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Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/12/24

June 12, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Three regrets

There are three things
I’ve wished I’ve done
when I was young:

Trying on
my favorite aunt’s
hot pink stilettos,

Getting a big, long hit
of frozen Oregon weed
from an apple bong,

and—
not tasting your lower lip,
then sucking your whole mouth

the first moment
that we, our eyes met,
so long ago.

Born in Norman, Oklahoma, Carrie Magness Radna is an audio and moving image (AMI) description cataloger at the New York Public Library, an Associate Editor of Brownstone Poets, a singer, a lyricist-songwriter and a poet who loves to travel (when it’s safe). Her poems have previously appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords.com, Alien Buddha Press, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Jerry’s Jazz Musician, First Literary Review-East, et al. Prizes: “all trains are haunted” (Non-rhyming poetry: Honorable Mention) and “May (a Pantoum)” (Rhyming poetry: Honorable Mention), both of the 89th and 90th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. “Pink (a Ghazal)” was the Third Prize Winner (Rhyming Poetry) of the 91st Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition (2022). Nominations: The Pushcart Prize (2022-2023), The Best of the Web (2022). Chapbooks: Conversations with dead composers at Carnegie Hall (Flutter Press, now defunct: 2019) and Remembering you as I go walking (Boxwood Star Press, self-published). Poetry collections: Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press: 2019), In the blue hour (Nirala Publications: February 2021) and Shooting Myself in the Dark (Cajun Mutt Press: 2023). She lives in Manhattan, New York with her husband Rudolf. https://www.carriemagnessradna.com

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/10/24

June 10, 2024 James D. Casey IV

A Missed Opportunity

I should have slept with you that night
I could have gotten us a hotel

I should have booked a hotel
Not far from the bar

Someplace close to the bar
It wouldn’t have mattered where

Wouldn’t have made a difference where
As long as you get your dick sucked

As long as you get your dick wet
All before breakfast

As long as you come before breakfast
Now, every sight of me is an eye roll

Every time you see me, you roll your eyes.
Preparing like I’m some kind of level 5 hurricane

A Kind Thing

So, this man’s backpack falls on the floor of the cafe.
Everyone thinks this is a Starbucks.
His bag is a combination of black and gray, small for
Things like a laptop and a notebook.
My instinct is to pick it up, and sit it back in the chair
Before he returns from the bathroom,
But I’m afraid if he comes out, and sees me holding it,
He will cause a fuss,
Accuse me of stealing, so I leave it on the floor
No matter how much I want to pick it up.
When the white man returns to see his backpack,
He picks it up, and sits it back in one of the chairs at his table.
I could have done something kind,
But I didn’t want to get yelled at,
I didn’t want to be accused of stealing.

Adam

How can you despise me
When I think you’re the prettiest boy in the bar?
Even after you and Stevo fell out,
Even now when he won’t speak your name.
Why do you look at me with such disdain
When all I do is bless you with light,
Baptize you with all the love
You can stand?

50 Bucks on My 51st

As my mother walks about the house upset
About the broken ice maker not working in her 1000-dollar refrigerator
She slips me a check for fifty bucks and says Happy Birthday.
It’s nice to know what I’m worth.
My sister will probably get more.

Ammunition

Dear Daddy,

You might as well hand Ma a box of bullets,
Watch her load the gun,
Go stand wherever she wants you to stand
And take your execution like a man.

Love,

Your Son

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 pinned two novels You’re the One I Want and Harm Done both published by Simon & Schuster. His latest poetry collection, I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass is out from Dumpster Fire Press. You will usually find him hiding off in a corner at a nearby Barnes & Noble composing poems about hot, stroller-pushing DILFS.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/07/24

June 7, 2024 James D. Casey IV

The Monster in the Mist

Hand stamped
the language
is unfamiliar
if you
didn’t live
it, if
you didn’t
hide it
how easy
sleight of hand
how easy
to cover
with smiles
and accomplishments
but the fear
the danger
measured, weighed
now out
in the open
the creature
gets too
confident, arrogant
extremely real
and then
caught whether
or not
you believe it.

LB Sedlacek is an award-winning writer and poet. Her latest poetry book is Unresponsive Sky published by Purple Unicorn Media. Her latest book of short stories is The Renovator & Motor Addiction published by Alien Buddha Press. She has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize both in poetry. Her mystery book, The Glass River, was nominated for the Thomas Wolfe Memorial Prize. She also enjoys swimming and reading.

Instagram: @lbsedlacek
Facebook: @lbsedlacekpoet
Twitter: @lbsedlacek
http://www.lbsedlacek.com

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/05/24

June 5, 2024 James D. Casey IV

A Southern Colloquy

There’s a dead cow on McSpadden Lane with its ear tag
lopped off. Too sick to stand, she was probably
dragged here by a chain-link fastened to a towbar. I tried
calling the county switchboard, but they suggested I find

a local farmer with a front loader who can haul away
large animals. And unless it’s blocking the roadway,
they claim to lack the resources to transfer a cow or any
large carcass. Can anyone share some advice?

Well, considering it’s a cow, I’d call the game warden
or call the livestock commission. Cows are not cheap;
surely some farmer will notice a missing cow? Most likely
it was hit by a car, but you might try calling

the Veterinary schools, too. Since they work with
heavy animals, they might have a solution. Then again,
you can always just burn it. A carcass burns well with
a low combustion fuel such as diesel or kerosene—
but keep a couple fire extinguishers handy!

