The concept, at least in analogy, Was solid, as solid as the bar Of soap, with which she would Wash her kid’s mouth to clean Up his language. She used Ivory Because it was pure. She could not Know I would someday write poems. It was not as bad a trip as the trip To the proverbial woodshed, but It, nevertheless, left a bad taste. It still leaves a bad taste. I mean, What the fuck was she thinking?
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His collection, Planet Mort, is just out from FootHills Publishing in its Montana Poets series. His poems have appeared widely in a variety of magazines. He was formerly a librarian.
She looked like she was in a hostage photo. Her eyes seemed too alert, too wide open. Her suitor had a half-smirk / half smile. There was a nonchalant air of confidence On his face, as if he’d come back from Some bold safari having bagged a trophy. I pictured them traveling the world again For no reason, making labored attempts At making love to prove they still had it In them. But to be more sympathetic: What was she to do? Her artistic career All in a shambles, her hobbies all coming To nearly nothing and imbued with only Half-meaning. One has to have a narrative, Some way to tie a bow around a shipwreck. If it’s any consolation, their combined income Would smooth out the sterile edges of such Negotiations as must inevitably come when Proof-of-concept prototypes don’t replicate Well on the open road. The wooden cross In the background seemed nearly comedic. Imagine her really believing in any god? The old, “Well, I try to live as Christ lived,” Doesn’t really wash with a former Baptist Like me. I admonish others to go primitive Polytheistic, like I now do, when begging The gods for undeserved mercy and help. These secularized, politicized, mainline Protestant and Reformed worship houses Strike me as progressive action groups With cherry picked Bible & Torah verses Sprinkled over them. But who am I To judge the lives and beliefs of others? Well, I’m told I’m a judgmental prick — That’s who. As for me, I’ll probably Do the same thing she’s doing, maybe Five years from now. Then you’ll get To laugh at my hostage photo too.
Mel C. Thompson is a retired security guard and office temp who is a semi-retired poet-publisher (writing about one poem a month and publishing about one author per year). He was born in Downey, California and has a B.A. in Philosophy from Cal-State Fullerton. In the active phase of his poetry career, he was a desktop publisher and published many authors, most recently Deborah C. Segal and Jonathan Hayes. He is of the Café Babar lineage of the plain-language / spoken word / 1990s San Francisco poetry scene. He also writes short novels, short plays and books on religion and politics. His life has been dedicated to heresy, blasphemy, political incorrectness, red wine, red meat, black tea, slot machines, cheap cigarettes and mood-disordered women. He is currently penniless and lives alone in a Section 8 apartment and accepts blame for virtually anything he is accused of.
It’s morning. You can hear palm tress scraping across the grey parking structure Resting on the corner. There, inside, from top to bottom he covers it. Broom and dust pan in hand raking in what’s left in the previous night. He doesn’t mind the bottles. couldn’t care less about the coffee cups. But he prays he never sees early birds flocking into the sleepy lot to nest their cars inside. Breaking his pattern, blowing his flow. Many won’t notice the trash, but he would know and that nagging thought would assuredly follow him home.
Chuck is a winner of the Mad Cave Studios Talent Hunt. In 2022 he released his fourth poetry collection, People Watching. He published two works of fiction and multiple comics both online and print. His newest musical poetry project, Letters From The Lookout, released with the collective, Katcheen Tongues.
I prayed for you in 1999, legit offered you up in a request at Bible study. I didn’t actually hear an Eminem song till later—the one about the trailer park girls—yet back then in my living room with other young married couples, I prayed for your salvation.
I forgot to notice you for a decade, exchanged friend groups for new ones, and you went to rehab. When a homie slid Relapse into my CD player, I took myself to Best Buy to get my own copy.
You presided over morning joy and were loud over hours of sex. I won’t ask how getting gospel-saved worked out. Just wanted you to know I prayed for you when we were both young and understood the world in one dimension. Maybe you felt God’s hand over the years. I hope you’ve settled into life, wiser than before we were vintage, grateful to still be alive for now.
Two lifetimes ago, Catherine performed her poetry in Madrid. Now her main jobs are to write and hang out with her family. Her work has appeared in Pank, Deep Water Literary Journal, and The Grief Diaries. Her chapbook, Soul Full of Eye, is published through Kelsay Books.
Scott Waters lives in Oakland, California with his wife and son. He graduated with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Scott has published previously in Cajun Mutt Press, Third Wednesday, Main Street Rag, Better Than Starbucks, The Pacific Review, A New Ulster, and many other journals. Scott’s first chapbook was published by Selcouth Station, and his poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
