11/30/2020
MASKS
by Wayne Goodman
I had to wear a mask
To protect me from you
The fear of someone seeing
Me imperfect, as I was,
Frightened me
You wore a mask, too,
For what reasons I
Could not tell but
Most likely similar
Pain or sorrow
With time, I learned
To believe in myself
That I could brave others
Knowing I was not
Perfection or even close
People saw me for
Who I was and did not
Run away or tell me
To put the mask back on
They just saw me
And you removed
Your mask as well
Taking your chance
With life and love and
Learning to trust
Now we all have to wear masks
To protect others from us
The world cannot risk
A contagion we carry
The sickness of our times
Some day we will not
Need to wear these masks
And will see each other
For who and what we are
Tomorrow. Soon. Please.
11/29/2020
Filter these in Blue, or Indigo if You’re Him
by Vernon Keeve III
1
A Black boy sits in a classroom
and he feels like he can be more of himself
in this space, because his father cannot follow
him here; however, he has to be surrounded
by his friends—all of them Black girls—be-
cause there are other bullies in this world. Black
girls have been his shield since the second grade.
He has never seen them as the girlfriends,
in the way his father does when he lies to him-
self. This young man has only seen them
as Dahomey warriors sharpening their weapons
towards the mouths of those who wish to call him out
of his name.
He can only learn this way—
learn when he feels safe.
And he learned early,
that Black women saved
his life.
Women who showed up
like his two older sisters,
who both taught this boy
that he was beautiful,
even though he did
not believe it.
2
A black boy goes to church
with his family every Sunday and from
the moment he walks into the arched doors
he feels like all eyes are on him—the eyes
of the congregants who smile in his mother’s face.
The parishioners who smile in his face—smiling
like the Spear of Longinus.
He wonders if this will be one of those Sundays
when the pastor, who too smiles in his face, will speak
on the divine purpose of heterosexual marriage.
The boy wonders if he will be damned on this day,
and on all other Sundays caged by stained-glass windows—
depictions of Black Jesus.
On the Sundays when the young adult choir sings,
The boy wants to lift his voice in solo. But he knows
the devotees will not hear his passion or envision
the Passion.
His suffering.
They will only hear the tenor of his voice,
the softness that lets them know that he is
the abomination that they need to protect
their holiness from.
When death comes,
he wonders if the judgment
of their God
will be as piercing as
the thorns of His disciples?
3
A young Black man walks into a barbershop
after having been away for some time. The young man feels
just like he is at home because he will hide pieces of him-
self in his silence. He never speaks up, because he feels
like his voice is a tell. He is used to his father bringing
him, but he can drive himself now.
He will be surrounded by the safety of shared Black
skin for anywhere between 45 minutes to two hours, and
he will leave looking like a better version of himself.
But a little bit of him died each time an elder asked him
about a girlfriend that he never had or wanted, and he felt
the need to lie to them.
He often wonders if his ancestors are still looking
out for him even though he’s this bough that may never
bare branches. He laughs at all of the men’s jokes even
though they at times find holes in the cement that has been
hardening around his chest—
protecting him from cuts that he doesn’t have to pay $12 for—
the boy’s price. Even though he is in his first year of college,
he pays the boy’s price, because he is home visiting and his child-
hood barber is glad to see him.
4
A young Black man goes to his family reunion
and he limits his speech and movements so much
you can imagine him with shackles and handcuffs.
He shrinks himself around uncles and cousins
who press him to talk about the girls in his life,
and he lies himself to the bathroom.
He finds himself in the kitchen, and he expands
out of his chest amongst the women, floating
in their laughter.
Black women—the sisters of his father.
The women who fed him recipes
that his father never learned to prepare.
Women with the power to hold generations.
Women with the power to hug away all shame—
the women who raised the man who raised him.
When he leaves the kitchen, he will feel comfortable
enough to ask his favorite uncle for some of his home-
made white lightning. His uncle will be surrounded by men
who also share this young man’s blood, but they scab
over when the young man opens his mouth,
and he notices this and lowers his volume—
the audacity his aunts gave him.
His favorite uncle lowers his voice as he pours
his nephew a drink, and he tells him to mix
it with something, so his nephew does.
His favorite uncle doesn’t ask him about girls.
He asks him about everything but.
And as the young man walks into the crowd
of family, to put food in his stomach he remembers
that he is safe.
5
A Black man walks into his classroom
for the first time. Ever since he accepted the job
he has been walking backwards past his teen-
age self in the hallways of the middle school
that taught him how scars are formed.
He can still feel the brine that was thrown
onto his back when he walked down the halls.
He sometimes lives in the first time that he was called a faggot—
lives in the loneliness of not being able to tell anyone.
He couldn’t give his parents more than they had already assumed.
The silence they carried when they were around him only got heavier
over time—through a phase that did end.
Heavier than anything his father ever attempted to carry—
ever wanted to carry.
Standing in his classroom the man knows stones
will be thrown at him once again.
He shows up every day as his entire self,
hoping that maybe one day a student will see something
in him that the man never saw himself growing up—
an adult version of something inside of him
that he thought needed to die.
6
A Black man attends his father’s funeral.
There is so much more that the son wants to say—
that he wants to be heard by his father’s ears.
