Peter Jacob Streitz





I spied her

From three stories up

Through the blinds


Black hair

White skin

Black sleeveless top

A rounded white logo


her Lolita breast

As she squats

In a semi-circle

Like pre-dawn man

Around a campfire

With her street boys

One and Two

Hunkering out’a sight

But on the lookout

As One removes his

Doc Martin

Vigorously cleaning

between his toes

With a finger

Preparing the spot

While Two

Rolls his shirt sleeve up

And repetitively

slaps a vein

Like a nurse

drawing blood

There’s no interaction

Nothing said

Only life and death intensity

While other denizens

. . . like pigeons

but disguised as men . . .

Spot the trio

—pecking at their morsels—

Turning squabs to birds of prey

Skulking closer

As she pulls a compact

from her pocket

Purses her lips

and rouges

Her highly narcissistic


While One jams a needle

Deep between his toes

Two doesn’t even

tourniquet his arm

Just balls his fist so tight

the vein’s for the taking

She hungrily follows suit

The scene is a verity

of stalker and game

As she drops her compact

The mirror shatters—

in perfect harmony

With the now molten . . .


kneading her brain

Her chin nods

. . . down to her chest bone

The chalk white radiance

of a slightly exposed breast

Beckons . . .

like a homing beacon


The encirclement tightens

The street is sick

with addiction

and need

Amazingly, she lifts her head

A grim slip of satisfaction

crosses her lips

With an unseen lipstick

she hastily reddens them

. . . like an open wound . . .

As rival shadows of violence


Within feet of her and

her shrinking Twosome

When a silent shriek

of warning

—from a suburban bygone—


Her preciously hooded lids . . .

flutter with a fleeting memory

Of some Teddy Bear past.

* * *

Clutching her belongings

to her bosom

She teetered to rise

Before toddling

. . . a step or two

Clownishly attempting . . .

an escape

Down Julia’s alley.




That shitfaced


Nah, macho man


The limbs

Of ladies

Or the fattest


With smallish


And suckable


Like the quim colored lips

Of dead


Where beer


In winy utterances

Mixing sex

With fucking

Then love

Or appreciation

Of mirrors

Healing acne

With wisdom

Or cocktails

That pussy foot

From sacks

To racetracks

And back

To paddocks

Of saddles

And whips

Plus horns

And leads

With harnesses

That mount

And cinch

The saddlebags

In stirrups

Of lust

As fleshy bits

Rope heartache

To the rhyming

Of losers

And winners

Who’re eternally


For never

Having placed

The bet

—that women who blush—

Train their flanks

To lap

The track

Where mares

And stallions


In a world

Of wonder

And words


Unless the final



Human nature


Human nature


the last word

Of his story.


The tweeker’s

Boggy, alcoholic eyes

Bulged unblinkingly

Within inches of mine

Setting the stage

For mere players

In this mosh pit

At the intersection of ol’Frisco

And modernity

While the watery whirl

Of rush hour washed‘round

And Dino denied I’ve come—

To that very corner


For the past twenty years

Awaiting my love’s return

from work

But on this day

Where the subway


And the street cars clank

Like two ships

Passing in the night

I unknowingly missed her

As she unknowingly missed me

But Dino didn’t miss a beat

Manically orating his resurrection

As a bookseller

And one who

Only reads the law

And fuck that storytelling


With his countenance

Increasingly inscribed

In an ominous glaze

And his lids hoisted

At half-mast

He pulled back the curtain

For the briefest moment

To inquire

Do you read?


There was no answer

Other than His . . .


Leading to

his sidewalk bibliothèque

Where ten tomes of prose

Sat dog-eared and dirty

Along with a soiled sleeping mat

And a rat

Disguised as a pet

Entrapped beneath

A milk crate

—Much Ado About Nothing—

Was crammed into my hand

While two bucks

departed this fool

And his wad of money

Filled Dino’s head

With sugar plums of theft

Or thirst for some complicity

Whose outright criminality

Got quenched with past drinks

And blackouts

At whore houses

In Alaska

And racist chases

In Texas by Rangers

Who took exception

To the pilfering

Of black velvet


when shit and damn

My cell phone vibrated

And a distraught

Wifely voice

Rung down the curtain

On two role players

In another performance

Of their life.





