Apocalypse Not Now

Things don’t look so grim to me at this juncture,
the roving blood goons with veiny neck effort 
and pillows for fists,
believing there is strength in numbers
just as Vegas and the warring armies have taught them,
that fear can be mastered like an obedience school dog
off the chain,
and concealed weapons if 
that fails.

Myself, I prefer a pair of mating ducks in the inner harbour.
Male with proud felt green head.
The female by his side and the young ones in tow.
Or a leaky faucet that refuses to fall in line.

Staring out of windows, I see windows staring back
at me.

Underwear friends 
with spider veins for legs
so you know the fangs of pet store tarantulas 
are real.

 
The Public Has a Right to Know Nothing
	
that is why it is the public 
and the rest of it is 
private,

but such blanket statements 
from the blubbery populist blowhole
go over exceedingly well with 
the idiot masses

which is why that fabricated argument concocted 
by marketing 
as to whether a Crisper was a chip
or a cracker

did so well
according to the people
down in accounting.

 
Axiom Reel

cut the room
cut the floor 

spark an axiom reel

hard the hat
hard the landing

tell that bloody 
pilot Turbulence 

to land this role 
nobody wants 

or ever 

asked 
for.
 
The Hunt for Hairy Movember

I have grown over four inches in the past calendar year.
All horizontally.
My white whale of a belly swelled and distended 
and alcoholic 
as though some handsome shoe polish messiah 
could be cut right out of me.
	
I have been practising my breathing.
Inhale then exhale, seems simple enough.
No more difficult than the divvy up of pub grub
chicken wings on the fly.

While Norway tracks me down.
And Japan readies her harpoons.

I was never long for this world, 
but this is getting 
ridiculous.
 
Duty Free

Quite simply unaccustomed to safe-cracked whistles, 
all stock yard light shows 
of the immersive disk drive blow up 
queen shaved down into one final
ball of incendiary thunder
under silly perched aggrandizement, 
and knowing what I know now, 
I would have never sat in the airport 
that long
in plastic blue bucket seats 
watching clean shaven men drag their 
entire lives behind them,
rushing to catch connector flights
onto places with other blue
bucket seats.
 
Kicking Cans

Kicking cans around long enough,
there is always the threat of botulism.

Explain this to your schoolyard bully 
and they will punch you in the head
a little extra 
for making them feel 
stupid.

There is no advantage to being smart
until you are out of school and 85,
old enough to just not care 
anymore.

The world will always be stupid.
With or without you in it.
 
15 Bucks

for a working DVD player 
seems quite the deal
and we drive down to this 
apartment complex
along Mississauga Avenue
and sit in the parking lot
waiting for the boyfriend
to come down.

Some young kid is smoking by the entrance, 
so we get out and approach.
Asking if he is the boyfriend 
and he says he is.

And he hands us fifteen bucks from his right pant pocket
and we give him the bag.

As we drive away,
the missus tells me she is glad 
I came with her.

It is the first of the month 
and the squirrely junkies 
are looking to 
score.

And I tell her it reminds me 
of buying drugs back in the day.

Strength in numbers,
I get that.
 
Ghost Shows

I’ve seen those ghost shows 
where the orbs of light fly into people,
I am not some hermit.
I have a local cable service provider.

My shrink does not believe in ghosts, 
so I do not believe in ghosts:
go along to get along, right?

And I am sane as folded towels in the shape of dying swans.
I have not laughed at my own armpit farts 
in years.

A learning curve, sure there is.
If you are intent on learning.

Don’t the blowjobs of university wind tunnels 
seem way too easy?

                                                                                               
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

God’s heart is a Giant Tear: June 1, 2022

I was sad to see Louie’s close, I thought to myself.
At Lands’ End, today’s destination journey.
A place where I can find myself again.
One of the most beautiful sites in the world.
Where the ocean meets the land.
I come here to ground myself and breathe.
This is where the butterflies flutter and lizards sprawl, as families saunter,
near swallows and chickadees, pelicans, and gulls.
Ocean waves leaping and lapping.

Today whales are reported, by a woman with two tawny and white dogs.
She lets my Bella sniff her dogs, while she tells us of the whale spouts sparkling near the surface. “Now I see!”
I see the blowing just at the surface. Some spouts shoot up out of the waters,
others just to the surface. You can see the pod is swimming around the very blue waters.

