2/28/2021
The Mistake
after On the Beach at Night Alone
by Karthik Sethuraman
1.
the tagline across the screen
an actress wanders across a seaside town
pondering her relationship with a married man
2.
when I meet Whitman I’ll ask him
a plain question which America
is he seeking
3.
I want him to say
pretending or pretending to
the distinction isn’t that important
4.
on the screen a man
saunters across the beach
and abducts the actress
5.
Whitman will call this a spiritual secret
Whitman will call this a metaphysical secret
6.
but it’s okay to speak things directly
but it’s okay to trade in our mistakes
7.
now a few frames of the actress
walking alone chronological order
trees are moving a conversation
someone’s sweeping the street
8.
I’ll tell Whitman he’s made
a kind of contract with America
to believe that he and America exist
in the same reality
9.
in act two the man returns
he’s washing the windows
but when he’s out of the picture
he’s the cinematographer
10.
I’ll tell Whitman that I wake up at four
that I smoke and hurry to sanitize
everything that I still expect
America to knock for me
11.
before she crosses the bridge
the actress folds and kneels
and prays to something off screen
12.
Whitman will ask what is it she wants
Whitman will ask what is it I want
13.
a noise
the change of light
from a boat passing by
to live in a place that suits us
14.
off stage I’ll live
with Whitman and I’ll ask him
a very minute question and I’ll
ask him the same question
every day
15.
then I’ll tell Whitman I don’t have
much energy I don’t have much
time I just have myself
asleep on the beach
and I won’t call it America
2/27/2021
Poem from the Hyperreal
by Randy James
As you float in grim ecstasy,
this wants you to wipe that smirk from your face
in the face of Earth’s fading EKG.
The world banged alive by eclipse,
this is a chopper cutting morning gray,
the human star system afflicting.
Can you help me?
My tank needs a refill of empty.
My mouth is going snail mail.
Every day, I reset in the shower,
lucky to have glimpsed
a hummingbird at rest
as institutions continue
to pack themselves
into the superlatives
of a lexicon
part sugar & grief.
This is level of specificity
traction of authority
power by proxy
energy from atoms,
this is what it means to insert, drain, & leave.
Old blues in a new body, this is why newborns cry.
2/26/2021
COMB the NIGHT
by Mark States © 5/12/2019
you comb the night/ 'cause you're the cruiser/ you never get enough/ when you're cruising down the street/and taking off the heat/ when you're on the moonlight run
~ The Cars, “Cruiser”
Swipe the keycard
Lock flashes green
Open the door
But the alarm stays asleep
Lights off
not a peep or a beep
Where’s the reception, where’s the audio
Where’s the perception anyone else is here?
Flip the switches
Check the fax
Hit the bathroom out in the back
Log in and time punch the clock
43 new emails
2 new voicemails
Yesterday’s task reminders need to be snoozed again
Fetch the overnight lockbox key
Shut the cluttered desk drawer
Pass the pillar
Reach the front desk
And there she is, crumpled like paper
Face on keyboard
Forearm over forehead
In glitter and shadow behind the counter
Several hours after sunrise
Telephone softly ringing its lullaby
She combed the night
But her hair is such a car wreck
The limousine stretches, the engine hood yawns
The tires are tired of turning
And brake themselves
Back to sleep back to dreaming the beat
Party animal
Swinging from the rearview mirror
She won the moonlight run
But now flag is down
For the cheddar chase.