He can only say it to the wind now,
praying it finds ears made more amenable
in death.
The man’s aunt, one of his father’s many sisters,
hugs him and condenses. Her voice falters as she
speaks, “It feels so good to hug you. It feels
like hugging him.”
11/28/2020
pigeonated: a view
by Laura Joakimson
she's lost & late. that one.
not wearing her glasses.
didn't wash hair—her
boyfriend once said
you get ready like a man!
(she also sneezes like a man)
awake/not awake—ten minutes—
assembling tools & nourishment for her life at
the door—pen, scribbling notebook, earbuds, almonds,
green apple, neplanta: an anthology edited
by christopher soto,
and keys to her prison cell—doing time for a literary crime—
where does she go?
even her GPS can't find her—thinks
she's still standing at the 51A stop in alameda—“that's an
existential crisis,” a friend told
her yesterday,
—it is.
11/27/2020
becoming myself
by BERSABEL TADESSE
I like the person I am
when I’m allowed
to live
freely
happy
my happiness exists
tucked away
where only I can reach it
when I am not
seeking it, but living it
I become myself
when my soul is quietest
and my mind is slow,
listening
to the world:
me
I become myself when I write,
think
I become myself
when I am least like the person I am
11/26/2020
DERAILED
by ANDRE WILSON
That morning in ’68,
between King’s assassination and Bobby’s,
four boys threw the switch
on the Southern Pacific line
that passed a mile from my home
in the San Fernando Valley.
As the freight crossed
the Reseda Boulevard overpass,
the train buckled and its cars uncoupled,
tumbling down the embankment and piling up.
A broken tanker valve
hissed Sulphur dioxide gas
that crept toward my neighborhood.
That night,
after my fourth birthday,
I became aware something had happened
when Mom woke me.
Bring your blanket. We got to go.
I grabbed it and my elf doll, Sam.
Where? Why?
Before she could answer,
I heard the sirens and loud speakers.
Evacuate. The fumes may be fatal
I next found myself outside
running with
my mother, my brothers, and my sister
toward our ’57 Chevy station wagon
parked in our driveway.
The memories haunt me now,
like night terrors
where I’m unsure if I’m asleep or awake—
a burnt match smell;
red and blue lights flashed;
neighbors shouted;
car doors slammed—
too much information for me to process.
I cried.
I didn’t realize it at the time,
but my life had derailed.
I don’t recall my father’s presence when we evacuated.
I didn’t know where he was.
He disappeared from my early life so often
that he never materialized in my memory of it.
My life barreled down the wrong tracks
before I knew tracks existed.
My only sound, a wail—
like the whistle of the Southern Pacific
that penetrated the Valley;
like the fire engines, police cars, and ambulances
that rushed to the derailment;
like the Cold War air raid sirens
that screamed atop fire stations and thirty-foot poles;
wailed until the other wails submerged my wail
and formed a continuous wail that pierced the night.
11/25/2020
The City
by ANA MARÍA CARBONELL
I. From the Tenderloin to Pacifica
her long legs catch his attention
she opens the door of his 1980s black Thunderbird
slides onto crusty vinyl seats
breathes in stale cigarette smoke
in silence he hands her
a beer, a vial, a cocaine spoon
she tells herself she’s used to such trips
some never touch her
just sit, drink tea, watch TV.
others blubber shamelessly
after spilling semen on sheets
or none at all.
at least one ripped her vagina
while playing doctor.
she almost hemorrhaged to death
didn’t walk for weeks
lost her spot on the corner
when they arrive
20 minutes from downtown San Francisco
40 from Oakland Airport
she sees the neon sign, a cruel beacon of comfort
Friendly Staff
Playboy Channel
Ocean view
Morning Coffee & Pastry
coffee, a danish, and the sea
What a nice morning, she thinks
then hears “Hey Bitch!”
behind yellowed teeth, a greasy goatee
flaked with crumbs, dusted
in white powder
and through her pantyhose
feels the clasp
of a callused and clammy hand
II. The Corner of Jones & Eddy
the man with shoes worn like slippers
a plaid thriftstore coat
pants that end above his ankles
paces up and down the block
up and down the block
to and from the corner of Jones & Eddy
where dealers trade tiny packages
for tightly rolled bills
in front of the store
that sells mainly cigarettes
Mad Dog 20/20
candy, glazed doughnuts
pints of Smirnoff & Jim Beam
across the street
transvestites compete
for their spots on the corner
next to smaller miniskirts
above thinner thighs
a Vietnamese man
clasps his son’s tiny hand
pushes a portable shopping cart
full of oranges, milk,
heaping leaves of lettuce;
bumps into a whore’s broad shoulder
who smiles, strokes his thin arm
with her big-boned fingers
tire wheels screech
everyone turns to see
a black Thunderbird
open its doors, spit her out
on her torn white shirt
above her breast
a splash of red
the corner women
prop her against a cold building
then, like chess pieces,
move back to their places
the man with his boy
scurries up dirty cement steps
grateful the wrought-iron gate
will soon clang like a bear trap
behind them
packages and bills
exchange hands again
the man with shoes like slippers
paces up and down
11/24/2020
Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Aja Couchois Duncan
for Joy Harjo and Crazy Horse
Sky tells me something of
her wildness, her rapidly shifting
moods. Clouded darkness
and light dancing between
her thighs, the seismic
fault that ruptured her
into being. Giizhig
doesn’t care if you
stare, stumble around
beneath her depths, reach
out to touch her, wave
your hands frantically
trying to grasp
something of her veiled
tongue, her rapturous breath.
