Cold Rambler

my brother texted pictures of our baby brother, Alex, cuddled up with a possum. he held the varmint to his face as though he were nuzzling a puppy. Alex’s eyes were hell bent and whiskey soused from a night of heavy drinking. the possum looked as though it’s having the best day of its life, mouth curved into a drooling, idiotic smile, eyes black and oddly mirthful. my brother asked what I thought of that crazy shit, and I told him honestly I’d be more surprised if he told me Alex didn’t have a possum for a drinking partner. when I told the story to co-workers the next day, flashing the photos as proof, I weaved a scenario where Alex lured the critter into his garage man cave with golden bowls of Michelob. that once drunk, Hugo the fun-loving possum became amiable to posing for selfies basically, becoming an honorary Koweski brother for six consecutive nights. when I talked to Alex later, he quickly dispelled that notion. hell no, he said, I caught that little fucker creeping outside. I...

Sometimes when the sun is rising and the dew has fallen on the world, sometimes when I sit and wonder, sometimes when the Earth is spinning and the tunes are lost to time, we watch ice storms down the oaks, we watch the oaks crash to the icy Huron, frigid Erie, the St. Lawrence and the North Atlantic. The fallen oak drags its amber leaves in rushing currents. The fallen oak, like chamber music in chambers of the heart, is washed by the pump of receding glaciers. And we all fall down, and we all clear those hurdles. And we watch as coffee spoons swirl and twirl and squirrel away their ever-loving song. Sometimes in the wake of winter when the winds of the plains blow back, sometimes when I stand and stumble, when the moon eclipses every star and the flames of tomorrow burn bright, it’s unclear what we want. We want the empty matter of life, the universe, the empty matter of everything. And like worms after the storm, we wallow in muck and gloom. Like the worms after a storm, we are stra...

The horny haiku is good for you, I promise. Read it and stroke it.

I'm complex. You're complex. We're all complex. Who gives a shit? Man's fallen and he can't get up. I consulted Jacques the Atheist for advice: he told me to beat it. "But I lack the proper stigma!" I cried. Once a month, I volunteer at the dressage parlor. On Tuesdays, I play pinochle with the daughter of the Holy Ghost. Every material loss is a gain for the State. Today is the world's birthday: gag gifts only. Pilate rewashes his left hand, i.e. Confidence Abandoning Optimism, or One More Chance at Capsizing Fate. I was having lunch with Anna the Ma who said, "This year we're hoping Thanksgiving will be more Purgatory than Hell." The trees are wounded. The water warms to their approach. Summer is a cumin seed. I tiptoed into the heart's parlor and moved the switch to off. Can you hear it? That's your insouciance speaking. The bats have returned to East Saint Louis. Otherwise, it's all just wax. Bill Yarrow is the author of e...

on the day jason baldinger has to put his cat down we talk a bit in the morning but there’s no preparing for this i think for a second about the afterlife of cats & how for nearly nineteen years she has been the only woman to stay by his side through sleepless nights through sunlight & sadness in sickness & in health it’s been a marriage for both of them all of the women i’ve ever known have been feral creatures who came up short on sweetness never sitting shiva for a week or even one lazy sunday in a vigil for our hearts never resting close-by on that final morning before we parted ways hoping for something better. John Dorsey is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Which Way to the River: Selected Poems: 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022, and Pocatello Wildflower, (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2023). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

Checking into the golf course motel, the clerk made sure to tell me about the fireworks display that was     going to occur over Walloon Lake later that night. I cringed on the inside, but smiled and nodded. I thanked her, and asked her how far it was to Driggers Nature Preserve. It was basically around the corner. I checked in, and prepared to park on the road, hoping I could at least pull up instead of enduring the     pains of parallel parking. Oh, my Lord, the parking lot was completely empty! I made sure that the preserve was even open, and made my way inside. I took some deep breaths, and prepared to hear the inevitable sounds: An elderly couple alternating between jogging and power walking. Boomer couples with their dogs—most of the time leashed, occasionally not—who pass by you with a     sincere smile and greeting. Teenagers and college kids, whose energy and excitement for being in such a place should fill me with...