2/25/2021
One Red Berry in February
for Lawrence, sleep well poet
by Kim Shuck
Somewhere irrespective of brass plaques
Statues
Street names
There are the psychological memorials
The way that some line of poem makes its way into
Another line of poem that may take the idea another step
The mud street becomes
Wooden sidewalk becomes
Concrete sidewalk that is pierced to make space for
A tree that feeds birds in February
Red berries
Red berries in February that don’t remember the origin mud or
The wooden sidewalk
But are part of that story
Even so
Somewhere out beyond brass plaques
There is a new generation combing the words
Agreeing or not but
Using the earlier work to build with
To build on
To tear down
Agreeing or not
And somehow
Here
There is a red berry
Here in February
In this poem
That tracks back to a jail cell
And an obscenity trial or maybe
Back to Coney Island but certainly
Through the doors of a bookstore
Where there has been refuge
Mud, wood, concrete, tree, berry, bird and
Whatever comes next
Kim Shuck was the 7th Poet Laureate of San Francisco
2/24/2021
A Coney Island of the Mind, 11
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti 1919-2021
The wounded wilderness of Morris Graves
is not the same wild west
the white man found
It is a land that Buddha came upon
from a different direction
It is a wild white nest
in the true mad north
of introspection
where ‘falcons of the inner eye’
dive and die
glimpsing in their dying fall
all life’s memory
of existence
and with grave chalk wing
draw upon the leaded sky
a thousand threaded images
of flight
It is the night that is their ‘native habitat’
these ‘spirit birds’ with bled white wings
these droves of plover
bearded eagles
blind birds singing
in glass fields
these moonmad swans and ecstatic ganders
trapped egrets
charcoal owls
trotting turtle symbols
these pink fish among mountains
shrikes seeking to nest
whitebone drones
mating in air
among hallucinary moons
And a masked bird fishing
in a golden stream
and an ibis feeding
‘on its own breast’
and a stray Connemara Pooka
(life size)
And then those blown mute birds
bearing fish and paper messages
between two streams
which are the twin streams
of oblivion
wherein the imagination
turning upon itself
with white electric vision
refinds itself still mad
and unfed
among the hebrides
2/23/2021
Antevasin
by Cristina Deptula
For years wandering, tracing footsteps in sparse soil
some mine, some yours, some theirs
some not to know, only to match
skimming the edge of the isthmus
between the continents, maps given in plethora
by flagwaving hawkers, gawkers, peddlers, cops
all for each interior, the routes and regulations
in detail, shy shakes of head at the mention
of crossover, passports, documents for the border
one does not travel, one belongs
safe within the scattered shantytowns of the mind
one or another, pick one, to have an address
laid out to rest, arms extended
my blood forms a waterway, a long
repressed canal to traverse the path
between past and present, old and young,
male and female, moral and wrong,
simplicity and success, the ideal and real.
Come! I have built the way home.
2/22/2021
Honey Moon
by BLAKE MORE
Marry me moon
and I will wrap myself
around you
like a gown of sun
love your shadow
as much as
your pearled mirror
never forget you
when the sky
grows tired
of your glory
calls out the clouds
I long for a lover
who isn’t afraid
of my howling
sees my waxing and waning
with equal eyes
a mate who lays with me
some nights
leaves me alone
on others
always offers a sliver
to hold onto
the changing tide
my womb
Marry me moon
and I will never
be lonely again.
2/21/2021
FIRST THEY CAME FOR THE SHIT TALKERS
by ZEPHIR O’ MEARA
First they came for the shit talkers and I said nothing
I did nothing
I did not speak out
Because I am not a shit talker
Well not in public anyway
If you happened to hear me talking shit one time
That was a private moment of trust
Please don’t tell anyone
Then they came for the rabble rousers
And I said nothing
For I am no rabble rouser
Sure I’ve thrown a few bricks
Sure I’ve started a few chants
Or at least a clap
A slow clap
Then they came for the free thinkers
And I said nothing
For I am no free thinker
Three fingers in salute
My lock step behind your boot heel
I love big brother
All day every day
Well I have a crush on big brother anyway
I'm big brother’s secret admirer
Then they came for the unruly
And I very explicitly can be ruled
Tell me what to do
Have I not made that clear
politically speaking I am a bottom
So I said nothing
I did not speak out
Because that is not me
The unruly can speak for themselves I said
then they came for the fat sarcastic star trek fans
And I haven't really liked anything since DS9
And besides i've lost a lot of weight
And really fat i mean come on cut it out grow up
Then they came for people who wear all black
I mean maybe something
A t-shirt with a little color on it
But basically all black
And I did not speak out
Because I’ve been introducing some color back into my wardrobe recently
Mostly Navy blue and muted greys
A rainbow of introversion
Next they came for people with outsider complex and imposter syndrome
And while I consider myself unique
A loner at times
Who has always faked it til I make it
I just don’t like labels
So I said nothing
Because that didn’t really describe me
At least not grown up me
Teenage me maybe
Then they came for the wannabe woke-ish normcore lubersexuals with dad bod
Grey flecks in their ginger beards
Never lived up to their full potential
Forty somethings with thinning hair
A useless bachelor’s degree in creative writing
Plenty of pretty good forgotten band name ideas
Like servicables ones that you could see headlining a nice mid-size venue maybe
Pretty mellow but not total pushovers
Fixer uppers
I said nothing
Closed my eyes
Maybe when i open them this will all be over
Maybe everything will turn out okay
I certainly hope so
2/20/2021
Learning the Right Way to Wish
by G. MACIAS GUSMAN
I met a wish. She was surrounded by demi-gods and mountains and kings and lightning bolts and
giants and gray wolves and gentlemen and rogues and mermen and dudes and warlocks and
golden eagles and Me, holding a deck of fool cards—thinking she’s length in light, she’s a moon
dogs bay to, she’s a blanket of night that lets solar system shine through. And if I could leave my
handprint anywhere it would be on your heart.
