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.
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.
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.
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!"
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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YAQUI TANKA
Ain't they the same place Killen floor and prayen ground Transition spirit Death approaches from the left Yaqui desert sorcerer
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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.
a small wooden pub with a beer tap on every table; four beers in, I was already feeling the effects.
I pictured Emily sitting across from me, instead of the friends I’d gone out with for a couple of beers; how we’d have broken all the pub’s records (they had a screen on the wall, the all-time record was 35L by a group who knows how large), how we’d have loved the ability not to chase down bartenders more willing to flirt (or drink themselves to a stupor) than do their fucking job.
few beers in, and my liver began protesting; growing soft, losing my former championship shape. am I still a pro, as a few bartenders used to tell me? do I still have it?
the answer’s probably no, it hurts. no more chasing the perpetual drunk while able to function amidst the cloud of inebriation.
I sit sober now, too, recalling the hangover mornings of pro wrestling and vodka-and-orange juice, barely able to breathe, let alone walk,
and yet, I’d always find myself back to the bars come afternoon. I needed the drink; I still need it, I just don’t have it anymore.
speeding towards the age of 28, just a couple of months to join the CLUB, despite my being no musician, nor exceptionally talented.
I smell bourbon; the bar across the street, a fancy establishment for Lamborghini-driving motherfuckers, is about to open.
I should go talk to the bartender about the possibility of replacing him. could I work in a bar, without drinking myself to oblivion every night?
once, I just drank bars dry. oh, the irony, having to be the sober man serving drinks to carefree drunks and rich assholes.
the coffee’s strong, I’ve nothing to do but dream of other nights and days, early afternoons of tequila, late nights of bourbon.
I might be going out tonight too, with friends once more. and after a few beers in, I’ll be ready to be tucked in and soundly sleeping. no more aimless wandering through the dark streets, drunk, ready to fuck and punch.
lighting a cigarette, in the blue smoke once more I see Emily’s eyes. almost sense her lips on mine. tasting cheap bourbon and even cheaper cocaine.
love, I failed you; doing the one thing I promised I’d never do the night before we went to the abortion clinic and lost it all. I’m growing up, getting old as fuck; paying the price of years-long stupors and failed love affairs that’d never replace what we had.
it’s alright; I’ll just drink my coffee for now, try to make it in the sex-novel business. soon, and certainly long before I make it to 30, I’ll either be next to you in the Devil-dealing poker table, or, in a rundown strip joint, drinking pimps under the table and comforting dancers that are just too sick of cheap assholes.
Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press) and Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.
I found out some things that sent me off the deep end, and I made the typically American decision to solve my problem with a gun.
I drove around the Arizona valley with two guitars lying across the backseat of my car: a black Gibson SG All American series, and a beat-to-shit Fender Mustang. The only things I owned of any value.
The guy at the pawnshop said the guitars weren’t worth anything, not even in trade for the cheapest handgun.
I stood outside the pawnshop, pissed off and sweating, formulating a new plan.
Obviously once I found a gun I would have to come back and shoot this dumbfuck before I could get down to the business of shooting myself.
Anger could be an unlikely lifeline, and there was always something to be angry about in those days.
James Hippie is the author of the novel The Punk Called Rock and the short story collection Terminal Jive. His writing has appeared online at Zygote in My Coffee, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Terror House Magazine.