Hoka-hey, she says
today is a good day
to die. And perhaps
the world ends
here on this precipice
of birth and death, this
point at which land
ends and everything else
begins.
Centuries ago, people
from another continent—
the ones who sailed here
and still remain—said there
be dragons there, meaning
beyond that which is known
is a place only monsters
be. For a while it held
them in place, trapped them
inside their imagination
what they could not
imagine beyond. Then
the spell broke and they
pushed far beyond
their world, still fearful
but guided, this strange
elixir of anxiety and desire
to occupy another
land, its people.
Perhaps the world
ends here, this place
without reconciliation
or integration. This life
unrecognizable even
to those living it.
Sky is windswept, eternal
but we are only life
and its decay. Everything
food for something else. What
have you eaten today? Have you
said a prayer in gratitude
of its offering, the many lives
arranged on your small
plate. Perhaps the world
ends here, you say
and swallow bite
after bite.
Today is a good day to pray
at this precipice of beginnings
and endings. Only sky knows
who’s endings and who’s
beginnings. Giizhig inhales
clouds, exhales thunder
lightening, a storm
of tears. From her grieving
mouth, the sun emerges.
Today is a good day
for the fiddle heads to unfurl
their fronds, for the crows to cry
from nearby branches
hoka-hey. Today
is a good day to die.
11/23/2020
Ama / Warrior
by Yulu Ewis
One. Two. Three. Four.
O—ye sings the song of war.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
O-ye marches to re-write our pre-destined fate.
Warriors are called to the frontlines
Warriors are hauled to the frontlines
Warriors are mauled at the frontlines
Warriors are stalled; walled at the frontlines sprawled on the ground in handcuffs.
One. Two. Three. Four.
O-ye sings the song of war.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
O-ye marches to re-write our pre-destined fate.
Warriors are called to indict the power.
Warriors are called to fight the power
Warriors are called to right the power.
Warriors are called to ignite the power that threatens them like a noose. Another attempt of milky white tear gas abuse; juice running down children’s faces continually causing them to cower in a frightened attempt at a truce.
One. Two. Three. Four.
O-ye sings the song of war.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
O-ye marches to rewrite our pre-destined fate.
Warriors are called to chant the song of war.
Warriors are called to enchant the lyrics.
Warriors are called to transplant them into our hearts.
Warriors are called to grant the cries of the protestors who rise up toward O-ye’s ears.
Warriors are called to plant roots growing underneath their feet as they march.
11/22/2020
arachnophobia
by Maurisa Thompson
Noun. extreme or irrational fear of spiders. Like you spider
crouched against the pale green paint in the corner near
the 15 foot ceiling I liked these 15 foot ceilings until
you came along you crawling out of the banana boat
song you top model for the Skymall bug vacuum
cleaner you Spider That Ate Cleveland once an entire
mountain road of cars backed up for a tarantula crossing
the road I drove around it like a pothole the guy behind me
paused and opened his door gaping down at it did you know
that spider I thought all you spiders knew each other my
brother threw balled up Kleenexes at me during
your entire movie Spiders for instance being relatively small
do not fit the usual criterion for a threat in the animal kingdom
where size is a factor but they can be venomous are you venomous
we should develop a test to determine if you’re venomous
before you can stay in this room in the corner near the ceiling don’t
come any closer I’m going to lie here all night and watch you from
the rest of this room not even in the same plane in three-dimensional
space here on the bed with the lights on Recent studies of spider phobia
have indicated that fear of spiders is closely associated with
the disease-avoidance response of disgust because you are disgusting
I don’t get it why do you have to have eight legs and have hair
on your legs and all over your body did you know some spiders
can shoot their hairs some spiders shoot their venomous hairs
and you squish yourselves up like an accordion when
someone startles you it’s really hard to get to know someone
that way It is argued that the disgust-relevant status of the spider
resulted from its association with disease and illness in European
cultures from the tenth century onward you know what that’s racist
like it’s my fault no one asked you to come in here I was here
first okay maybe I wasn’t here first I’ve probably already shared
a room with a spider but I know this house was here first I
know the length of a spider’s lifetime The development
of the association between spiders and illness appears to be
linked to the many devastating and inexplicable epidemics that
struck Europe from the Middle Ages onwards when the spider
was a suitable displaced target for the anxieties caused by these
epidemics see there you go it makes sense we’re hardwired
to fear spiders it’s natural we divide ourselves into tribes
and nations and spiders a nation without spiders
is not a nation Such factors suggest that the pervasive fear
of spiders that is commonly found in many Western societies may
have cultural rather than biological origins and may be restricted
to Europeans and their descendants see more racism
you know what all lives matter my life matters because all I
wanted was to get some sleep are you trying to tell me
I could write other poems about spiders like Joy Harjo
she had some spiders or that you’re some form of luck or grandmother
spider like we’re all connected in a web of life that’s some hippie bullshit
or Anansi spider so wily intelligent he could defeat death yeah
we all know what that means you could just be acting
harmless you could be a secret Spider-spider or maybe
I’m supposed to sweep all creatures away from me gently
with a tiny broom like a person who follows Jainism and cover my
mouth so that I don’t eat spiders at night did you know people eat
spiders but I mean really who can live this way because I’m really afraid
spider I’m really afraid okay spider okay you stay in that corner and I’ll stay
in the rest of this three-dimensional plane okay okay okay okay okay
okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay hey where are you going
Quotes taken from Google definitions; an interview with Frank Marshall, director of the movie “Arachnophobia;” Wikipedia; and Graham C.L. Davey’s “The ‘Disgusting’ Spider: The Role of Disease and Illness in the Perpetuation of Fear of Spiders.” Also, according to arthropodecology.com, we are likely, usually, never more than three feet away from a spider.