I met a dream. She heard my thoughts through all those “And's” she was in. So that meant she
must have seen my twinkle shine through all them planets and nebulas she's drifting through. She
wrote a letter to me in hopes for some sign of life. She told me where she's exactly at—ending in
to be continued and ellipsis. And if I could leave my voice anywhere it would be the chambers in
your soul.
I met a driving force. She gave me a small door that was slightly ajar. I gave her a mountain of
bravado in a vast forest of would. I laid at her feet 10 tons of desire wrapped pretty in everything
black I own. I place each note from each love song I play alone on her heartstrings wishing she
give me a chance. I gave her everything she’s running away from in a slightly damaged package
I gave her 99,999 words of unrelenting want, not one word wondering; what does she need? And
if I could leave my ego anywhere it would be in a shadow; my ego has no more to prove.
I met a good woman. You filled my trick or treat bag with all my red flags and shut that small
door gently. I can't blame you because too much air blows out wrapped sage, pops beautiful blue
balloons, erodes majestic mountains, push's clouds to other skies further than the one I'm wishing
under now; that I would have just shut the fuck up, got out of my own way. Burn all these fool
cards I'm holding and words I said to you, into crowns I should have wrote for you instead, if
you ever came around asking why I twinkle like shine in your eyes. I‘d have some cool shit to
talk with you then; And if I could leave my smile anywhere, it would be on her forgiveness.
I met a wish and even if it wasn't to become one I wanted, the wish granted me left a better man
dreaming. And that's all I can hope for now.
2/19/2021
A POEM FOR JOHN WHO WRITES IN ELEVENS
by Sarah Kobrinsky
There are eleven syllables in this line-
eleven eleven, my dear, make a wish!
This is also a Dear John letter, dear John,
but not that kind of Dear John letter, John.
I just wanted to feel your form, try you on,
count and count again the stars in Joseph’s dream.
Did you see any stars when you were under?
Are you any lighter now that growth is gone?
Once I heard of a man who kept his tumor
on his mantle in a jar next to his wife.
He wished on it like on a star, called it John.
- From “Let the World Wonder,” Emeryville Cal Poets in the Schools, 2018
2/18/2021
CONVERSION DISORDER
by DAPHNE GOTTLIEB
It was the day you put down the wound:
We both knew it was time.
We were not doing the wound
any favors anymore by keeping it around.
You, you said.
No, I said. You.
Your arms full of wound, you walked
around the back side of the house
and it was quick, the munchausen of the gun,
then you were back,.
Something in the eye, you said.
It was a good wound, you said. The best.
Then we didn’t say anything.
We started walking.
We were going to have to dig a hole.
The hole had to go somewhere. It was sunny
in the yard. We malingered over
the blooming cyclothymia,
communed with the fragrant anomies
in the light. The patch of aspergers glowed quietly.
You stopped in the narcissist
without looking. Here, you said,
and you were right. Yes. Here.
You took my hand.
We walked towards the house
slowly. Then we walked slower.
Something about tearing the earth open.
Something about gouging the dirt.
Something in your eye.
It was a good wound,
you said. The best, I said.
We reached the house
too soon. We split up.
After that, we split up and split up,
after I went to the garage for the shovel.