Unless you consider

They eat the same crap

But you’d be wrong

These low flying


Of the cityscape

Got zip codes

And statues

And ordnances as white

As the driven snow.

In some hoods

They’re the only fauna

That doesn’t attack

And kill

As ordered

Or destroy the trees

With piss and shit

And forget the grass.

Instead, these citizens

Of aerial reconnaissance

Clean-up after bums

And partygoers

Doing such civic duties

As eating

the rice and beans


By soup kitchen


Or their counterparts

Boogieing in

From bedroom


Leaving their suburban


For clean-up

By those living


On the ledge

With only one way

To fall


And no safety net

Dying alone


In their mourning suits

Having seen it all

On the hardest streets

. . . yet nothing . . .

Of remembrance

Not even the homage

Of never more.




I hate

waking in this alley

Where crack-shits


like chocolate sauce

At least I’m not

a constipated


Like that Suit . . .

in the crosswalk

Look at the poor bastard

Probably escapes


Every morning

Like his tits

Are on fire

Leaving the brat—

bastards behind

To burn

And his wife

Time to think

About new ways

Of getting laid

Shit, I’d smile . . .

at his fucking dilemma

If I only had teethIt’s one

Of the downsides

Of crank

Besides believing

You got a crystal ball

That sees a pathetic prick’s


Looking down

On scumbags

Like me

Probably deluding himself

with the thought

That I screw crack whores

For rock

And a blow job

. . . that he don’t get . . .


Plus, how the progressive

. . . pansy-asses . . .

Give me a hand

A hand-up

Like the hand job

He’s forced to give himself

As I’m thinking

The sad bastard’s

Even gott’a pay

His own medical bills

Shit, I just OD

And whoppee-doo

I’m scraped

from these urine

. . . soaked streets . . .

To lie pretty

As I please

On clean sheets

With the city

Paying the freight

Unless of course

One of them lazy wetbacks

Is hoggin’ the space


At the border

As they don’t know shit

About how we

Run this place

Or the rat race

That ol’ Suits . . .

And I

Live our lives





Peter Jacob Streitz—I’m an old fart who was born an iconoclastic hick in upstate New York; raised by a single mom after my dad flew the coop instead of flying The Hump–over the Burma Road in World War Two–where he won the Distinguish Flying Cross by losing both the Japs and his mind. His inevitable departure didn’t affect me—as I morphed into an All-American boy and athlete who was awarded a four year, full-boat scholarship to Alfred University (which I rejected upon further review) before counter-culturing my way towards the only degree ever given by Boston University in Alternative Education.


Heath Brougher’s “Your Noisy Eyes” book NOW!

noisyeyes full Kindle1.10 1.22.17 - Heath Brougher.jpg

Got some exciting news.

The book I’ve been working on, is on NOW!

ITS The ebook version.

The print version is not far behind.
It’s sure a labor of love. But finally finished it.

Also, in the near future I will have all the other chapbooks on Amazon for kindle ebook. So everyone can access and pickup your favorite poets chapbook.

Those who get a print version, will get a discounted or free ebook version . Still working on the details.

I can finally unleash them.

Also. I’m doing all of this work.

Creating and designing the book covers, editing , printing (mostly), making, formatting and converting to the Amazon Kindle versions.
All that stuff it takes to get a book made.

I do not have the expensive equipment that the big publishing company’s have to make their books. I hand make every single one of them.
So they will not look like a “regular ” book.
My hope is that they are different. That you tell a person has made them, not a machine.
There’s my blood, sweat, and tears into them.
I hope you can appreciate that.
It’s not about the bottom dollar.
I’m not in this to make profit.
I’m a registered not for profit company.
The profits, if any, will be passed to those who deserve it.
Mainly the poets and writers. The artist themselves.
This is for them, as much as its for you.

I shall try my best.

Remember to. ..

Stay Weird and Keep Writing!

Patrick Jordan

Your Head Weirdo.

(Keep an eye out for the updates.)


Your Noisy Eyes

Rory McMaster

The Train


Fuck. I hated that feeling of ‘what the fuck happened’. The dreaded unknown of memories stuck in your alcohol and drug soaked brain plasma.

Jeff looked over and started laughing.

“How you doing big guy?” he asked.