11/21/2020
TANTAMOUNT
by Rhett Stuart
1931-2009
Some respond wrongly
Let it go
Give them no familiarity breeding contempt
Lose none of your Spirit-Being
Look in the eyes of more lofty human ones and in
truth of animal eyes, bird’s eye
Let the rest go,
remain rested uninvested
Remain own Spirit
being for good of deepest humanity
there off personal stratosphere
tantamount morrow sun
11/20/2020
RESTRICTED MEMBERSHIP
by Janice King
The blue sidewalk has residue of lives
lived on the street:
tissue, wrapper, crackerbox,
playing cards, butts,
styrofoam cups, pop, wine,
dog-piss, glass; paper plates,
homeless’s grocery carts,
blankets. Men stand, men sit, men laugh,
sleep, smoke—and
women too; eat, drink, discuss,
command the dogs, spread blankets,
share love, dress a baby, and a
rebel will come along and throw
and break a bottle. Suntanned
they wear exclusive old clothes,
break up in groups of different
interests and stay long stretches,
and are, enviably, a society
of cohesiveness, loud caring,
bitter humor, politeness,
restricted membership, a shadow,
a brilliant reflection of what the
rest of us are thinking
as we go racing through
our good times!
View Janice King's work in the Library catalog
11/19/2020
The Guy in 401
by LEONARD IRVING
1924-2016
The guy in 401.
Talk about a louse.
A dead beat.
A real pain.
A self-pronounced deer poacher.
Played his TV full blast
at all hours.
Thought nothing of banging on your door
in the middle of the night
to bum a cigarette or a drink.
His one claim to fame.
A trained mouse.
“Trained to do what?
Sing grand opera?” I once asked.
He merely glared.
A liar. A thief.
A petty swindler.
Pilferer. Shoplifter.
Mouse exploiter.
Shit that he was
he up and died last week.
Who would believe the corridor
is lonely without him.
11/18/2020
RISK ASSESSMENT, EARLY LOCKDOWN
by Anita Kline
Waking into this new reality.
Reading the light. Counting. A prayer.
May the hours add up to seven.
Eight would be too much to hope for.
Waking up to dry-mouthed anxiety.
A meditation on fear in the Time of Pandemic.
I’ve been preparing for this. It’s called practice.
Calling on the awakened heart.
I move the Mother of all Buddhas to where
I can see her gentle smile at a glance.
I attempt the comfort of an old morning ritual.
Cafe con leche (extra hot), the perfect chair, a good book.
But this new world insists, inserts itself into
every sentence--her story, a woman afraid
of old age, homelessness, dying from the cold.
Dreadful, but still, no hint of worry that
someone is standing too close. No mention at all of
masking, viruses, invisibility.
This old woman contemplates the possibilities.
Wonders, what is a good death?
If not a familiar hand to hold, will she be
able at least to touch the earth?
11/17/2020
Happy World Poetry Day
by Opal Palmer Adisa © 2020
Dear World:
I gift you this poem
poems serve to remind
us to honour
friendship and goodwill
to sing the names of trees
thank the birds and insects
salute the heaven and earth
applaud the seas and rivers
bless all things that grow
and pay homage to all who die
poems can heal us
We need poetry to line the streets
balladeers to croon them to wake our children
artists to paint them on billboard and murals
doctors to offer them as a necessary medicine
to heal our minds and spirit
We need poetry to remind us what’s good
to feed our bodies
which negative thoughts to avoid
how to ensure that our lives are
balanced harmonious and filled
with positive energy
II
The other night a poem dreamed me
gently nudged me on my back
guided me to breathe deeply
encouraged me to smile frequently
advised me to forgive myself and others
seventy time seven
and to trust that i know what i know
and leave fear in the dark place
where it grows
The poem comforted me
assured me that COVID19
will soon become a historical
marker of when the world stopped
to remember that life
is the most important gift
given to us and that god is a poet
11/16/2020
A Mask is a Mask
by Ellen Frank
Gertrude Stein would firmly attest to our task
A mask is a mask is a mask is a mask
Masks make us safer; they’re easy to get
Friends, wear them everywhere; don’t forget
They raise our chances to live not regret
A mask is a mask is a mask is a mask
Wearing one’s surely a simple task
Appear in them cheerfully, nodding at others
Clad as we are,
Our sisters and brothers
Do mask-up, shelter, opt to be hale
Until the day comes when a vaccine’s unveiled
11/15/2020
HEARING AIDS, MASKS, EYEGLASSES AND HAT
by Ellen Sharbach September 26, 2020
It’s here. The pandemic, it’s called. I obey the rules.