You went out back for the wound.
- originally published in “15 Ways To Stay Alive,” Manic D Press 2011
2/17/2021
The Great Spirit
by Jesse James Johnson
1.
The Great Spirit
that is the sky
spreads it wings
to conjure a night
ablaze with stars
fragrant with juniper
and the promise of rain.
Gentle wings guide
our journey
over curving black serpents
and magenta sands.
East to where my father
will be buried
at the edge of the southern plains.
2.
We shall all
each through our own journey
arrive
with bare feet and dusty hair
to a field of stone and yellow flowers.
There we wander
among the grave markers
and broken angels
mouthing the names
of ancestors and dead lovers.
The tragedies
and miracles of life
are exhausting.
We grow heavy with nostalgia.
Lower our bodies
to the stony ground.
Close our eyes
and give ourselves
to the cicadas singing
in the broomweed
and yarrow.
We dream.
We dream of purple thistles.
Barking dogs will wake
those who must return.
3.
Hiking up hills and along dried arroyos.
I seek the counsel of crows.
I laugh with coyotes.
I burn copal and sage.
When I cross a path
that my father walked
I miss the comfort of his arms.
His absence is a sack of stones.
Mesquite trees tremble
with splendor and thorns.
Leaves swirl into
the quiet of the storm.
I am now
an elder of my tribe
and I must show no fear.
2/16/2021
Given Name
by Brynn Saito
No one tells me how to name it, I name it
animal. I tell it never come. I watch it
strengthen on the fever farm, take tendon
after tendon, lift its own spoon
at the family table, taste. I watch it grow tall
with the family’s starch and salt,
the sweat and the family’s wide-awake
eyes staring like light beams
at the all-night ceiling, fear fuel.
No one tells me how to name it,
I name it animal. I name it clean-crushed
beer can, cop-outfit calling, binge dawn.
I tell it come here, come willing to dance, say:
take me by the eyes and explain
yourself and your blood time
with this blood life—this river family,
that valley farm. I say, What took us down
that day, river-worn, wordless?
What takes us down, animal? Explain you.
First appeared in American Poetry Review
2/15/2021
breaking the findings
by arlene biala / dec 2020
governor beshear my heart breaks for miss taylor
board up the windows
ag cameron my heart breaks for miss taylor
set up barricades
i wish things had been done differently
that no knock night wantonly
risk moving forward process blindly
if i had a wish it would be for more trust in the force
no, i’m not talking down to anyone we have a vacuum
of endangerment his forced entry the need to see
what was what wasn’t manifesting
of a black woman’s life this is hard
do you want to add to that? curfew burn it down
demonstrators i want to listen i want
a better world for my kids
moving forward i will never EVER tell someone not
to speak out but please no violence no hijacking
the eyes of the world are on louisville
be mindful they are here let’s do this in a positive way
think, people trusting is the right thing to do after the fact
what was the question oh yes, racial and demographic
makeup of the grand jury it was sufficiently diverse
i believe the expectations were too high to put in context
other incidents have gone on and on i believe in truth
addiction crisis get out of it stay out of it
war on drugs or whatever impact the demand
not the supply take fentanyl we have to recognize
our high speed pursuits the danger we create
the harm to other people police need a high vantage point
no intention to snipe it’s not personal the national guard
our goal to keep safe a militia walking around critical
infrastructure deployed from my standpoint
first amendment rights the national guard knows citizens
of louisville i assure you each of them know their job
oh you can bet i’m getting updates
action inertia movement discipline
they are under their own command trained more
akin to what is needed we were integrated if you will
the guard is answering to the guard and only
to the guard look it can’t be done just to look
like we are trying to do something not just for a show
$60,000 a day? i hope i’m not being callous
remember we are reporting xxx cases of covid-19
just for today p.s. my heart breaks
for the loss of miss taylor please we need peace
my heart breaks for miss taylor our job is to present
facts blast heat in upper thigh justice mob
justice by violence neither i nor the general
public have seen what the public deserves
do you have faith moments later more gunshots
here’s what it sounded like
head space silence violence wanton wanton
wanton wanton looping like murder of course paid leave
too much time street murals excessive time vogue covers
celebrity hashtags excruciating time someone declare
a state of emergency breaking news
summon the national guard board up the windows brace
for the expected rage the expected and murder
murder wanton murder wanton again
not again then again there’s always tomorrow
2/14/2021
CHASM
by Naomi Cooper
Somehow a great chasm had opened between them.
She stood on one mountain, breathing cool air,
redolent with the good scent of spruce trees.
She kept calling to him, receiving only an echo.
Harsh tones of loneliness clawing out of her throat.
Between her and the beloved, their valley extended.
Steep. Rocky. Vegetation growing sparse.
Some straggly wildflowers. Naked roots entangling above the soil.
Anyone who fell or leapt into this wide deep hole would surely die.
On the other side, his mountain rose, dark greenly, eerily similar to hers.
She could not see him anymore.
Finally she heard another voice.
She imagined an animal, perhaps an animal spirit
trying to tell her something.
Turning away, she set off for home.
It was frightening to remain alone in the mountains
after sunset.
2/13/2021
Poem of the Day
by PATRICIA DIART
The wind was blowing
It was blowing hard
So hard even the heavy metal plastic cars were being lifted as they climbed
Leavenworth.
Leaves and things were rolling and smashing against other leaves and other things.
A fierce haunting was coming in from a few centuries ago.
Time of old injustices coming in for the new ones right here right now
It made my loneliness balloon out more in my bed alone not even the cat slept near.
My eyes couldn't look at anything in the milky dark
Just the sound and the speed of air
Against the black window again and again
The wind is a voice
A power
It takes
It sweeps
It presses
No way to get away from the falling apart.
2/12/2021
EPILOGUE
by CAESAR KENT
I built myself again
with the pieces
I knew
we’re yours
the morning after
the night when
you went catatonic when
I told you
I would be new
on the way out
the morning after when
morning broke when
it was all over
do you remember
the night before
you went catatonic when
I knew you as cataracts
as cloud and cascade
my room dark
to hide the mess on the floor
my room dark
breathing tranquility
through open windows
do you remember
cloud
through open windows
tranquility
you taught me to feel
but not yet
do you remember
with the pieces
I knew
were yours
I built myself again
jagged at the edges
that’s why it cuts you
on the way out
I borrowed your mirror shards
you taught me to see
tranquility
in the darkness
do you remember
I would make a promise
of seven years
I meant less
do you remember
the morning after
the night
you went catatonic
we made a promise
to be whole until
the morning
broke in
early afternoon
we did not break
until we both stood
on the floor
the mess
on the floor
in cloud and cascade
I turned my back
to pick up
the pieces
I knew
were yours
I knew
you were
too
2/11/2021
Poem of the Day
by NANCY P. DAVENPORT
you
ensure my need
for validation
by giving me nothing
I’ve done the idiot
dance my entire
life and I’m tired.
And still, you are this mix of
amazing and beautiful
feminine energy
strong and capable
and more than anything else
my eyes
my heart wish you
here
so I can lay my
meager accomplishments
before you
2/10/2021
When You Look At Me: A Brown Woman’s Lament
by NAOMI QUINONEZ
I
When you look at me
you see motel maids
changing sheets
in the pink & grey rooms
your parents stay in.
You see dark brown women
on their knees scrubbing floors
in Baja restaurants
or standing with a blue-eyed child
on each hip.
It doesn’t matter if I wear
tweed suits and pace the floor
on Givenchy heels
in front of busy chalk boards
You see Lupita the nanny
in your T.V. mind.
She wears mismatched clothes
and slides heavily on leather huaraches
towards her unwashed children.
To you I am an aberration
that confuses your senses
and blurs your vision.
It is difficult for you to
Recognize me as “Dr. ”
you want me to remain nameless
silent, invisible.
But I stand before you
speaking your language
and teaching you things
you are not sure of.
Now you must either change
your misguided notions of who I am
or kill the me
that cannot live in your world.
II
When you look at me
you see educated nipples
intelligent legs, a brilliant ass.
You chica, mija, chula me
until you get beyond the fact
that I have a PhD.
In department meetings
I call for broad visions
and student needs.
you envision a broad
who can meet your needs.
You are unfamiliar
with a woman
who can see through
your veneer.
my loud clear voice
threatens your ears.
To you I am expendable
like the woman who keeps
taking you back
like the mother who is
always there to feed you.
Like that part of yourself
that you thought you destroyed
when you decided to become
a thin worn metallic chair
a conflict without a resolution.
- First published in Poetrymagazine.com
2/9/2021
THE FIRST TWELVE STEPS OF A CHILD
by SAGE CURTIS
This is lonely business.
I didn’t aspire to be a big-shot
in cheap barrooms.I tried
to ignore the blood
pushing and pulsing irregularly
through to my toes. I said,
“the road bumps launched
me here. It was the only place
to stop, pee and eat.” I drank,
different. I drank beer,
not vodka. I drank red wine
in big goblets. But I knew,
I’d soon be hiding
bottles in dress bags, I’d lie
when I say I’d stopped.
People will stop calling
after eight at night. I wouldn’t
remember talking anyway. I say,
“It is in my body.” Vodka weakens
the heart muscle until
it droops and stretches,
thins. The boy
who loved me once stopped
trying to put me back together.
I sent postcards
from Colorado, Minneapolis, Maine
to my mother. I signed,
I understand, it helps.
*previously appeared in The Dandelion Review
2/8/2021
THE THINGS YOU LEARN FROM YOUR GARDEN
by Kelly Landmine
I lined up my orchids
and dumped out
their bark
one by one
feeling for death
I ran them under the faucet
and carefully removed
what was left
of the medium
they clung to
I sprayed them with hydrogen peroxide
to kill any mildew that had grown
and peeled away
the dried
dead leaves
I got new pots
no residue of anything
that had come before
and reassembled
their homes
I put them back
up on the shelf
away from the direct sunlight
and thought about how I wanna
do this round differently
and how I wish
I could do this with my heart.
2/7/2021
PENNIES FOR MY NATIVES
by Missy Church
Tonight I must get back up
on my haunches and
take a look around,
it is too late now,
for the tired old show
where the last character standing
is a ghost of a person he once was,
holding center stage
under a milky yellow
spotlight
glassed with the stagnant dust,
of someone caught in the crosshairs.
It is too late for these mangy rusty razors,
riddled with last night’s red stains,
bleeding brown the thigh
it is too late to be packing vodka bottles
in the lunchbox each day
sucking the tit at every bus stop
hoping the fresh air of new passengers
will kill the odor of alcoholism,
it is too late to be fat,
it is too late to drink wine from a box,
it is too late to be over-medicated,
it is too late to be fucking up
It is too late to be ruining
the fresh flesh of like lips puckered
head extended in infant expectancies,
waiting for family history to kick in and
go begging for coins,
that we cannot cash.
2/6/2021
TIFFANY’S
by Joel Landmine
I went into the Tiffany’s
on Union Square with
my father.
It was crowded,
Neil Young was the only other
shabby-looking motherfucker in the joint.
I was clearly the only one without money
to burn.
We went upstairs.
The girl behind the counter
looked at the rings through my ears,
at the heavy ring
hanging from my nose.
“You look like you’re good on jewelry,” she
said,
and laughed nervously.
I looked her up and down,
looked her right in the eye.
“What can you show me
in stainless steel?”
2/5/2021
Black and Blue
by Linda Noel
Because I wore black consecutive
Years
Blue because my eyes could have
Become sapphire
From the inside out
Black because charcoal would have
Been smeared over my face
Blue because the color of the sky
Became black
Blue because my prints staggered
Across moon
Black because the bruise was deep
And lasting
Misshapen and borderless
Black because my tongue struggled
To sound words
Blue because cry song could have
Strangled me
Tied a black bow around my
Neck
Blue surrounding the clouds in
Eyes
Indigo of dusk shadowing each
Hour
Black shadow edged in cyan
Blue the color of coyote’s voice
Warped and hovering over
The valley floor
Black and icy on mountain’s
Face
Shadow
Shadow
Shadow
Shadow
In and beneath my
Eyes
Voice
Gesture and view
Season of the dim lasting beyond
Each moon
Thin blue lines between each
Eyelash
Each teeth
Black line between every
Thought
The color of grief
Call it bereavement
Time of sorrow
Offer condolence
Words of solace
Hear the tear fall off
The face
Hit the air and dissolve
2/4/2021
PIECE OF
by RICHARD LORANGER
There is one piece of sky and you can have it,
no questions asked.