“Fuck dude, what the hell happened?” I embarrassedly moaned.

I looked around the bus amongst a sea of stares. Anger. Sadness. Bewilderment. Pity.

I felt like a piece of fucking shit. Oh well, status quo.

I didn’t even know where we were currently located. I embarked on this journey from good ol’ Barrie Ontario via greyhound bus en route to Calgary Alberta, where I met Jeff, a pot smoking Whitby, Ontario native. Accompanying Jeff was Brian, a wiry and weird east coaster from Glace Bay Nova Scotia, who had more teeth than brain cells; 17.

“Rory, you almost got pepper sprayed by Princess dude. I just stopped her man, it was pretty fucking close” he laughed hysterically.

I looked over to her seat and fucking died inside. How did I always find myself in these fucking situations? Especially already, as I was only 15 years old. Oh heavy alcohol and drug use, that’s how.

I was 15 and busing across the country by myself. 3,141 km of Canadiana sans supervision.

I imagined it was going to be a shit show. And it was.

“Well what the fuck did I do” I asked?

Jeff replied “Well you polished off that two-six of rye. You kept on falling into the middle aisle and that nice British fella Nigel kept on picking up and putting you back in your seat. At some point you went to the bathroom and when you came back out you went to the wrong seat and sat on Princesses head and she woke up in a panic grabbing for her pepper spray. I narrowly stopped her. You’re welcome little dude.”

“Thanks brother” I replied.

Princess was enroute to the University of Alberta to meet her starting fucking QB boyfriend. So my anxiety fueled, post using paranoia kicked into high gear for the rest of the trip, imaging all the ways this physical specimen was going to remove various appendages from my svelte, girl like frame.

Apparently we were in Brooks Alberta so I was close to my early departure from Earth at the hands of a modern Gladiator. I also learnt, due to my inability to responsibly manage intake of substances, I had held up the whole bus 45 minutes in Saskatoon because the new bus driver required a new section of my ticket and I was too drunk to wake up.

Proud, proud young man moments; with many more to come.

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round





The Ward



I stared at the ceiling for hours. The mosaic tiles had become my sky. If I stared long enough, they’d start swooning back and forth like it was 1995 and I had just eaten a gram of magic mushrooms.

“Would you like to hear a funny story?” my roommate Kevin asked.

Kevin was a 60-year-old schizophrenic. I kind of did want to hear a funny story. I knew it was going to be terrible though.

“So this French guy is selling tea and I ask how much and he says 10 bucks and I says ESTE!” he exclaimed amidst a sea of cackling.

I liked Kevin. He was severely mentally ill but he was alright.

Nice. And he always offered me his Apple Juice.

How the fuck did I end up on the 5th floor of the Ottawa General on the Mental Health Ward. Oh, life. That’s how.

I didn’t plan on waking up.

When I opened my eyes I groaned emphatically.

Well, that didn’t go as planned. 
Was out for 40 hours and felt like shit. But alas, was still this side of Hades.

Perfect. Let the self-loathing commence.

  1. 2. 1.

“So what you in for” Kev asked.
Like it was a sentence. 
I’m here on a suicide beef.

5-7 days for observation.
You know. The usual.

“I tried to eat heaven. I failed” I explained.

What the fuck had I done. Man. This feeling was terrible.

I just wanted out of my skin. And I had nowhere to go.

Just then a 90-year-old Punjabi man showed up at my door and pointed at me. Held out his hand.

“That’s Mr. Bubashank, he must like you. He’s holding out his hand because he wants to go for a walk.” Kevin informed me.

So off I went. I stood up in my hospital gown and little blue booties, still filled with enough medication to kill an elephant and began walking around the ward holding holds with Mr. Bubashank.

He didn’t speak English.

But he didn’t need to.

He’d come to my room 5 or 6 times a day for the duration of my stay, holding out his hand. And no matter my mood or mental state I would get up and walk around the unit with him.

Sometimes that’s all we really need you know;

a helping hand.



The Bartender




My Grandaddy was a hollerin’.

At my Ma again.

She didn’t come home last night after her shift at O’Tooles, where’s she’s worked ever since I can remember.

Probably started at the bottle and went home with one of the regulars.

If I was a gamblin’ boy, I’d put my money on smooth talking Jimmy “the Snake” Stevens.

