To Santa and Gary Busey by Guinotte Wise

I want things and will
outline just a few of them
together I think you can come
through for me don’t you?
Your talents are so different
that some law of blend
can make you a smoothie
of conjury overcoming
my diffidence which is
fading nicely as I go on
here to the both of you
notice that? You may not,
not knowing me and all but
that will also go the way
of any modesty because
the three of us together
would holler dirty words
like congruent and
wanker powerwashing
any falsely hesitant
behavior and getting
over ourselves as our
selves so now, before
all that pandemonic shit
takes hold let me just
mention that list of
wantables, things, like
a Vincent Black Shadow
(between the two of you
do-able, no?) I believe
this because you two
are fuse and match, I
the twixt that bring you
together, catalytic-like
and catechismic as well
as that old favorite
cataclysmic, know what
I’m sayin’? Two (one was
that V-twin with banshee
overtones) is an espresso
machine old, steaming,
glittering and domed
like St. Peters basilica, or,
and this is a king kong


the basilica its own self.
I wanted the espresso
maker so I could avoid that
magisterial barista who is
so imperious, but with the
big ass church being mine
he would contain that don’t
you think? Three is for a
three-way you’ll never guess
who, not you! nunca nunca
but me and Francoise Hardy
and her lookalike or twin or
barring that, Bardot. Are they
alive? They’d have to be
alive as I draw the line at
that other. Okay I will
send this as I’m tired but
there will be a followup
wish list, an appendix if
you will, could be many
items in length but you two
as simultaneity are the Nick
and Gary AXIS of crave.

Guinotte Wise lives on a farm in Resume Speed, Kansas. His short story collection (Night Train, Cold Beer) won publication by a university press and not much acclaim. Two more books since. His wife has an honest job in the city and drives 100 miles a day to keep it. More books Other stuff:



Bourbon Street Pirates by James D. Casey IV

Bloody Mary breakfast
At noon

Long night ahead
As the one behind

Big Jim’s eyes
My father
Best friend

The Dungeon
The night before
It scared my brother’s old lady
I dug it
As always
Kissing some woman
In from Dallas
Her old man watched

Back from the memories
Vendors selling wares
Raw oysters
Music plays

This part of the city
I enjoy

Breakfast is over now
Time for a walk about

A hand rolled cigar
A little Voodoo
Pirates Alley

Hobos making love under a blanket
Brass band serenade
Things are getting strange

I like strange

Time to hit Turtle Bay
Medium rare cheeseburger
Fresh cheddar
Turbo Dog beer
Another one
My hand feels empty

Saint’s game
Losing score
Time for the next show

Johnny White’s
Pirate bar
End of the game
The answer to life
The universe
And everything
Is 42
We lost
I still love ’em

Irish bar
Bloody Mary
Irish coffee
Run into an old friend

Poetry and art ensues
Minds meld
Smoking Indica
Minty flavor
Hidden in an Altoids can

Gives the flower
An even more
Enticing taste

Studio apartment
Starving artists
Working where we live

High now
A bit drunk
Time for another

Back to Molly’s
Across the street
Then White’s

Some guy with a big gut
In a little dress
Saint’s colors

More Bloody Marys

Our tribe arrives
My little brother
Some Colorado cousins
Their women

Skirt guy
I think that was his name
Flashes his penis
Brother gets mad
A valid argument
We give him a pass
Just one

It is New Orleans after all

More drinks

Then the hand grenades
But sweet
A combination of elixirs

Skirt guy
He can’t handle us
Bourbon Street Pirates
To the core

He grabs the wrong breast
A fight ensues

All sorts of deliberate debauchery
All hell breaks loose


He did not realize
We were all family

People thrown
Faces bent against knuckle

We win
Of course
Grown men
Acting out animal aggression

Time for a retreat
Police state of mind
Setting in

They could not handle us
Bourbon Street Pirates
To the core

We showed Colorado a good time

Now it is time to eat again
Drink some more
Stumbling into Little Vick’s

Good times

Jack Daniel’s

A friend emerges
From the back
In an apron
Asking how the food was

It is the old friend
From earlier on
I told you
We work where we live

Starving artists
Together again


Getting loud

Some desert
Cafe Du Monde
More whiskey
Another hand rolled cigar

A self proclaimed “Madman Philosopher,” James D. Casey IV is a published author of two poetry books: ‘Metaphorically Esoteric’ & ‘Dark Days Inside the Light While Drunk on Wine.’ Mr. Casey’s writings have also been featured on numerous websites, in online magazine publications, and printed in two poetry anthologies: ‘Pirate Poetry’ by Writing Knights Press, and ‘Where the Mind Dwells’ by Eber & Wein Publishing. Poetry Life & Times, Artvilla, and Realistic Poetry International all have him listed in their poet archives as well.