My hearing aids refuse to acquiesce to a face mask.
Eyeglasses, already settled, just stand by like an older sister.
My hat anchors my obedience during this hard time.
If I feel a motion around my eyes, it’s the plastic shield
of the hearing aid swinging free from the ear lobe.
There is not enough room behind that earlobe for the stems of the eye glasses.
They can’t move over. The expensive little hearing aids
Swing like a child on a swing. If I stop walking
remove my hat and mask, push the plastic cover back
behind my ear lobe, I imagine bells will ring, I am a contaminant.
My mask is still not back on my face
I have to decide to conform; leave the hearing aids at home. Venture
out in the world and smile. You see, we who have a hearing problem
Smile, when we cannot hear and do not like the “WHAT ?”
You have just committed mayhem, we smile .We’re included now.
11/14/2020
Dear America
by LISA LIM
Do you know that you are
the Land of Beauty, in Chinese
the Company, in Malay?
I find comfort in your embrace
Your navel is your original beauty
Great & Coastal Plains
your umbilical scar
everlasting dance of
lightning & thunder
in the heat of the moment
The petrichor of Black Hills bison
born in rain, humbles my breath
connect me back to Mother
land of sunflowers bow
to you in awe
Your breasts bring out the best
of your backbones. My finger
tips touch you contours
of Rockies & Appalachian
red, orange & yellow supple
glistens to remind me
to forgive, forgive, forgive
myself, for fallen leaves have
nothing to lose
Your vulva quenches my thirst
from your luscious labia of
Great Lakes to your clitoris
that is Tahoe. Missouri & Mississippi
challenge civil obedience for survival
I feel that all you see are scars. Did
you forget how beautiful you are
like how you forgot
your island ports? Have
revolutions of hot & cold pressures
from seasonal affairs
numb your lovemaking ability?
Like the code talkers before me
this beauty, I protect
I have long acknowledged
my ugly being, pushed
to the edges
Nightmares & dreams
are no different in Malay, just
like “dia” means “his”, “hers” & “it”.
Until Man surrenders themselves
the way a child is surrendered to Man
like the invisible ‘k’ on their knees
I stand as an emasculated w/o:man
The truth is that we all are Aquarians
who come from stained mosaic
glass makers who mold water
carriers, round from fragments
geometric glass forts, with
bare hands, decorate our shadows
with scars so focused on shaping
water carriers forget to drink water
This naive hybrid
another American idiot
have said my peace
Love in Malay is Cinta
& love is incomplete without
“heart” in Kanji, or “friendship”
in Chinese. I will always place
the mission first. I’m a warrior
& a member of a team. I will
never leave a fallen comrade
I’m a guardian of freedom
& the American way of life
ready to pick you back up
when you dare fall in love again.
11/13/2020
Have Patience
by CARLA PETREE
No.
I.say.no.because.it.is.the.most.time.saving.response.and.I.regret.I.do.not.have.time.nor.patience.
for.further.discussion.on.the.topic.Except.to.say.those.who.seek.patience.seem.to.acquire.it.
via.various.trying.experiences.such.as.losing.their.keys.when.late.to.an.important.interview.
thus.arriving.frazzled.and.appearing.incompentant.while.still.having.to.appear.an.ideal.very.
competent.never.frazzled.candidate.No.No.I.say.Just… No.
11/12/2020
Survival
by TANEESH KHERA
when she looks back at you.
on those rare occasions
reflections in her eyes
you see sunlight sometimes
If you're lucky, if the mood is right,
if it pleases the crowd
in her shadow.
of how well you've behaved
always according to her judgment
the air impure and scarce
the amount varied but always
in her shadow
Barely
just barely.
you too can live
only to inhale
if you crack your ribs
and pop capillaries
the more the better, just for her
Just a handful enough
if you puff hard,
for what’s left
for you.
of her fingertips and toes
of the very last vessels
nourishing her blood
down the throat, lungs expanding
all of the air there sucked into a funnel
for herself first, already
She who has taken more than enough
the wake of another human being’s exhale.
It wafts down toward you
to take it in
so thin you gasp
climbing up there where the air you breathe
to do everything right according to another.
an insurmountable mountain
The pressure
11/11/2020
POETRY IS HARD
by HEIDI BENSON-STAGG
Strangers will never be recognized for their gifts.