He’s always at O’Tooles.

Most middle aged man in this dust pocket mid-west hell hole hung out there.

My Mom has probably been friendly with 83% of them. That number is under-gratuitous.

“THAT BOY NEEDS HIS MOMMA, HE AIN’T GOT NO DADDY”, he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Thanks for the reminder, pops.

Jackson, Kentucky had been affected by the opiate scourge. Our family was not unscathed.

My Mom was an addict.

And my grandfather hated her for it.

It was quite the conducive environment for love.

In all my 15 years on the planet; this one was the worst.

The only thing that made it livable was Kelly Growganski’s smile.

It lit up every room she walked into. She epitomized girl next door, wholesome.

Alas, she had a somewhat functional family. And probably didn’t even know I existed.

“YOU’RE A TERRIBLE MOTHER AND A WHOOR”, my granddaddy bellowed.


I begged for sleep to steal me for the night.




The J-Word




I woke up in another smoke tinged motel room.

It smelt of day old whiskey, broken dreams and 3 hours worth of lust filled desire.

“Morning ‘andsome” she offered from her side of the coin operated 1970:s relic.

My head pounded. I couldn’t remember her name.

“Mornin’ sunshine” I offered in fear of guessing wrong. Jessica? Jennifer? J-something? J-Lo?

Low. Low like my esteem of the self variety.

Where were my cancer sticks?

“You’re quite the party animal darling. Rocked my world Pontiac.”  She quipped before walking her perfect bare ass {the sunshine bouncing off it in a most agreeable fashion further solidifying her newfound namesake} into the ridiculously small and unevenly lit HoJo bathroom.

Of course I did. Too bad I couldn’t remember. Never did.

Amazing experience, these blackout escapades in forgettable places and spaces.

Where were my fucking cigarettes?

I needed a brain cleanse and some whiskey for breakfast. It went well with the shitty instant coffee in these proverbial waiting rooms for degenerates.

Waiting for what? Love? The big break? Life to suddenly go your way? The cloak of darkness to magically lift?

“You have any smokes sunshine?” I implored. I guess that was officially her new name.

“Yes doll, in my jacket pocket beside the bed.” She responded.


Thank fuck. I needed to make this room as cloudy as my head.




Concrete Forests




i could smell the sweet and putrid defeat

as it exuded from every pore(


the birds started singing again, signifying another end to the dark:

the addict begged for more, but the body begged for yore


who needed sustenance,

when chemical bliss was

willing to kiss?


time to go for a walk,

to the only place,

ive ever truly

felt at home


the wildly colourful)



of north americas

concrete forests


sirens, horns, gridlock and screams;

are often the sounds


accompany my






Aboriginal Canadian, Spent 10 years in the Military Industrial Complex as an Intelligence Analyst and now full-time BA student at the University of Ottawa, Canada.

Christina Fulton











                                                                        I would like my husband’s

                                                                        autopsy report.



is a non-fat spread

of indigenous lies.


You can jiggle

but you can bend?


                                                                        The line went dead—

                                                                        star dust quiet.


Paperwork has a tendency

to beat off good faith.


Bad faith lives in an ice cube tray.


Foot her the bill


and tag

the littlest piggy it.


                                                                        Home address please…”


My left ventricle

behind egg shell nipples.


He lived there,


but went ostrich hunting.


It was over easy

and well done.


                                                                        Thank you for your kindness,


 but I need his cerebral




Everything is on tea cup time.


It’s spinning

into her sunnyside up

Prada personality.


She bet big.


                                                                        Goodbye, Missus G—”


But I kept my name

piled under tissues.


She kept everything

in Cadbury foil.


No Easter droppings!


No resurrection


of  ou-er




                                                                        Dial tone…

























To My Father’s Best Friend

And His Charming Wife




But first,

a public service announcement…




When Pilate saw that he was accomplishing nothing,

but rather that a riot was starting,

he took water, and washed his hands

before the multitude, saying,

I am innocent of the blood of this just person:

see you to it.[1]

























To My Father’s Best Friend

And His Charming Wife (continued)


Soapy apologies

stitched up my ears.


You asked me

in the blood forum.


“What is the Truth?”


It’s a dollar death

in the arms of false sheep!


