This Door was locked by David Berkowitz


The pig tooth hangs from a vintage nail

the scissors cut and paste Tempe, Arizona

job for a cubicle cowboy

makes one detestable,


numbers never dialed

written on stained Post-It notes

she called me an asshole

and I call her dead

no cigarettes

plenty of blue pills

sweep the memories

under the bed

the sand warps under midnight pressure

unpaid bills

by the

people under the stairs

stare at a spider

watch a meteorite shower at 5 a.m.

don’t have a drink

you can’t afford it

go anyways

charge it

pay later

who fucking cares

do I have anything to live for anymore…

while contemplating,


I can’t answer that dad,


I can’t answer that mom,


I can’t answer that stranger in the gas station.



Me and the Darkness and 40oz’s of Freedom


I was walking home drunk down Moreland Avenue around five in the morning. I didn’t have any money for a cab and I had no one to call. I heard footsteps behind me for quite a while and looked back occasionally and saw someone walking behind me. I finally got paranoid enough that when I saw a small brick wall next to the sidewalk I was walking down I casually sat down and lit a cigarette hoping that the person behind me would walk past me and leave me the hell alone so I could walk in drunken inspired peace. An older black man approached me as I sat there on the small brick wall. He asked me how I was doing. I said “pretty good, but this fucking walk is killing me.” He didn’t say anything and just reached into his jacket and pulled out a scratched and faded gold wristwatch. He asked if I would give him five bucks for it. I said “what the fuck” and reached into my pants and pulled out a crisp five dollar bill and handed it to him. He said “hell yeah buddy, now I can get a drink” He handed me the watch and I put the scratched and faded gold watch on my right hand and finished stumbling home. I noticed the next day that it didn’t even work and it smelled funny.



Clean Bugs, Dirty Carpet


Me and the wife were sitting around the living room after we finished our TV dinners. It was the usual Hungry Man roast beef with mashed potatoes and corn with a brownie for desert. The wife was flipping through endless channels when she stopped upon the local cable access channel. They were flashing pictures of recent guys arrested for soliciting prostitutes in the county, trying to embarrass them or some shit. I had a mouth full of a potatoes and corn when I saw my drunken mug shot from last week flash across the TV screen.


Brett Stout is a 33-year-old writer and artist. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and Paramedic. He writes while mainly hung-over on white lined paper in a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC. He published his first novel of prose and poetry entitled “Lab Rat Manifesto” in 2007.

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