Two by Two by Tuesday: Elle Nash and John Flynn

elle nash

brotherhood of booze
pussy is the price of company
they circle in and want to know
if you’ll sell it all for
just a piece of normal
a moment of silence for the loneliness
that dies when they come around
i watched a man give up
everything for an illusion
i watched him crawl back
and taste the crusted blood
on the carpet
where the knees dragged
mamma never taught her to say no
so all she ever said was yes

a brotherhood of booze
where the glasses clink and crack
where my teeth don’t shine
when i bare them against stranger skin
the brotherhood where my memory
is just a dream
and the dream slips through
and the trauma falls between crevices
dust behind the couch
i’ll forget
and play this game with innocent demons all over again
the hungry eyes come back at me
demeaning and underhanded words are
dropped on the tabletop as an offer
the struggle to say no
becomes a wish to disappear

pussy is the price of payback
landscaped cirrhosis
marbled temples of ice
muddied faces
left-handed hooks
dry eyes on a fuzzy sunday morning
no will to move
the panoramic sideways view
of angles you don’t recognize

the radiation came
odins teeth came crashing down
and wisdom poured like gold
from each broken molar
and inside this suit
the caustic plaque
will rot you out of me
i had to shed this skin
to let anything in

Reading in bed

By c. kennedy garrett (originally posted to Flickr as [1]) [CC-BY-2.0], via Wikimedia Commons

the right time is not now
nor is it ever
right now is a struggle with ease
a struggle to fight the
alarm bells at 5 am
rustling and the heat from
your window rolling you
awake, turning you over
and over in its squares on your bed.

every fight is a victory
you are a warrior of the morning
waking, regaled with battles
the battle of pants-on-legs
the battle of hairbrushed storms
the battle of clean teeth and
spotless skin

every battle you win, you lose some
the lost battle of where-is-lunch
the somber need for coffee as a weapon
to face the next 12 hours
before you come home and slip
back into internal slumber,
where the slam of your doorjamb
soothes your internal spirit
like a warm bath.
a respite. lavender lush
an escape from rush hour and collared shirts
an escape from the hot or cold
you find a treasonous balance in coming home
turning off the cell phone
laying on the couch, with
a cat and a cigarette and the
cool light of the evening swaying you to sleep.

there are things to be done
but the right time for them
is not in this moment.
not now.


Elle Nash was born in England in the 80s, raised in the hot south in the 90s and currently lives in Denver, Colorado with her soon-to-be husband (that’s Mr. Nash to you) and her cat Nietzsche. In college she thought she was cool, so don’t blame her for the cat’s name. Elle got her degree in journalism but she’s escaped far enough away from AP Style and is now planning on starting her MFA in creative writing next year.  She has been published at Exterminating Angel Press, 303 Magazine and CoBiz Mag and sometimes she blogs at




Always, up until
it was too late to
be tall, wanted
to be tall. My Dad
and uncles are
tall. My two eldest
boys are tall. Our
youngest, Baby
Jack, still growing,
is six foot-five ins.
When our daughter
takes my hand for
a walk she looks
up at me and says,
“I love you, Dad.”



Nomad flocks flood pale skies like

stippled notes scored, scoured, and
spilt from some sequestered staff.

Roadside orchards dapple
with ten thousand shimmering
wings. Their eagle hearts,

un-bated breath, endure
like a seabird soars
from shore.


I began writing poems in the mid-seventies and am still waiting for that big poetry money to roll in. Nevertheless I helped raise four children in that time. The elder two are in their forties and the younger pair are still living at home. I am also partial to my six grandchildren. My two ex-wives are about as happy as one might expect. I am retired from the theater and spend my hours with the two children still at home and the grandchildren. In the time left I write poems and stories and take the occasional acting or reading gig. Friends say I am still pretty funny.

I was in high school when Roger Maris hit 61 home runs for the New York Yankees. I like to think that record still stands. What is less well known is the fact that Roger Maris and I graduated from the same high school, albeit in different years. I was a fair student and went on to four years at St. John’s University in Collegeville. Roger didn’t go to college and had to play professional baseball to make a living. I earned a degree in communications and theater and spent thirty years toiling in the bowels of legitimate theaters. I was never asked if I had a degree in theater. Having learned my lesson I now write poetry and have for thirty-some odd years.

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