Behind the glassy stare
liquid rainbows exploded into aquatic shards
a path of their own interpretation
Losing that much blood never ends well
vibrant flavor and color
A daughter has her mother
rambling sentences strung together
swell and crest with my own wave
debate and challenge and question
scarlet miracles flowed and fought
I watched your wave disrupt my shoreline
Poetry is hard
disease made her downright obstinate
New life pinkened with health
erase your imprint on my sand
Graciously accepting defeat
a new beginning
Tumbling sea-glass and sand in your wake
Minutes became days
a bland, colorless ghost
with dual meanings
I will surge and swell
Notes mingling with air and water
The light dimmed
Play nicely together
11/10/2020
Miscengenation
by JOANNA ANABO
If I told you what elements came together to create me
The only thing your mind will conjure is the miscegenation
It could be clean and sterile, the miscegenation,
A quick, tried, and true missionary gets the job done
Or it could be brutal and bloody,
The kind of miscegenation you erase from your history
Beyond the margins and into ashes
A miscegenation that won’t be ignored because it’s just too damn loud
Maybe when the images crawl forward into the forefront of your mind
You’ll feel compelled to reenact the miscegenation
Vying to blend the elements into something in my likeness
But I cannot give you the miscegenation you desire
If I peeled back the mask of my miscegenation,
Exposing myself more than I am willing to do
I forfeit my personhood so you can ogle at my body
As I am nothing more than a product of the miscegenation
That your people believed too taboo to remember
Except drunkenly when you recall miscegenation in the tropics
So why should I bother about quelling your curiosity
When you already view me as nothing more than a brown miscegenation toy?
* ”miscegenation“ replaceable with “sex”
11/9/2020
The Safe Place
by JANET SALSMAN
So much darker,
a room where I wasn’t supposed to go.
Stiff sinews screech:
a car crash, a murder, a loss, a break,
that squeak on the funeral floor.
I knew I could fly:
I tried valiantly to follow
the wake of the sea mare, night kraken.
Water takes the shape of its container.
She had murdered me in her trim, professional suit,
made everything into a horrible joke:
a human blush around a mouthful of braces.
I didn’t know what to do to make it stop.
We huddled.
Curl into corner.
Heavy green blanket,
snores vibrating behind
like an airplane engine,
a dragon roar and rumble,
friendly thunder.
Sniff of Tide, hint of sweat
remnant of toothpaste,
the sneezeless dust
Eyes dilated, the spackle shadows
still shape so patiently,
puppet into creatures, castles, crags.
Sometimes, the water bubbles and boils.
On the gilt chair, velvet pillow,
coveted couch for Cinderella’s slipper,
just a denser darkness.
Lids droop, drip down
sleepy sloping slide:
float free of pots and fires,
the canyons of the earth.
Feet tucked into hem
of soft flannel gown.
No need to run:
the monsters are all gone.
Illicitly subverted,
they did not cry.
A film over the eyes;
brown eyes haunted my daydreams.
Do not wake the dead,
clear and placid and still.
In winter, the water freezes.
The name echoed
ahead in the dim future,
the part where we woke up happy again,
toys and laughter and tea parties.
Stories ended with a hug or a kiss or a feast.
11/8/2020
San Francisco as Grandmother. 2020.
by Mason J.
San Francisco as Grandmother
if you are lucky enough to find the doorbell,
she’ll let you stay with her for weeks
[your whole life if you like]
you'll play Jacks, Hopscotch, Heats, One Foot Off the Gutter
Get scolded for forgetting to take the meat out of the freezer
This is your home
With WIIC cheese quesadillas y frijoles for breakfast
Kings Hawaiian Roll, Miracle Whip, and Turkey sandwiches before dinner
Werther's Originals dropped into A&W root beer floats at bedtime
You don't have to love living with her if you don't want to
but you will rub grandmother’s feet with peppermint lotion
pretend to enjoy violet candies
find ways to memorize every Jeopardy Daily Double and drama on Y&R
because she offers prayers in the face of danger
keeps vigil over her children long after the star-spangled banner plays
and will always have space for you, even if you have to move away
matriarchy is the heart of San Francisco
and although some will say she’s dead
I know her heart hasn’t stopped; she’s just having seismic tremors
11/7/2020
Glass Collecting
by Katherine Hastings
What if the sun was the essence of night?
If it stole the cool dark bottle of water
hidden under every rock? What if
nightbirds flew into dark-draped windows
falling in feathery clumps to the ground
until there were no birds? Is this too
depressing a thought? Let me remind you
we all go through it, a poison sachet of news
dragging behind, waiting ahead. It’s just
my turn now. Too much Russian poetry,
too much smoke in the air, too many
warnings of the end of everything
that is natural. To save our ash trees,
we’re supposed to inject them with insecticide.
It’s their only hope. See what we’ve done?
When the wash cycle is over, a melody plays
like an ice cream truck. “Ice cream truck!” we call
and then we bend our bodies to the truth,
like a dash of lye to the eye.
Let’s go gypsy walking, let’s be madwomen
who hear things in the woods, who
scream into the gorge, who hold secret
weddings for the deer and the toads.
Let’s make a night to remember, here
in the sacred dark, tree limbs our only
basilica, our hair scented with fog and smoke,
our little dog looking at us as if we are
gods in control of everything good.
We’ll sing You are my sunshine to her, we’ll
steady water in our palms
and when her thirst is gone we’ll say
Good dog.
We’ll do what we can.
11/8/2020
San Francisco as Grandmother. 2020.
by Mason J.