The Golden Gate Bridge stands so tall and proud amidst the 1000-year-old Cypress trees!
Three young girls, led by a mother, stand on the large cement wall bench to take a selfie.
All giggles, for today we have a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The cars look like matchbox cars.
These are just some of the things our children taken away too soon, by angry teens, barely men, bearing arms.
Shooting at our children, Killing them!

Now, these children will never see these things I see.
Lost to us before they had a chance to choose where, they would journey,
on a free day like today.  June 1, 2022.
The birds chirping; sounds to me, “Please, please, don’t shoot.” 
Over and over. Yes, here at Lands’ End.
Over and over, they sing it again.
I look up to the clouds.  I see God’s arms caressing, admiring, perfectly, tiny babies in the clouds created by He.
He admires each one before they are sent here.
Yet, these days, God’s heart is a giant tear.
 

Protective 

Oh my fucking God

I hope you know 

I truly love you 

Had your...

Physical and mental attributes 

Listed and ready 

To make a mockery out of 

As I roasted you alive 

Despite you hurting me 

In ways no one ever had before 

I still can't bring myself 

To say these things to you 

Invisible girl 

No one ever noticed 

 It killed you 

And when they did notice 

They drove by and barked at you 

Well baby if you think that was traumatizing 

Then the things I could say about you 

Would make you want 

To take your own life 

Of course you're not reading this 

You ghosted me and 

Don't give a fuck how much it hurts

Yet here I am 

Trying to save your feelings 

One more time 

Just in case you ever look back

From the beginning till the ending 

All I ever wanted was to make you happy 

So I don't want to say anything 

To make you sad and upset now

Just in case you ever remember 

That I exist

“SCREAMING MIME” 

I should speak out when they abuse 
This pasty-faced artist who decided to choose 
Being trapped in silence with make-up queer 
I may not speak, but I can hear 

The taunts, the insults, and the hate 
Towards street performers who refuse the bait 
Of ridiculed anger through vulgar gestures 
Believing performance is a continuing semester 

Of learning to grow within painted smile 
Ignore the assholes, concentrate on the child. 
Who laughs with joy or open-mouthed wonder 
Yet tosses no coins as my stomach thunders 

Breaking the silence, begging for bread 
My intestinal rumblings plead to be fed
A steady diet of human compassion 
Through the clinking of coins in an appreciative reaction 

To my ancient art and enduring hunger 
Selling myself like a common whoremonger 
Hoping to satisfy an insatiable crowd 
In tight fitting Spandex, a seductive shroud 

Ignoring lewd sneers at my exposed anatomy 
That I've twisted and stretched in hopes it would flatter me 
As my muscles contort and my body sings 
A silent song that once entertained kings

Miss Unity is a writer and drag queen from upstate New York. Her essay collection ‘Who Killed Mabel Frost?’ will be published by SF/LD Books in 2023. 
Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His latest book is the flash fiction collection, Hunger Pains (Buttonhook Press).

the rules of any society
 
scribbling poems
in the rain
 
like this poor soul
that doesn't play
by the rules of
any society
 
flicked cigarette butts,
empty bags of fast
food trash, and a cruel
car of teenagers and
the asshole dare of
tossing piss
 
he has seen it all
 
nothing dares to ever
come close to surprising
him anymore
 
school shooting
 
celebrity death
 
war in a foreign land
 
he knows what it
really is
 
thursday
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
not made of sugar
 
old bones
screaming
in the rain
 
caught out
in the elements
without a jacket
or umbrella
 
you remember
your father
telling you
you're not
made of
sugar
 
you won't
fucking melt
 
as you got older,
you realized he
was full of shit
 
thankfully, that
fucker is in the
ground
 
it won't be long
now, you will
be as well
 
at least parts
of you
 
i figure most
of the body
will be burned
to destroy
the evidence
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
like failure is not the only option
 
laughing at my perv switch
as i watch a black woman
walk back into the offices
to go clean them
 
should i strike up a
conversation and see
what happens or should
i see if she just wants
cash instead
 
somewhere my mother
is reading this and knows
she has failed
 
like failure is not the only
option available to us all
 
she just caught me staring
at her
 
that wasn't the finger
i was hoping for
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
my answer to john fogerty
 
yes, i have seen
the fucking rain
 
it hasn't stopped
around here for
nearly five days
 
before too long,
i'm expecting cats
and dogs to start
falling from the
sky
 
and between the
drops i'm expected
to shop among
the masses
 
like hell
 
the less i am
around people
the better i feel
 
and i know,
i sound like
the bitter old
fuck that secretly
wants it both ways
 
so be it
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
for days on end
 
dark brown skin
and enough curves
to keep your imagination
buzzing for days on end
 
there's a certain way
the hips shake that you
know that a challenge
is ahead of you
 
but a certain body part
is more than willing to
not only accept that
challenge
 
but conquer that
mountain and plant
a damn flag on it

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently serving time in suburbia, taking care of his disabled mother. He has been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine, Mad Swirl and Terror House Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Motif II: Crash/Landing
(A Semi-Tragedy in Two Acts)

