Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/17/21

Breakfast at Lucile’s

It must be the old hippie in me:
camouflaged in a sports jacket
and whistling a show tune,
when I’d walk past beat cops,
carrying a lid to a friend’s party.

But entering our favorite
breakfast place, and seeing
three cops forking in eggs
and laughing at a story
one of them has just told,

the old fear bubbles up,
and I’m holding an ounce
of Panama Red, or that crumbly
Lebanese hash I loved,
the aroma beckoning
like the arms of a belly dancer.

I can’t stop glancing over,
fixated on the nights I prayed
their brothers wouldn’t suspect
I was high as the pigeons roosting
on the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“What’s wrong?” Beth’s forehead
creases concern over her menu.
And as quick as I got stuck
in that time loop, I snap out of it:
old enough to see the police as allies,
and anyway, they’re decades
and decades younger than me.

©2021 Robert Cooperman All rights reserved.

Robert Cooperman

Robert Cooperman’s latest collection is THE GHOSTS AND BONES OF TROY (Aldrich Press), which posits what if Odysseus came home at last, but with a horrific case of what we’d call PTSD.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 10/04/21

Cheery-Eyed Jackdaws

Cheery-eyed jackdaws screech
The testament of change.
Mother Nature, like a dominating madam,
Clad in tight leather and chain,
Cracks her whip bringing the seasons
To heel in submission.
Spent summer yields to
The fickle days of autumn.
Forests burst into a splendor of color
Only to taunt us by slipping into
A dismal, bleak world reminisant of
A sick mind and severed ear.

On impulse, I dive headlong into a pile of leaves.
Laughing and thrashing about,
I am shocked back to reality when
Beaten with rakes by angry yard workers.
I had forgotten the second rule of leaf diving:
Thou shalt not dive ‘uninvited’
Into the leaf piles of strangers.
The first rule, I learned the hard way:
Thou shalt not dive into piles of burning leaves.

Damn you, Proserpina!
Could you NOT, at lest, TRY
The seedless grapes!

As I stomp on pomegranate after pomegranate,
With the on-looking super market night manager
Fumbling with his phone….calling God knows who.
I realize that it is all Pluto’s fault
And swear to kick his ass.
Mickey’s and Donald’s too, if need be.

Autumn…such a difficult time.
But, soon winter will follow.
Full of tomfoolery and too excited to wait for snow,
I pull off one of my shoes.
Pretending it a snowball, I throw it…
Knocking the hat off a policeman.
He is not amused,
But gives me a ride in his squad car anyway.

©2021 Daniel S. Irwin All rights reserved.

Daniel S.Irwin

Daniel S. Irwin was born, raised, and is back in town at Sparta, Illinois. His card reads: Artist, Actor, Writer, Soldier, Scholar, Priest. He has won awards for his art, acting (over 100 films and 30+ stage productions), writing (nine books and work published in over one hundred magazines and journals world-wide), retired military (Air Force and Army), graduate of Southern Illinois University/Carbondale and has attended four other universities), and is an ordained Dudeist priest with a Ph.D. in Divinity (not bad for a heathen). Once worked as a medic in an institution for the criminally insane…but didn’t notice anything strange about the inmates. Latest on-line work can be found on Horror, Sleaze, Trash Magazine and Beatnik Cowboy. He would love to move back to Europe but fears the plague.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 05/19/21

Last Will and Testament

Fuck a funeral!

Use the money you’d spend on mine

to celebrate the only proper way:

with drugs and alcohol.

You don’t even have to celebrate me,

just fuckin’ celebrate!

Or give the money to a good cause.

Just don’t give it to something boring,

like a church, please.

There’s enough reason in the world to be sad,

the inevitable shouldn’t be made worse by a

public display of platonic-necrophilia and tears.

No one should have to dress up and be miserable,

especially on my behalf.

I don’t wanna be buried,

cremate me!

Gimme to science!

Whatever!

I won’t give a fuck, I’ll be dead!

As my grandfather used to say,

“Shove a bone in my ass and have

the dogs drag me away.”

Well I got two assholes,

so I’ll need a shit ton of dogs.

Let graverobbers steal my body,

before it’s given over to the dirt,

like they did Lincoln’s,

and have a manhunt across the nation!

We’ll save them a step and a stop at

Home Depot for a shovel.

Don’t waste valuable land on wastes of space.

Build a hospital or a school.

Fuck it, I’d rather people frack or

build yuppie townhouses!

On a second thought,

I have one request,

please don’t fuck my corpse.

I don’t find it disrespectful,

just weird.

©2021 Joe Szalinski All rights reserved.

Joe Szalinski

Joe Szalinski is a writer & performer from Pittsburgh, PA. He attended Slippery Rock University for his undergrad in writing & literature. Since returning to his native Pittsburgh, he’s been busy performing comedy, acting, making music, and writing. His writing, both creative and academic, has appeared in Defenestration, The Howling Press, The Short Humour, PS It’s Poetry (an anthology), and RockScissorsPaper.