Education by Sudhanshu Chopra

I thought art was a
cosy sheet on a
rainy morning
anyone could get into
and feel at home

as they floated on
water-bed of dreams
sprawled, smiling,
subconsciously aware

towards the landscape they
painted with thread of
imagination on
glaze of
freedom, expression

away from self-proclaimed pedagogue
smeared with
money, monopoly
that killed the spirit
to a murmur

Sudhanshu Chopra
Sudhanshu Chopra draws inspiration to write from observation, memories, subconscious, books he reads, movies he watches, and music he listens to; sometimes a phrase or simply a word is enough. ‘He writes at

Glorious Land by JD DeHart

We took that ambling journey
not in a wagon but in our car
past the shining waters and
into the deep wooded hills, the
beauty and the quote unquote
majesty, and all that fine until
we noticed all the posted signs,
marks of buckshot, and the lone
dog scrambling along, starving,
its ribs visible in a way that only
the nightly news had shown us,
refusing even the kindest offering
(all we had to give it were stale
potato chips and soda), too afraid
to come near so that it could
grab a bite and extend its life
one moment.

jd dehart
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Red Dashboard.

In The Broken Places by Steven Storrie

Dancing stars with
Mud caked feet
And memories all their own
Lights hit their beams
Cameras breaking on her fragile frame
And nobody waits at home.

She’s in the place she loves most
When the air is upside down
And the faces all look the same
A tumbling of secrets fall from her eyes
As strangers cast callous judgement
In freezing cold rooms
On the darkest of winter nights

I wish that I could know her
Shield her
Kiss her soft lips
As she goes to speak my name

But wasting away in this arm chair
As the screen flickers spitefully away
I realise this could never be
The ride is almost over
I have insufficient balance and
She is far too delicate
For hands like these
To hold.

Steven Storrie 3
Steven Storrie has worked as a cable T.V repair man, dishwasher, choreographer, ice cream vendor and junk yard attendant. Tired of this he is currently locked in his basement working on his first full collection of poetry, bickering with his neighbours over nothing and storing the baseballs he keeps when they are hit into his yard. His first collection of short stories, We Are Not The Kids We Used To Be, will be released in November by DevilHouse Press. You can find him at the website he runs, ‘Black Coffee For Breakfast’, at

A Balanced Breakfast by Robert Wynne

You suspect something’s wrong
when you find a bloody talon
in your Corn Flakes.  Fire blooms
red and orange in the corner
like a robin’s nest exploding,
small blue eggs shattered
tiny maracas.  What do birds dream?
Glass apologizes in song
and a mockingbird echoes back
before crashing into a feathered heap
at the French doors.
Your nerves fray so thin
that locks pick themselves.
The kitchen is vibrating.
Why can’t everything fly?

Robert Wynne earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University. A former co-editor of Cider Press Review, he has published 6 chapbooks, and 3 full-length books of poetry, the most recent being “Self-Portrait as Odysseus,” published in 2011 by Tebot Bach Press. He’s won numerous prizes, and his poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies throughout North America. He lives in Burleson, TX with his wife and 2 rambunctious dogs. His online home is

He Loved All The Women In The World by Victor Henry

Everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.
                                                             Mark Twain

Like he loved his wife, a woman of exquisite beauty,
A woman of impressionable charm, a woman witty,
Seductive, and intelligent.

But when his dreams magnified into manifestations
Of heaven and hell, both in perpetual conflict,
He learns unconsciously

A new language only he understands.
It’s as if he’s been administered LSD,
Like a CIA test subject in their mind control program.

It’s as if he’s found
The ultimate truth. It’s as if
The tension of opposites such as

Love-hate, death-life, right-wrong
Are the intuitive answers
He’s been seeking all along.

He questions his interpretation
Of his creation story unfolding,
Discovers erect Homo sapiens, modern humans,

Taking their first steps as hunter gatherers.
Asks specifically what is his role
As the actor in this cosmic comic play?

Victor Henry
My poetry and prose poems have appeared in Misfit Magazine, Dead Snakes, Homestead Review, The Paterson Literary Review, Red River Review, and Slipstream, among others. My book What They Wanted was published last November 11th, Veterans Day, by FutureCycle Press in Lexington, Kentucky.