Hmmm . . .
Before it contaminates the well water, I think I’ll call
the county again. I’ve heard they have a trailer—so-called
Dead Wagon—that they drag around to farms picking up
dead cattle to cut back on contamination . . . but this . . .

this dead cow dumped on McSpadden is far-flung from
the lowings of the family farmstead or the yammering
cries of the auction house. This is about malice, the making
of a true crime, a nastiness that transcends cruelty.

Okay, I really hate to make light of all this calamity,
but one of the crazies in Rockford had a cow die. He then
tied it to the tailgate of his F-150 and drove up and down
the freeway around Nails Creek Road. When stopped,

he explained that he was trolling for coyotes. The Sheriff
ordered him to cease. And after that, he began pulling
the carcass up the street to where he placed it in front
of a local pub, the same pub that evicted him for bad
behavior. Tacked a note on it: Weekly Meat Delivery.

©2024 Keith Gorman All rights reserved.

Keith Gorman is a poet, guitarist, and retired factory worker living near the foothills of The Great Smoky Mountain National Park in Eastern Tennessee. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the I-70 Review, The Delta Review, The California Quarterly Review, Chiron Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Plainsongs Magazine, and Muddy River Poetry Review.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/03/24

June 3, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Eulogy Menage

Simultaneous terror 
Hair stood on end
500 million volts
 Bolt and Clap are one
Human Communion with
 An impersonal god and goddess. 
His load delivered
 to her surface 
Through blood and bone.
 Painless instant transition 
Is of no concern to them.
As all bodily fluids boil 
Boots burned through 

Bad end to a good day 
In the deep woods 
My Bleached remains found
By a fellow wildcrafter 
Years later
 amidst a huge chanterelle flush

Picked up my skull and said
"Ah the Heretic Vicar, I knew him once!"

_______________________

DEATHSTYLE

Hey kid welcome to the human race
Got your carbon chain shackles and a working cranium 
Prepare yourself to take your slice
Of Gaia's pie. 
This progressive linear resource butchery
Has been our phillistine practice 
in many ways 
throughout hominid existence. 
Rules are :
Consider yourself the last generation. 
 We all thought we were. 
whoever digs the deepest hole wins.
Blinders on stay focused.
 Never mind the noise or chemical smoke.
Give No quarter to the woke.
 Step on toes. Compete! 
It's the 4th Reich
Fuck the liberal elite! 
 Eat their lunch. 
Remain in denial. 
Never play fair or they'll win.
Dig like a pig for 80 years give or take.
If your lucky grab your chest.
Sorry you were born so late
You may BE the last.
No American Dream for your kids.
Bear Witness to human extinction.
30 or 40 ice ages from today 
The cock roaches will say
The monkeys had their chance.

_______________________

I don't know how deep the well.
 the angels won't tell .
they frequently speak through my pen.
 They're here again.
 Provide the only thing that makes me excited about life anymore. 
guided trips through my grey matter imagery. Hamsterwheel chatter..it never stops. 
Goddess forbid if it did 
of what use would I be.

_______________________

Memories of war
Abhorrent acts
On the Killen floor 
Faces live forever in 
Minds eye
Thin veil Rationale
It was them or me.
Thought I could drink away the feelings 
But it doesn't work anymore 
Thousand mile stare 
I'm back there
Like it was yesterday 

_______________________

Whats left after closing time
All the shred and drama done.
Only music fit for listenin
In my arrogant opinion 
 
More stories of the killen floor and my dying day
 played on some slack key resonator 
Preferably a Pegamule with an abalone inlay..don't make it sound no better
Just pretty like a full body tattoo girl 
Curled up around my soul
Might as well dream still
While I'm on this side of the dirt

_______________________

I have a part in all my wrongdoing 
I can no longer point the finger
Serenity exited long ago
Insomnia coupled with amoral thoughts 
Too much late nite chocolate 

_______________________

YAQUI TANKA

Ain't they the same place
Killen floor and prayen ground 
Transition spirit 
Death approaches from the left
Yaqui desert sorcerer 

_______________________

Looken foreward to
  tea with a coven 
adorable michigan druids.
 Dredlocks, snakebites.
Faces tattoo'd
With celtic knots 
And ravens.
Conversation kept light; 
as I'm the only man
 seeking divination advice. 
A misplaced word
 might be
misinterpreted as a slight. 
Resulting in a curse ,Jinx, or hexes 
Cast the bones, read the stone.
Melodic incantation 
Tell me witch! 
What do you scry? 
Does intuition say she's the one?
Do I give it another try?
Or preserve my occluded heart
And say goodbye.

Voracious reader but lately doesn’t have the time.

From an auld Bucks County family of poets (brother and grandmother were both published).

Despite working around the performing arts, Chris didn’t pursue creative writing or performance till a year ago when; through some introspective journaling to cauterize a broken spirit he noted certain phrases had a ring. After attending a fellow poet’s funeral he was invited to read at the New Hope Beats gathering and hasn’t looked back! He now seeks to be published, travels to many open mics and hosts a Thursday monthly read at the Living Room Ardmore. His work has been described as ruminating introspective.