San Francisco as Grandmother
if you are lucky enough to find the doorbell,
she’ll let you stay with her for weeks
[your whole life if you like]
you'll play Jacks, Hopscotch, Heats, One Foot Off the Gutter
Get scolded for forgetting to take the meat out of the freezer
This is your home
With WIIC cheese quesadillas y frijoles for breakfast
Kings Hawaiian Roll, Miracle Whip, and Turkey sandwiches before dinner
Werther's Originals dropped into A&W root beer floats at bedtime
You don't have to love living with her if you don't want to
but you will rub grandmother’s feet with peppermint lotion
pretend to enjoy violet candies
find ways to memorize every Jeopardy Daily Double and drama on Y&R
because she offers prayers in the face of danger
keeps vigil over her children long after the star-spangled banner plays
and will always have space for you, even if you have to move away
matriarchy is the heart of San Francisco
and although some will say she’s dead
I know her heart hasn’t stopped; she’s just having seismic tremors
11/7/2020
Glass Collecting
by Katherine Hastings
What if the sun was the essence of night?
If it stole the cool dark bottle of water
hidden under every rock? What if
nightbirds flew into dark-draped windows
falling in feathery clumps to the ground
until there were no birds? Is this too
depressing a thought? Let me remind you
we all go through it, a poison sachet of news
dragging behind, waiting ahead. It’s just
my turn now. Too much Russian poetry,
too much smoke in the air, too many
warnings of the end of everything
that is natural. To save our ash trees,
we’re supposed to inject them with insecticide.
It’s their only hope. See what we’ve done?
When the wash cycle is over, a melody plays
like an ice cream truck. “Ice cream truck!” we call
and then we bend our bodies to the truth,
like a dash of lye to the eye.
Let’s go gypsy walking, let’s be madwomen
who hear things in the woods, who
scream into the gorge, who hold secret
weddings for the deer and the toads.
Let’s make a night to remember, here
in the sacred dark, tree limbs our only
basilica, our hair scented with fog and smoke,
our little dog looking at us as if we are
gods in control of everything good.
We’ll sing You are my sunshine to her, we’ll
steady water in our palms
and when her thirst is gone we’ll say
Good dog.
We’ll do what we can.
11/6/2020
Unity in black and brown
by Tony Robles
In the projects of North Beach
There was cement and curved
Spaces and concave enclaves
Where shadows gathered and voices
Echoed laughter, bouncing in and
Out of blind spots as the sun hit
At every imaginable angle
And swarms of dragonflies would
Descend from the sky and I didn't
Know a dragonfly from a ladybug
And I saw them as flying spiders
And I was scared to
Walk out the door and
Into the swarm
But the sun hit
Me in the eyes
And there was Michael
Who was five or six years
Older who would say, hey,
Go steal this or that for me
He lived next door
And a few doors down
In the other direction
Was Eric, a white kid
With stained t-shirts who
Would pull fire alarms
And take off running
And the dragonflies turned
Into fireflies
And a Catholic priest
Would come in a station wagon
From time to time dropping
Off bags of donuts
And the nuns would smile at
Our black and brown and yellow
And white powdered sugar
Covered faces
(This was 1971)
And I lived in that
North Beach project with
My grandmother and uncle
And I got away with
Too much
And I walked to
School, real slow
Up a big hill
I was daydreaming
Uphill not knowing
The possibility of a
Downhill future
And as I was taking
My sweet time going
Up that hill towards
Sarah B Cooper School
I'd hear a loud
Honk
I'd look and it was
My grandfather in his
Copper colored Buick
He wore dark shades
And a heavy working man's
Jacket
In the passenger seat
Was his best friend Chris
A black man and a
Filipino man, both
Bus drivers
Both drinking
Cups of black
And brown coffee
Both knowing what
Uphill and downhill
Meant
Grandpa would roll
The window down and
Call out:. Hey boy,
Hurry your ass up
And get to school
Before I whip your
Ass
And I hurried my
Ass up that hill
While my grandpa
And Chris watched
From that Buick
Looking into
The future
11/5/2020
Stay
by Lee Herrick
I am not what you thought
an ocean would look like,
but once a fire starts in you, there will always be ash.
There are long walks, thank goodness, there are woods
to be small in, there are
anchors to the world so
you will not fly away before
it is time. The miracle of grass, even though you may forget it, the fact that you are loved,
even though you may forget it, and what a miracle that is—
being loved—or more so,
that you are a wide blue ocean capable of loving, you churning body of sea life who survived
the oil spills, the broken glass,
11/4/2020
Each Morning
by Gayle Markow 2/6/2020
1.
Each morning she steps outside
Fills her eyes with sun rise
Clouds shape and color-shift —grey to pink.
Low-lying like fog, high flying cirrus,
A pale crescent moon in the western sky
the many greens of trees.
She inhales fresh oxygen and the ocean,
On days there are fires, she sniffs for it.
Feels the tiny burn in her nostrils, from up north, down south, across the ocean
Remembers the fires.
I’ll name a few, she said.
Santa Rosa,
Paradise,
Ojai,
Australia
A few,
She said.
Just a few.
She prays. Help, she sings
Begging nature’s realm
Like crows beg their morning alms.
She begs, her prayers carried on the wind by crows
What must they think?
Soon crows will bring her breakfast bits.
Thank you. she’ll say,
Though lack of food is not her issue
She appreciates someone’s trying to decipher her cry and help.
It’s the beginning of February.
The human world is busy squawking about corona virus,
but the President says it’s nothing.
Keep the tourists on the cruise ships so they don’t have to be counted, he says.
Still, more than 20 million died of the Spanish flu in 1918
It could happen again.
No, he says. There will be a miracle, or Spring, whichever comes first.
2.
She wonders what it felt like in Europe in 1933
What miracles and Springtime Hitler promised
When the first “detention center” Dachau was established for “undesirables”
and then horrifying medical experiments were done on children.
She wonders what were the increments of the concentration of state power
its incitement to “othering” those not Aryan, not Hitlerian
that finally led to Kristallnacht in 1938? to extermination camps in 1939?
There were 68 concentration, detention, labor, and transit camps.
She said, I’ll name a few.
Auschwitz-Birkenau
Bergen-Belsen
Kulmhof
Janowska
Majdanek
Treblinka
A few names,
She said,
Just a few.
She wonders what it felt like in America in the winter of 1861?
Before the Civil War broke out that Spring, the Spring no miracle arrived.
Did people know war was coming?
Did they breathe the fresh air?
Notice the behavior of crows?
The Civil War came, like the Spanish flu, only less lethal in the moment.
Only 620,000 died in the moment.
Only.
Not the 20 (or fifty) million killed by a virus.
More would die in a war that wouldn’t. Had already died.
The way Confederate flags still fly and statues stand, until now.
The way one hundred years of Jim Crow and lynching became a way of life
A daily un-reported war
waged on and on.
The way slave labor continues in countless prisons today
The way nothing
She said, I’ll name a few nothings —
a questionable $20 bill
the selling of cigarettes on a street corner
a jog
a snooze in a car
a sleep in your own bed
a walk home from the store
A few nothings, she said.
Just a few
can get a Black man or woman killed
The way everything — endless incriminating evidence —
can fail to convict a sociopathic Aryan billionaire
And everyone knows. Everyone. Sees. and Knows.
3.
She worries, as she writes, that words
That true words
That a woman’s words
That a Black person’s words
That crows’ words
That trees’ words
That poets’ words
No longer have currency except what racist, patriarchal power deems so.
Can anyone’s words make a difference now?
Each morning she steps out on her back porch
Among trees and crows
She listens.
She remembers to breathe
And pray.
On the often problematical but sometimes wonderful social media
she is introduced to and hears the voices of new young leaders.
I’ll name a few, she said.
Austin Channing Brown
Azure Antoinette
Brittney Cooper
Tarana Burke
Rachel Cargle
A few, new, young, leaders, she said.
Just a few.
She knows the time of change has arrived.
It’s fall, and more than 200,000 have died.
The President lied. And lied. And lies.
She said, there are far too many to name a few.
11/3/2020
The Geometry of Water
by Gary Turchin
Ask water
for its diameter dimension circumference,
it will laugh, scoff even:
“You dividers and geometers,”
it might say,
“Contain me all you want,
bind me in your suit of shape or form—
your rectangles, triangles, circles…
Temporary constraints, all,
I will wear them out,
splash over
leak under
punch through,
evaporate from and congregate elsewhere.
And what do your shapes and sizes have to do with me then?
“My geometry is you,
you shapers and marauders of space,
My formlessness is your form-in-waiting;
You are my splash walking.
Your million billion tributaries
are my river overflowing
into the living crust,
“If I am not your God,
I am the mother of your God.”
11/2/2020
F*ck Tech
by Canal K.
Computations over communities Circuits rather than cells More allegory than algorithms
Teaching machines to dream though we may never reach our own
Embedding digits not in earth but code Skyscrapers shadows those without home (So) Fuck your innovation
A progress of processors not people Cracking whips for metal @ black steeples Surface sleek - but below intentions evil
Extract, Exchange, Expire The three E’s that build E empires
Extract the labor and life of a culture In Exchange steal profits, our husk left to vultures Expire when they claim, on curbs without name The ambitions of this beast (in the least) must be tamed
The answer is Abolition
Not an app to be streamed nor memed It doesn’t squeeze between a tv screen while facists flee the scene Motherfucker its a guillotine
A love turret tearing up corrupt structures The shiv that shifts systemic A cap for capitalism
Revolution sparks eye to eye Heart to heart
You are not obsolete. You are not out of time.
Shoulder to shoulder, united WE climb The answer is in us, future WE define
11/1/2020
I may be a fool
(For Freddie )
by Rsanchez 2/26/2020
I may be a fool
But I’m not trying to fool you
Or Anyone
I am alone
And I do what I do
And I try
Every day
I try
Some days I can’t
Some days i must
Some days I find
The will of thought
Some days I sit and rust
I do what I do
I am a fool
Trying
Not to fool
Foolish and forgotten
Sometimes
my
intentions
rotten
You and me babe
Lost
amongst our tears
Some days I can’t
Some days i must
Some days I find
The will of thought
Some days I find
I sit and rust
I do what I do
I am a fool
Trying not to fool
You
Or anyone
I may be a fool
Not trying to fool
You
I am alone
Trying every day
My dear,
Trying every day
Together
we will Be
foolish
And love forever.
Trying
Dying
Fooling.
Loving.
Some days I can’t
Some days i must
Some days I find
The will of thought
Some days
I Find
I sit and rust
Hey you
I do what I do
I am a fool
Trying not to fool
But loving you
Only a fool ,
Could
love you ...
Sometimes
I find
I sit and rust