Blue (Ribbon) Monday by Cole Bauer

Packing and driving
Paying and over-drafting
Budgeting and scamming

Applications and resumes
Phone calls and emails
Errands and cleaning

It’s been a smooth transition
Accomplishing and reliving
With minor road blocks
That have been smoothed out
All since my wife and I
Left California

We enjoy Pabst
On this Monday afternoon
With hookah and weed
In our apartment in Texas

It’s the same old story, baby
But it’s my favorite
And a reward
I’ll take it

Cole Bauer
My name is Cole Bauer. I’m an American screenwriter, author, and poet currently in the dirty south of the U.S.A.. I was born and partially raised in the Twin Cities of Minnesota. I was raised and lived for most of my life in San Diego, California. I’ve lived, off and on, in Texas for six years. Traveled around America as well. I am inspired and motivated by street-writers like Charles Bukowski, John Fante, and Dan Fante. I enjoy clearing out my brain on to blank sheets of paper and empty screens. I love writing random short stories, pilot scripts, and film screenplays also.

Vermillion Ohio by Jason Baldinger

the pharmaceutical salesmen
went feral this afternoon
in what could be a sports bar
in the suburbs of Toledo
but no one really knows
they yell SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!
they yell again SHOTS!

there are stories of funerals
and interpretational dance
somewhere in downriver Detroit
Fermi’s stack spill steam
all over the southern Michigan night

morning fog on the North Dixie Highway
not much, just enough to accent
the abandoned. the Nuclear Lounge
permanently closed, sea gulls
bleach white the sky, I think
about 1965 even though
I wasn’t born then

I counted 65 bird nests
between the state lines
the Maumee River feeds Erie
the motels won’t stand up anymore
cornfields last forever
in a non-specific mist
vermilion is a color
that doesn’t match Ohio
Vermillion is a town
no one has ever been to

Jason Baldinger
Jason Baldinger is a poet hailing for the Appalachian hamlet of Pittsburgh. He’s the author of several books the most recent of which, the chaplet, Fumbles Revelations (Grackle and Crow) is available now, and the collection Fragments of a Rainy Season (Six Gallery Press) which is coming in September. Recent publications include the Low Ghost Anthology Unconditional Surrender, Uppagus, Lilliput Review, Rusty Truck, Dirtbag Review, In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Anti-Heroin Chic, Nerve Cowboy Concrete Meat Press, and Heartland! Poetry of Love, Solidarity and Resistance. You can hear Jason read some poems at


Dreaming With Cleopatra by Daniel de Cullá

Being naked to bed
From the bedside table
Where my father kept condoms
And historical naked stars
Dreaming with them
I took a big postcard
That I thought was a chicken
In a yard: It was Cleopatra!
Naked as Pharaoh Ptolemy
Brought her to the World, who
In addition to marrying her brother
By Ptolemaic Rule
She loved in Greek, Hebrew
Sirius and Aramaic
That seduced Plutarco
Who made him catch
Pencil club
And lamp to illuminate their texts.
Turning and twisting
To the beautiful photo
I found my little bishop
Like a picanton chicken
In a yard of lovers
Starting to haunt
This Cleopatra ‘s image
Of which I am captive.
I thought: Look if she’s beautiful
See if she’s pretty
That even my father
Is falling in love with her!
Kissing it
I asked her to help me
To get better note
In my studies of literature
Mathematics and music
That blowes with a stick
Will cost me
Teacher and my parents puting
My ribs
Like nuts in a sack.
Notice that to stay alone
With Cleopatra
I gave out from the yard
The eunuchus Potinus
General dictator Aquilas
And the charlatan Teodotus
Dragging them as I could
From the tail, and so to have
Some enemies less.
As when I was youngster
They accustomed me to hits
And the cane of the doctrine
To worship the dwarf Caesar
Under the pallium
I asked Julius Caesar, late republican:
-Fast me blessed Julius Caesar
If do you can protect me
Go fuck yourself
And let me to enjoy with Cleopatra.
Do not cut my head
Like Pharaoh Ptolemy did to Pompey
Your friend and rival.
I was restless
And I wanted that Cleopatra
Like Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love
Movbed me
And so I implored her:
– Open Your door,  my heaven
Open Your door to me, my star
And send your husband to war.
Being like this
In my own loving war
More as hostage than sovereign
Some damn bells
Playing at mass
Woke me up
Seeing my little bishop of love died
For having eaten rice with milk
In Cleopatra’s yard
Dreamed in this tournament night
Whose picture was too wrinkled
And my Little bishop
Thta just now  was
From her son, his son Caesarion
Soothed calmly
As if nothing had happened
This night of captive love
Crying for joys
Because my father could not
Enjoy Cleopatra
Another day.