I. On the south side of Liberal, Kansas

For some reason, we all know to gather along the old highway
just north of where it meets the bypass; between them, a wedge
	of dry prairie grass anticipates dawn and something else.

The plane comes in from the south: long, thin, white, unliveried.
(Picture the offspring of a Concorde and a 707, its father’s nose
	and its mother’s wings, and you have it close enough.)

Gear still retracted, it slides in and turns top, three perfect spins
down the field without bending so much as one thin dun blade;
	there is no sound but breaths all drawn in at once.

No flame, no laceration of aluminum skin, not so much as a cloud
of honest Kansas dust; nose pointed back where it came from,
	the plane rests unperturbed, maiden-flight pristine.

From somewhere in the crowd, a Panhandle-tinged twang:
	Well, that ol’ boy done ‘er again, didn’t he? Might
	as well go see what all he brung us this time.

II. Manhattan, Kansas, on the street where Jim Roper lived

Stuffed with burgers (eaten, as ever, standing in the kitchen),
we walk north toward the football stadium, discussing the 
quarterback situation and whether threatened rain will hold off.

Someone – probably Gary – brings up a years-ago summer
solstice party, the honey-haired girl nobody knew who showed
up in a toga and antler-danced with Jim in the living room.

This is routine, ritual, sacrament, not to be disturbed by 
anything like that belly-flopping 747 two blocks ahead, 
plunging into low brick blocks where married students live.

Impact now, an infrabass thump and rumble. A fireball races
to consume families, tricycles, maples, all of us. It is red
and orange and beautiful; I breathe in and am not afraid.


 
Shawnee, Kansas, Which is Not Really Shawnee, Kansas: Dream II

This is another in a long line
of whole-cloth hotel lobbies
on streets which both exist and do not:

a tile-and-Formica spot 
on an off-map stretch of Johnson Drive

(pick dumpy or retro
and either will suit, depending more 
	on you than on the place),

and I’m trying to explain to Larry 
that I did (eventually) recognize

the young Clint Eastwood and the 
older one when I ran into both of 
them at the coffeehouse in Union Station

sitting at a table with either Anthony Hopkins 
or John Wayne – or occasionally but not 
always both, though why the Duke should 
resurrect for three-dollar drip is beyond me –

and for some other unfathomable reason 
James Urbaniak, thin and vaguely dangerous,
who smirked at all of us and left halfway 
	through the conversation.

Larry all the while fiddles with his phone,
poking it with a little screwdriver, 
only making appropriate noises so as 
	to seem engaged,

so I walk out into a half-dawn of
backlit plastic, oddly angled streets
	and lumen-polluted overcast.

I suppose I might eventually find my way
	back to the map and home –

that, or just go upstairs and fall into dream 
within dream, still in my clothes on
forty dollars' worth of rented sheets.

Don't press me for a clear answer; I am and
will be asleep the whole sometime.
 
Bonner Springs, Kansas, Which is Not Really Bonner Springs, Kansas: Dream II

The stakeout is just beginning. I have time to go for coffee.
The town’s heart is only a few blocks south; its buildings 
are taller than I remember, but this bodes well; somewhere
in this tangle of five-story limestone, there must be a place.

The sidewalk spans a ravine, brush-lined, hundreds of feet
deep. There is no handrail, and the walkway is less than a
yard wide. I take no shame in dropping to my knees to cross,
but a man on the other side rolls his eyes and tosses a few
	dead dogwood branches to impede my way. 

No need; I am being called back. We have been made. Our
	target has seen telltale peanuts floating in his gutter.

(He looks like a television character actor of some minor 
note, one who always seems to play a well-meaning but 
largely incompetent foil to the protagonist. I will remember 
his name someday, likely on my deathbed, and my loved ones
	will always wonder why those were my last words.)

We will have to take another tack, so we roll back into the
city along Kaw Drive. I see a coffeehouse, set back among
trees on the north side of the road. We do not stop.