

Jim Murdoch is a Scottish writer living in Cumbernauld. He’s been writing for over fifty years and his list of rejections is voluminous but he keeps at it. He’s written most things over the years–novels, stories, songs, even plays–but he thinks of himself primarily as a poet and is currently producing poems at an unprecedented pace. There are worse things to be in your sixties.