Saturday, December 14, 2019


Cold Streets
Winter is early this year
usurping Fall,
bringing frigid days
prompting us to dress warm,
those who have warm coats,
the rest shiver,
unable to afford
comfort clothing,
economic constraint
denying down garments,
allowing Iphones, tv,
poverty’s compensation.

--Gary Beck

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 23 poetry collections, 7 novels, 3 short story collections and 1 collection of essays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing, forthcoming is Desperate Seeker); Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force, Transitions and Mortal Coil (Wordcatcher Publishing, forthcoming is Temporal Dreams) Earth Links (Cyberwit Publishing: forthcoming Too Harsh For Pastels). His novels include a series ‘Stand to Arms, Marines’: Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions, forthcoming is the third in the series, Raise High the Walls); Acts of Defiance and Flare Up (Wordcatcher Publishing), forthcoming is its sequel, Still Defiant). Extreme Change will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Gary lives in New York City.

Friday, December 13, 2019


santa con job

they are roaming manhattan
sliding in the slush and snow in sloppy packs
frat boys in santa costumes
with piss stains on the crotch
their sorority girlfriends
in the requisite whore mrs. claus costume
complete with fishnets
they are doing an annual pub crawl
they claim it’s for charity
but the only charity most of the neighborhoods get
are puddles of vomit
and a rise in sexual assault cases

i am standing outside a famous bookstore
that never has anything inside for me to buy
watching four of these red and white aliens
trying their best to remember which way is west from east
three o’clock in the afternoon in union square
and they are already stumbling blind drunk

jesus christ is what the holiday has come down to
another gratuitous display of heathenism
by our next generation of CEOs and lawmakers?

one of the blonde mrs. clauses spots me standing there
and tries to get her man to get directions from me
but he just says, fuck that faggot
and then the four of them stumble off

when they come wobbling back ten minutes later
screaming at each other
in front of hundreds of holiday shoppers
their big ball in the city ruined
by their own gluttony
and blondie starts making eyes at me again
i think maybe i’ll go back into the famous bookstore
give it one more shot
kill an hour before my pub opens up at four o’clock
where last year the world’s coolest bartender made it a sport
to see how many of those jolly motherfuckers
he could throw out
in one festive evening.

--John Grochalski


Thursday, December 12, 2019



now I get it
tRump is a bot
a badly programmed

artificial intelligence
that some 15
year old

hacked together
from something he

found on the dark web
now we need to
shut it down

--Thomas R. Thomas

Wednesday, December 11, 2019


Santa’s Walk of Shame

It’s Santacon in San Francisco.
Fat and skinny millennial Kringles,
slutty elves, rowdy reindeer
pub crawl along Van Ness Avenue
on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

They cram into, spill out
of tiny neighborhood bars.
Board converted buses
festooned with red and green upholstery,
fuzzy white fur headrests,
multi-colored twinkle lights.

By evening, broken bottles,
impressionistic bursts
of technicolor vomit
decorate sidewalks.
Abandoned beards and bells
join downtown detritus.

The following morning,
a hungover, disheveled Santa,
scarlet pants at half-mast,
staggers his walk of shame
through dim light, drifting mist,
back to an angry Mrs. Claus
who seethes in a seedy hotel.

--Jennifer Lagier

Tuesday, December 10, 2019


Mass Burials

My hollow hands unlace my shoes.
I follow those from pinning of the butterfly to
the liberation of its wings.

Now I sit in the twin pools of my shoes
drowning in those. Four walls susurrate.
The neon outside dots together a river.

This way no ways home any longer.
In twin puddles my feet waddle into the deep.
Somewhere down there lie dreams
in their mass burials.

--Kushal Poddar

Short bio-

Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

Author Page -


Monday, December 9, 2019


Cheeseburger Rodeo Blues

You sound like the girl in a bad country song
who doesn’t care about right or wrong
because it’s so hard being faithful
to a wanted man

and maybe that man’s a politician
who really loves to party
and maybe you’re in bed with him
but it ain't really adultery

it’s more like a fast ride or a fling
with a rhinestone cowboy
but that doesn’t mean a thing to the posse
if your man’s caught cheatin’ on democracy

--Stew Jorgenson

Stew Jorgenson is the mayor of Republican Bluffs, Arizona. Population 1.

Sunday, December 8, 2019


John Lennon has been gone 39 years. Here's something I wrote almost a decade ago:

the day after john lennon died

the day after
john lennon died
thirty years after
john lennon died
we are walking briskly
down 75th street
the wind off the estuary
smacking us in the face
one ear bud in your ear
one ear bud in mine
a little drunk
a little happy
singing instant karma
in the glow of christmas lights
hung outside the warm
homes of neighbors
we don’t want to know
we are children gone
just a little bit gray
free from the bar
free from religion
free from america
free to sing in the quiet street
as loud as we never are
and as i turn to take in
that large tree
the one dressed in purple
and red lights
the one that illuminates
the whole block
i think nothing is wrong
if only for a moment
nothing is wrong in this world.


--John Grochalski