Daniel de Culla
Daniel de Culla (1955) is a writer, poet, and photographer. He is also a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He has participated in Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève .He has exposed in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos, Spain. His address is in Burgos, just now. He has more than 70 published books.

Bad Boys by Bruce Mundhenke

Weekends in jail at the county,
Watching Cops with the others in jail,
They root for the bad guys
In chase scenes,
Disappointed at every arrest.
After the show is over,
They tell stories
From their criminal pasts,
And they talk about different jails,
Which ones suck,
And which are the best.
None of them talk about going straight,
I guess bad boys
Would rather stay bad.

Bruce Mundhenke
Bruce Mundhenke has worked as a laborer and a registered nurse. He enjoys writing poetry and is an avid reader. He finds in nature both inspiration and revelation. He lives in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.

A Farmer’s Daughter by John D Robinson

It seems as though I’m
incapable of anything
else: life happens to me,
around me and I write
it down: I scribe the
stories of people like
‘Druggie Duggie’ or
the tales of ‘Fearless
Fred’  but now and
then the pen stumbles
across the page leaving
behind a profound
emptiness that
over-shadows the beauty
of such people,
like ‘Mad Mary’ from
the dairy, who lived and
worked on her wealthy
family farm but
occasionally she’d hit
the sauce for a couple
of weeks and join and
live the life of the street-
drinkers: she was well
dressed and spoken and for
several days she’d piss and
sleep in bus-shelters, fight
and fuck in the alleyways
and then she’d return to
her folks and the farm:
she was something else
and whenever she
appeared, we knew we
were going to have a party.

(portrait by UK artist: Laurie Piper) John D Robinson is a published poet from the UK: his work appears widely in the small press and online literary publications: his latest collection is ‘An Outlaw In The Making’ (Scars Publications 2017): forth coming publications include ‘These Poems Stole Your Lunch Money’ a split chapbook with Bradley Mason Hamlin (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2018)

Afternoons in Valencia II: Holy Fools by Jasmine Nihmey-Vasdi

Following the trail
That sings of
Losing yourself behind everyone’s eyes.

Almonds jumping through earth beneath us
Olives dripping down to our soles.

But you insist
On walking stone barefoot
To hear old magic

Of crushed fruits and hot afternoon sun.

The wine died for all of us.
We walked to the church they all said was beautiful.

Hugging stone walls,
Pulling mosaics with our heels,
Drinking holy water to hear those voices

Jasmine Nihmey-Vasdi
I am a Canadian currently living and working in Spain. I’ve been previously published by Radix Magazine and Bywords. I also take pictures, which have been published in Graphite Publications and Scrivener Creative Review. When I’m not traveling, I share pasta with my cat and attempt to be a good mother to my way too many plants.

Sea-change by M.P. Powers

A stolen fire, pearls
of the Orient, saffron of Cilicia,
and for all this
and the blossom of luminous
white rose

to be chained to a rock
of precious coral
sun-blistered, salt-licked, wrack of the emerald
sea; feeding generously
some gruesome
gull my undying
liver, its bitter
discharge: the blood
of Hope;

minister to the instruments below.

M.P. Powers
M.P. Powers was born in Illinois, bred in Florida, and is now based in Berlin. More info here: