Yeah, I saw that you left the muscadines right there on the unwashed kitchen counter, as though sex were a part of speech all its own. You can diagram that shit, you know, on wide-lined paper and call it a treasure map. There, you just might find salvation, if not the ring you abandoned under the fluff of my pillow.
Bloodberry
This morning, I made a smoothie from the heart I wear on my sleeve; and, to be honest, it’s not sitting so well. Damn thing, Sugar sweet. But, my arms have become wings, wide enough to flap the steam from a well-balanced breakfast.
A Hair Shy of a Pound
Your love is a slice of olive loaf, cut thin by the butcher of longing and time, so I stretch my experience of you into a sandwich, wandering the aisles in the quest for pumpernickel-rye, whole grain mustard and lettuce shreds, hoping beyond hope that the cosmos will continue its mad swirl into unfathomable vastness, forever free of fluorescent lighting and buy-one-get-one limited-time deals.
Kelly Moyer can often be found wandering the mountains of North Carolina, where she resides with her husband and two philosopher kittens, Simone and Jean-Paul. Hushpuppy, her collection of short-form poetry, has recently been released by Nun Prophet Press.
I’m twelve, riding alone on a Greyhound from Tulsa to California to visit my aunt. My eyes drown in a view of forty passengers, cigarette smoke, plastic jewelry, shopping bags of dirty clothes, torn T-shirts.
The man across the aisle strips off his shirt, revealing a waist to neck collection of tattoos: razor wire, skulls, mermaids, naked women, clowns laughing at death, satanic pitchforks, balls of snakes.
I see his girl friend running her fingers over his chest as they disappear under a quilt. I remain sleepless, enthralled by the groans, squeals, and rhythmic movements that emanate from beneath their tent, choreographing something mysterious.
A strange feeling comes over me as I watch this mass of mankind sleeping; I imagine characters capable of murder, launch my life journey of comedy and caution.
All night I sit on the edge of my seat imagining wrestling positions and games that tattooed people play as the bus speeds past mountains that pierce the sky.
W Roger Carlisle is a 75-year-old, semi-retired physician. He currently volunteers and works in a free medical clinic for patients living in poverty. He is on a journey of returning home to better understand himself through poetry. He hopes he is becoming more humble in the process.
Hot damn! It’s a comin’! My favorite holiday: Halloween. Yes sir, gonna have me a good time. I always have a good time on Halloween. Yup, great holiday, spooks, masks, parties. Night time parades through the streets. Door to door trick-or-treatin’ for candy. Those withered apples from the old folks. I give out dog turds. Ran out last year. Used to soap those windows, scare little kids. Once threw water balloons on the parade. The National Guard chased us for blocks. That really had our little hearts a poundin’. I remember tying up that sissy boy Steve To a parking meter front of the movie house. He bawled and bawled but nobody untied him. Everyone thought it was a Halloween act. Got older, Halloween parties at the bars. Wild women there but ya gotta unmask them Before you get shocked by their ugly ass later. The men ain’t no prize either But you could always just leave your masks on While doin’ the nasty in the parking lot.
Daniel S. Irwin was born, raised, and is back in town at Sparta, Illinois. His card reads: Artist, Actor, Writer, Soldier, Scholar, Priest. He has won awards for his art, acting (over 100 films and 30+ stage productions), writing (nine books and work published in over one hundred magazines and journals world-wide), retired military (Air Force and Army), graduate of Southern Illinois University/Carbondale and has attended four other universities), and is an ordained Dudeist priest with a Ph.D. in Divinity (not bad for a heathen). Once worked as a medic in an institution for the criminally insane…but didn’t notice anything strange about the inmates. Latest on-line work can be found on Horror, Sleaze, Trash Magazine and Beatnik Cowboy. He would love to move back to Europe but fears the plague.
Check out Brother Dan’s permanent AD spots on CMP!
she used to visit at the most inappropriate times; usually in the midst of the night never caring whether someone else lay on my bed, couch, floor.
she always, however, brought at least two 8balls of pure cocaine.
she had good manners, My Fey.
often, she’d scare a good woman out of my apartment, mainly because she was tough, and acted even tougher.
usually, though, she was already loaded and that was more than enough to horrify some of the college students I met in bars.
I never shooed her away; she was MY coke fiend, my friend, my lover.
when she came, and after we had settled whatever differences might have arose with those already in my apartment,
we went for the blow; four lines each, to warm up. then,
we cracked a bottle of bourbon; usually cheap and unknown brand, sometimes, during good times, Four Roses or Wild Turkey.
we drank, and had nothing to talk about, although we never remained silent for more than 5 minutes.
her dream was to survive; mine, to die.
she held my hand when things got too dark and the mist turned unbearable.
I kept her in my arms when her heart was stabbed, or when someone tried to pull a fast one on her (although, most who tried had very bad endings in their short stories unworthy of being written).
the coke was always the common bond; after several lines, after burning our noses, and after emptying at least one bourbon bottle,
we went to bed or remained on the blue couch.
they were heated, passionate fucking sessions, we both sweated profusely. usually, I was the first to give up after years of drinking, smoking, and the only exercise I’ve done being lifting glasses of draft beer.
she’d kiss me, let me catch my breath; she often laughed, warmly, before going back down, trying to resurrect my dying pieces.
there wasn’t much more in all this; few months of madness tied up to one name, one face, and all those that came and left in between.
for me, it’s how life has been, ought to have been. short breaks of insanity, amid the wider circle of sheer madness.
it’s what always worked for me, nothing else ever did.
and so, with an 8ball on my desk, living in a faraway place, having no idea whether Fey is still alive or buried somewhere unceremoniously and unmourned, I remember those months of wonderful moments lost in a blurry haze and raise a toast to her,
hoping she’s still alright, still kicking ass, and that she’ll one day read this and weep a single tear of joy.
Even Cockroaches have Souls
in a rundown apartment we sat, boozing another night away isolated from the world.
we talked aboutnumerous things I’ve already forgotten, except for one tiny thing:
“even cockroaches have souls,”
she said when I tried to step on one that was strolling around us.
I didn’t kill the fucker; besides, it might have had more things to live for than us.
I had a long snort of scotch, then poured some on the floor. it took a taste, then stumbled away from us.
we drained the bottle fast.
angry drunk tantrums broke the silence of the night; someone was chasing the same cockroach I had shared a drink with.
I felt bad; a drunk kiss sufficed to make me forget.
Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared in various places, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.
She awaits in her jungle, wrapped in inviting lace, her shoes, like hissing snakes, coil up her legs, luring him into a land that he knows and knows well, a land that he has traveled to and from time and time again.
But tonight is different.
Her back arches, ready to sink her teeth into the prey. As the walls roar, she inhales the power because she knows the high only lasts for so long.
Melody Creek resides in East Tennessee with her husband and three fur children. She has been published in Earthen Lamp Journal, Picaroon Poetry, Awakened Voices, Cold Creek Review, Snapdragon Journal, NY Literary Magazine, and Bank Street Writers UK. Her first book Anxiety, Depression, and Other Sorts of Trauma is now available as an ebook; the print version will be ready by late summer. When she isn’t writing poetry, you can find her performing magic and meditating in nature. Add her on Facebook: Melody Creek-Poetry.