You can’t lie

to the crossroad spooks

with leather smiles.


You can’t lie

to your tombstone

leopard hooker.


You can’t lie

to my Holy Mother

of open wounds.


Wash your hands

in the urinal

of unbabtized




In his madness

you found goose eggs.


A golden cut

above the rest


and his wrist.







Quit Digging up

the King of Spades


Crack the bone

and call, raise,

or bet


where your souls

will settle

in the muck.


You run

into his stone garden


ace high and nuts.


Quit licking the pot

with blind bets.


Jokers wild

with no hearts


let go

of his river card!


I’m sitting this out

and praying


that the table stakes

are not too high


to fall

or flop from.


Let him rest

in his hole


cards and all.

[1] An excerpt from “The Book of Matthew”

concerning Jesus’s trial that was

horribly misquoted on March 11, 2011.



















She graduated from Florida Atlantic University with her MFA in fiction. She is currently teaching at Miami Dade College North. Two of her poems have appeared in a recent edition of Open Minds Quarterly. Three of her poems are now on The Outsider website. Her creative nonfiction pieces “Spiderman and The Old Man,” “Manahawkin Vice,” and “Do You Remember?” have been in The Scarlet Leaf Review, The Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and The Route Seven Review.

Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar

Throwing My Hands in the Air



I’ll listen

to an intelligent

person speak

and just be

blown away

by the fact

that all their knowledge

is stored

in a small blob

of fleshy tissue

with electrical currents

pumping feverishly

to bring thoughts

from neurons

to tongue

and out into the world

as audible vibrations.


In fact,

I’ve just realized

that it simply

can’t be true…

there’s just no way

to rationally explain

the phenomenon.


Screw all the science,

the theories are


This life is an illusion.


is a computer simulation

of some sort.

I’ve had enough…

I’m going back to sleep!




Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, and books can be found. He recently received three Pushcart Prize nominations for his work in 2016. Scott serves as an editor at Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Blue Mountain Review, The Peregrine Muse, and Novelmasters.

Darren C. Demaree






The sweat of hate makes us all think we need to be rewritten into elegy.  It would be better, I think, to be nothing at all than to remove the integral pieces of the few.  Humanity for all.  Humanity for all.  Humanity for Donald J. Trump.  May he find humanity before we are forced to rest against the zero.




We don’t need the plates.  We just need the food.  If we give him our plates, will he still let us eat?





I’ve seen all of his horses march in his hand.  What do you think he does with those tiny bones when he loosens his grip?  He isn’t an actual giant, and this isn’t a fairy tale.  I can’t help but think he is gentle with them once he’s taken their lives away.  I don’t think he gnaws on bones.  I think he is the kid who grew way too fast, and those in charge of raising him have no idea what he’s capable of doing from day to day.  He breaks a bed.  He gets a new bed.  He rips a shirt.  He gets a new shirt.  He gets America. He plays with America.  He spins us on his fingertips.  We have no idea what happens next.

J Matt Goode




J Matt Goode face pic


Psychoactive Circus



Jumping through hoops of phenylalanine fire and rings of benzene.
My own ringmaster.
Full on the food of Gods,
clutching It’s phosphorus whip.
The clowns rushing us about and into their car
packed tight like painted sardines with our several selves and shadows.
They’ve arranged the ransom,
high intensity discharge bouquets and mountain dew for Mescalito.
The brutality squad flash the lights and thirsty fangs on the roadsides.
Drop zone-ghetto.
I coordinate with friends of Ours.
The Circus is strange
concessions are complimentary
but for lost minds in the tip jars.
El Hongo quiere sus propinas,
no sus vivas!
Under the big top, 
death has no act to perform
sanity walks the high wire.
There is no pole,
nor a net.
The Human Canonball?
All the freaks in the sideshow?
Those acts are yours alone,
Here at The Greatest Show on Earth.



J. Matt Goode is a college dropout and a ne’er do well. He drinks, smokes, thinks and writes. This all occurs in Mississippi’s Piney Woods, in the “Free State of Jones” area except, of course when he travels. Then, it happens wherever the hell he finds himself. He has been featured in the new Independent publishing company ‘Stay Weird and Keep Writing’s’ first chapbook, as well as assistant editor and weekly writing contributor. He can be reached at…