'Twas the Day Before Christmas at the Mall

BY KATHRYN HIGGINS

'Twas the day before Christmas
and all through the mall
there was pushing and shoving
and even a brawl.

The shoppers had come
with their cards all maxxed out
to search for yule bargains
before time had run out.

Some of these gifts
are intended for girls.
They smell like a whorehouse
or control errant curls

Some others are meant for those
all-American boys
who laugh at concussions
when playing with toys.

For those in strained marriages
jewelry is nice...
An argument Christmas Eve
is ameliorated by ice.

Pre-packaged shrink-wrapped gifts
piled by the dozens
make up for perennial
indifference between cousins.

For really impressive gifts
brand names are in --
if you're in the dog house
these will please your kin.

Don't forget decorations,
smelly and garish
Torture to put up
But your family will cherish.

The children will take turns
In Santa's broad lap
He sips from a hidden flask
and listens to their long lists of crap.

The economy stirs, groans
And lets out a fart --
It’s awakened by Christmas folk
Filling their carts.

Some come do your part
In the local strip mall
Treacherous though it is
It's required of all.

Kathryn's book Snide Remarks in Sotto Voce, is available on most ebook outlets.

Dear Editors of The New Yorker

BY ULTIMA DEPLETE

Dear Editors of The New Yorker,

If you publish this poem
I can provide gratitude,
Freshly baked cookies,
And fellatio.
But not all at once of course,
Unless you publish it in inch high gold letters,
Because this is America goddammit.

Yours,
Citizen #22359

Joe 1

BY VALERIE LEWIS

I told him, "No matter where you go,
Or who you're with,
Remember that someone loves you."
He hugged me, nearly cried,
Grateful just for words.
So I didn't tell him the punch line,
which was,
your mom.

Valerie can be reached at valerie@valerielewis.net.

Mike 1

BY VALERIE LEWIS

Art collectors will often
Lend out their privately-owned pieces
To public museums
For years at a time.
Even if they're not
Philantrophic by nature,
They feel morally obligated.
It's like how no one can copyright
The sound of rain in the summer.
How no one can claim
One's first sight of the ocean.
Somewhere in a Manhattan penthouse,
An old white man considers
The discolored square of paint above his mantle,
And feels a warmth rise in his body.
Some things are too perfect to be owned.
This is how I feel about your dick.

Valerie can be reached at valerie@valerielewis.net.

While Taking Tickets At The Drive-In Theater, Wally Discovers The Cost Of Chivalry

BY AL ORTOLANI

One night, this cowboy wheels in to the Drive-In with his headlights pointing skyward to the moon, rear end clipping speed bumps, muffler dragging. Wally is taking tickets below the marquee, so he steps up to the window to get the money, but there's no one in the car except a skinny-assed driver surrounded by a dozen voices escaping from the headliner, the air vent, the ashtray, the cigarette lighter, all speaking crazy-fast in something like Spanish or Comanche.

Wally thinks about you, Miss Ticket Girl, in the mini-skirt, perched on your stool by the cash drawer. The driver smiles and Wally takes his cash, pretending like he doesn't see the scam. What if he challenges? And the trunk latch clicks and a dozen tough guys from the road crew climb out with stilettos and switchblades and shining white teeth, and what if they only have enough money between them for one popcorn and a drink? Think about it, what if the two of you would have to chip in, buy all those tough guys tickets, popcorn and root beer, and then, you'd have to sit with them through an entire spaghetti western? You in the backseat. Wally in the trunk.

Al Ortolani is a teacher from Kansas. His writing has appeared in a number of periodicals, across the United States: New Letters, New York Quarterly, The English Journal, The Midwest Quarterly and others. He has three books of poetry, The Last Hippie of Camp 50 and Finding the Edge, published by Woodley Press at Washburn University, and Wren's House, recently released from Coal City Review Press in Lawrence, Kansas. He is active with the Kansas City Writer's Place and an editor with The Little Balkans Review.

The Professor Busts A Local Meth Lab

BY AL ORTOLANI

The professor was known to lose track of himself for hours on end. New Year's Eve was no exception. He had merely driven one block too far to a departmental cocktail party and had consequently knocked on the door of a meth lab. The junkie with the forty-five told police in his subsequent six hour stand-off that he had no intention of shooting a professor that night; it was an accident forced by improper residential zoning. Professors, he insisted, shouldn't be barging in on the privacy of a lab; recipes are arguably intellectual property. The girlfriend, still doe-eyed, but lined and creased with hard riding peeked from behind the gun. Doyle, she said, nudging her boyfriend with her forehead. That's the professor who flunked me out of English 101. We got nowhere to run.

Al Ortolani is a teacher from Kansas. His writing has appeared in a number of periodicals, across the United States: New Letters, New York Quarterly, The English Journal, The Midwest Quarterly, and others. He has three books of poetry, The Last Hippie of Camp 50 and Finding the Edge, published by Woodley Press at Washburn University, and Wren's House, recently released from Coal City Review Press in Lawrence, Kansas. He is active with the Kansas City Writer's Place and an editor with The Little Balkans Review.

Ladies Room

BY ALAN D. HARRIS

When others settle in to work
they enjoy a lovely view
a cubicle with windows near
for the sunshine to shine through

Not me, you see, not that lucky
My view is of the john
for Jane and Jill, not Ben or Bill
where girls water the lawn

They pile in eight at a time
tempting capacity
with their cell phones all whipped out
and no one there to pee

Alan D. Harris writes his stories and poetry based primarily upon the historical fictions of family, loved ones, and/or serial killers. Most recently his 2011 publishing and acceptance credits include: Candidum, Blink-Ink, Healthy Artists, Australia's Chimaera, and UK's Welcometowherever, Blinking Cursor, and Poetic Causes.  Harris has received the 2011 Stephen H. Tudor Scholarship in Creative Writing from Wayne State University.

Conservation Conversion

BY ROBERT E. PETRAS

No big deal
I said to my father,
a son of the Great Depression,
an era influencing his lifelong
obsession for saving money
through conservation, a guy
as green as Popeye's poop
with a budget tighter
than Tupperware.
I was only six, after all,
not as though I used the chocolate
substitute and it was merely
a Tootsie Roll, segmented for sharing,
but I never had to share
with my three sisters
the same bathwater again.

Bob Petras is a resident of Toronto, OH, and a graduate of West Liberty University. His poetry and fiction have appeared recently in Phantom Kangaroo, The Camel Saloon, Speech Bubble Magazine, and Haunted Waters Press. He often hangs his work on a nail in a tree behind his house. He is a frequent victim of prank phone calls.