No purchase necessary.
No grip at all.
You can breathe it, bide it, fly it, shine it, you can
just about anything it except
own it. You can’t own it.
You can’t own it
unless you let it own you,
let it eat you,
let it ride you all the way home.
Yes, I’m still talking about the sky,
that one piece of sky
that’s all there is.
Let it possess you,
let it breathe you,
let it slide into you slowly,
let it through you,
let it disperse you
and drift away,
and then you’ll know a thing or two
about ownership.
You’ll know a thing or two.
2/3/2021
TREE GIVES SPEECH
by DULCE PRECIADO
I dream
rulers will stop blaming us
and fire will be sacred
and our bodies will not be sold
and our bodies will not be used, against our will
We,
the quiet guerrilleros of the forest
We,
the hundred-year-old grandparents
cracking the asphalt of their freeways and their malls
growing in places
we are not meant to exist
as mere tokens
as shade for their cars
as fire hydrants for their dogs
as backgrounds to selfies
We, witness
explosive games of hide and seek
unmitigated tantrums of taller children
War, justified by the white man
in the name of God
and continues to justify
the strange fruit on our branches
And when we can no longer give oxygen
we shall tell stories about the beginning of time
and the secrets of the universe
guiding each rooted soul
to the ancestral land
Cracking asphalt
growing in places not meant to exist
giving respite of hope
across generations
Just like us
unwilling to die despite
rules and laws wanting us to disappear
in the name of progress
cutting our bodies–our temples
forcing our spirits to migrate
in search of a safe home
where we can share our gifts
Rooted, we are
the color of Earth
surviving every day
living the truth
speaking the truth
holding the truth
breathing--is a revolutionary act.
2/2/2021
MARRIED WITH CHILDREN
by ANDREW J. THOMAS
I don’t know why we’re so guarded;
body pillows, the silent phone call,
the times I reach out to take your hand
but think better of it.
We’re not going anywhere.
Parents are supposed to die before their children;
Boys are supposed to be loud and destructive;
Friends are supposed to fade with memory.
The signal repeats, the moment is lost.
I cling to the idea of our love:
replacing your breasts with bosom.
Cuddling instead of foreplay,
the soft folds of our fat like a blanket.
Safety, more important than sex.
You don’t need to worry;
My cock and I aren’t traveling anymore.
I want to wrap you in my hugs and kisses
and hold your hand and grab your ass;
and play a game of tag, you’re it!
But sometimes I can’t quite reach.
I wish I could look you in the eye as we make love,
but I only stay hard when fucking you from behind.
Sometimes just being inside you is enough.
Family is supposed to hurt each other;
Parents are supposed to be quiet when having sex.
Our sons are supposed to leave home without us;
Rinse, repeat, sense, complete, spent, defeat
Cling to me as I cling to you.
Close your eyes tight against the demands;
old bills, dirty dishes, hunger, and so little time,
sleep next to me, with the TV on and the fan going,
dream of work and a boring life together.
Tomorrow we’ll figure out what to have for dinner;
Tomorrow, we won’t forget to make the bed.
2/1/2021
You Shall Not Bear False Witness
by Linda Michel-Cassidy
Okay, but what if the neighbor is a known scumbag, a raging alcoholic and your friend from Los Angeles comes to stay, tells you she’s in love, and it turns out it’s this guy. What if you are out of town and she stays in your house, but it turns out it’s also him and some of his caveman friends and they break the tile counter and a table and somehow manage to leave red wine stains on the wall, which is adobe, for Christ’s sake, not just something you paint over.
What if she says, “I think he’s seeing someone else,” and you have no idea, but could easily confirm this, ending the whole nonsense, but you don’t and you also don’t tell her that he’s a dealer because he’s never been convicted, because he can afford a great attorney, who happens to be your friend Carl, who tells you, yeah, he’s guilty as shit, but you don’t pass this on because you are supposed to believe he’s innocent until proven guilty, plus she’s running around town glowing, really glowing, and telling strangers she’s in love.
What then?