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Please note we are not accepting unsolicited submissions at this time. Manuscripts submitted via this contact form will not be read. Please submit via our Submittable portal if you'd like your work considered, or if you would like to apply to The Writer's Hotel writing conference. Our contests in fiction and poetry will reopen in January or February. Please check back then if you'd like to enter a contest. We do accept submissions year-round for our BANG! online author feature. 

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BANG!

BANG!

BANG! authors are showcased individually here online. Each author installment is made up of three pieces in any combination: poetry shorts (20 lines or less) or fiction or nonfiction (500 words each or less) for a month or more. All work on must be previously unpublished. Submission period runs all year round. BANG! pieces are not published in The New Guard. Work should be very short: flash-short. Pieces on BANG! are meant to serve as a kind of calling card for the author. $22 submission fee. Don Hogle is a BANG! Selected Writer. ::Our next installment will be on December 4, 2024.::

CLICK HERE TO SUBMIT TO BANG!

To date, Don Hogle has published one hundred poems in sixty journals including Atlanta Review, Carolina Quarterly, Chautauqua, Cider Press Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Naugatuck River Review and Penn Review. He won First Prize in the 2023 Open Poetry Competition of the National Association of Writers and Groups (U.K.) His debut full-length collection, Huddled in the Night Sky, is coming this fall (Poets Wear Prada.) A chapbook, Madagascar, was published in 2020 (Sevens Kitchens Press.) He lives happily in Manhattan. www.donhoglepoet.com

Don Hogle.


poems by don hogle


My Affair with Elvis

 

I was a Backstage Johnny who knew the gig—

show up every night, smile, and soon enough

you’re in. I saw immediately he needed to feel

I not only wanted him, but had to have him.

 

When we were alone, it was simple—Quaalude,

vodka, some honky-tonk blues, and he was movin’,

a hunka burnin’ junk watching me watching him.

He curled his lip in that come-on way that says,

Why don’t you come over and get it? So I did.

 

Before we blacked out, he curled up next to me

smelling like stardust, make-up, and Ring Dings.

His eyes were far away, but I knew what to sing:

in a voice dripping Tupelo honey I purred in his ear—

Baby, you the King.



Walking Home Buzzed

 

Larry, Paul, and I drank a glass of port after the three

or four rounds of Malbec in which we drowned

our Swedish meatballs at Scandinavia House.

The night was chilly but not unpleasant, so I decided

to walk. At 21st and Park, Bravo Pizza was lit up

like a beacon. Inside, there was an air of men taking care

of business—the oven boys twirled pies and snapped

the lids on tubs of mozzarella; I stood at the counter,

eating a slice with a clutch of other guys.

 

Decades before, too broke after a night at the bars

to take the subway home, I walked up Second Avenue

to 81st Street despite summer’s swelter. My t-shirt dangled

in my hand, sweat pooled in the small of my back,

my muscles pulsed; I dared anyone passing to want me.


        


Enantiodromia

 

Even as we kiss, and I cling

to the silvery flesh of your neck,

a carnivorous starfish;

 

even in the thick of it, your eyes

wide as traffic lights, Olympian

limbs testing my strength;

 

even as we rest, and you fold over

onto me like part of myself, counting

the beats you say pound in my chest;

 

even then, I hear the click of the door

close behind you one last time,

as it will one day; see myself

 

catch your scent

on the collar of a stranger

in a crowded train; watch

 

your face—a glint I’d seen

in dark water—fade and blur

back into the depths.


Poems © Don Hogle, 2024.  All rights reserved by the author.