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Been Down So Low, It Now Sounds Great: Poem by Bradford Middleton
the burnt globe and the pregnancy: Poem by Partha Sarkar
Evening Alone: Poem by Craig Kirchner
Larry, Moe, and Me: Poem by Craig Kirchner
I Live the Life I Chose: Poem by Richelle Slota
Death House: Poem by Richelle Slota
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Why is the Sky Cerulean?: Poem by Richard Allen Taylor
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The Moira: Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
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Moments Before Awakening: Poem by Michael Keshigian
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Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Craig Kirchner: Larry, Moe, and Me

103_ym_larrymoeandme_rosmus.jpg
Art by Cindy Rosmus 2024

Larry, Moe, and me

 

by Craig Kirchner

 

 

 

Panhandlers in Ocean City

awaiting draft physicals on Ninth Street—

never really owing what we didn’t have,

and what else is there.

Attic rooms on Third St.,

cold shower stall in the yard,

2x4’s of worn white paint and body odor.

We stole cigarettes from Ding Bell’s

and wine money from pocketbooks.

 

Moe surfed the big board,

never tilted pinball and cheated at cards.

Tuesdays Larry shagged the landlady.

She lived on the first floor and had a TV.

We watched Sirhan and Westmoreland

while her tits bounced.

She had a freckled throat,

and feverish flush—

her sofa smelled of coconut and cum.

 

Mondays and Wednesdays

I’d meet Muriel after her shift at

Phillips Crab House.

She was slightly plump,

with underaged baby fat,

peachy locomotive skin and

long straight blonde hair full of August sun.

She loved dry-humping,

and smelled like piecrust and Old Bay.

 

Thursdays the Steakhouse had all you could eat.

Weekends were parties in the dunes.

We were barefoot and free,

like wind-tossed kites above the beach,

indifferent, invincible

but fragile if touched,

denying such wreckage falling to the sand,

the summer was ours

and there really was nothing else.

 

 

Craig Kirchner is retired and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen.

He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems in a folder on a laptop. These words tend to keep him straight.

After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Poetry Quarterly, Decadent Review, New World Writing, Neologism, The Light Ekphrastic, Unlikely Stories, Wild Violet, Last Stanza, Unbroken, W-Poesis, The Globe Review, Skinny, Your Impossible Voice, Fairfield Scribes, Spillwords, WitCraft, Bombfire, Ink in Thirds, Ginosko, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Blotter, Quail Bell , Ariel Chart, Lit Shark, Gas, Teach-Write, and has work forthcoming in Cape, Scars, Yellow Mama, Rundelania, Flora Fiction, Young Ravens, Loud Coffee Press, Versification, Vine Leaf Press, Edge of Humanity and the Journal of Expressive Writing.

Cindy Rosmus originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun HoneyMegazineDark DossierThe Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate. She has recently branched out into photo illustration.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2024