“As The Pink Cloud Turns Grey”
Whisky doesn’t need a voice,
but instead stares at me
as if it’s hooded death,
knowing the sweat
on the back of my neck
could easily be made of tears,
while I roll over in bed,
hoping that that dream of falling,
like another unloved raindrop,
will splash better than most.
P.A. Jones
What I Do When Anger Wants the Wheel
Anger shows up in my truck at dusk,
door already open,
boots on the dash,
mud on the floor mat I just washed.
It smells of old arguments and sweat.
It knows the roads better than I do.
It tells me to drive faster,
tells me every light is an insult.
We pass the pawn shop with barred windows.
We pass the church with the empty lot.
We pass the house where I learned
how to turn silence into a weapon.
Anger taps the glass with one finger.
Every face outside becomes a threat.
Every memory turns into a blade.
The past climbs into the back seat.
My hands tighten on the wheel.
The engine swells with heat.
The speedometer rises toward confession.
The road narrows into a dare.
Anger tells me to say the thing
that burns bridges to ash,
to make a clean break
with a dirty mouth.
I pull into a gas station
with one light working.
The clerk doesn’t look up.
The floor carries a thousand nights
of spilled drink.
The freezer hums with buried hunger.
I shut the engine down.
Silence fills the cab with weight.
Anger curses the quiet.
I stay in the seat.
Keys in my fist.
Breath stacking slow in my chest.
The blood cools its fists.
Anger slouches in the passenger seat,
mouth full of smoke,
eyes hunting for an exit.
I don’t throw it out.
I don’t give it the wheel.
I start the truck
when my hands stop shaking.
We leave the lot
at the speed of staying human.
Unarmed
Listen.
Violence don’t start with fists.
It starts with fear.
Fear of losing ground.
Fear of being seen.
Fear that if we stop talking
the truth might speak first.
So fear puts on a clean shirt.
Signs papers.
Prays in the pew.
Calls itself necessary
and sleeps fine.
Faith gets drafted.
Not to heal,
but to steady hands,
to bless force,
to make panic sound holy.
Meekness gets laughed at.
Softness gets you killed.
Certainty grabs the mic
and nobody asks who wired the sound.
That’s the game.
Keep it loud.
Keep it moving.
Keep everybody reacting.
No time to notice
your jaw locked tight.
Because if you stop,
really stop,
the story don’t hold.
The body knows.
Chest tight.
Breath thin.
A man can shout God all day
and still feel fear chewing his ribs.
So I step into the quiet.
Not hiding.
Not holy.
Just a place where nothing works
except the truth.
No weapons here.
No slogans.
No crowd to disappear into.
Just breath.
Just fear.
Just staying put long enough
to see what’s actually driving.
And once you see it,
you don’t get to unsee it.
Violence ain’t strength.
It’s panic with permission.
Faith ain’t certainty.
It’s staying when fear
demands an answer
right now.
So I don’t strike back.
I don’t harden.
I don’t pretend I’m clean.
I refuse to let fear
finish the sentence.
A small mercy survives this way,
quiet,
stubborn,
strong enough to tell the truth
without raising its voice.
This ain’t peace.
This ain’t victory.
This is a man
standing in the noise,
choosing attention over armor,
learning, slow and honest,
how not to become
what he’s afraid of.
Daniel S. Irwin
Eventually
When you reach a certain age,
Newspaper obituaries usually
List someone you know
Or knew as the case may be.
Old farts don't last all that long.
You remember when they and you
Were a whole lot younger.
Wild younger days when you
Never expected to reach thirty,
Never mind collecting social security.
After a while, the news isn't sad.
Passing is just a day-to-day thing.
So, it's all come to this. Now,
I'm too weak to hold the gun
And pull the trigger. Should have
Thought of and done that sooner.
Eventually, I'll make the paper.
The Claim in Question
The claim in question was that
Perfection is random and that
Chaos is the order of the day.
Quantum thought dictates that
Every choice leads to a different
Random existence within an
Endless multitude of futures
Uncontrolled by any will or reason.
The hash may be pure but, when
Smoked, the dreams seem tainted.
The atheist was finally convinced
That there was a God. After all,
Who else would be sending the
Devil to fuck with him so often.
At that point, the sloshed brains
Matched coins for the next round.
Eric D. Goodman
I Hear America Crying
I hear America crying, the muffled cries I hear,
the worried cries of drivers along city streets and country roads,
tension of black hands gripping steering wheels,
the flash of blue lights in the rearview mirror,
the exhausted crying of laborers with calloused hands
that scrub floors, hold mops, grip tools,
hours that grow heavy with the weight of work unending,
the moaning crying of well diggers, oil riggers, miners, blacksmiths,
knuckles worn to the bone as they unearth and create
goods they will never afford,
the grinding, rattling crying of mechanics
beneath hoods, underneath vehicles,
oil-stains lasting longer than paychecks,
the painful crying of fishermen and butchers and farmers,
massive ships and farms and warehouses full
while their families’ cupboards remain bare,
the cries of the weary,
working two jobs, three jobs,
building debt instead of wealth, uncertainty instead of security,
the crying of the mother, of the young wife, of the sweatshop girl,
supplementing paychecks of the rest of the family,
even cries from the wealthy, reaping the benefits of others’ labor
yet watching their portfolios disagree with their intentions,
falling and making them feel poor,
each crying with breath broken
beneath the weight of American dreams deferred,
crying for what they wish could be
a joyful, melodious song.
Blue Collar Orange
I wore blue all my life,
to shield, to serve—
the weight of my badge
an anchor I let dig too deep.
I’ve pinned down criminals before,
voices thinned beneath me,
beneath the law, the rule, the authority.
Sometimes they struggle,
fight the power,
resist the law, the rule, the authority.
Situations escalate, egos inflate,
sometimes theirs, sometimes ours.
It’s my duty to press harder,
to enforce the law, the rule, the authority.
Blue fades to orange,
badge traded for bars,
conviction my new shade.
Me, now raw as the men
I’ve pressed into cold streets,
another victim of the law, the rule, the authority,
locked up
but still breathing.
James Benger
Road
The first highway minute
begins near the end of her day,
a fading sun throwing
its best salute to the departing.
It’s not that she’s leaving nothing behind,
but the fields by the side of the road,
the farmhouses and dancehalls,
the singlewides and ranches,
the community of just enough
has given all it can,
and the promise of the road
has been growing stronger in her head
for longer than she can remember.
In a snap decision,
there was no time for goodbyes,
and that is probably for the best;
she needed no prying platitudes,
no reasons to stay.
She’s got a trucker’s atlas,
a thermos of strong black coffee,
and enough cash to get her somewhere.
The sinking sun reflects off the side mirror
in the finite encompassment of all those yesterdays,
but in the cracked promise of the highway ahead
she can see the future.
Evie Groch
Out of Stock
A sad realization I’ve come to,
that I don’t have enough light,
bandwidth, kindness, forgiveness
in me to atone on behalf of others
for hate they spew, venom they spread,
vile deeds they commit, lies they disseminate,
innocents they slay.
In all my daily encounters, I challenge myself to leave
the other person uplifted, amused or complimented:
the barista for taking my order, for getting it right,
the Lucky checker, for her smile, the librarian, for finding my
requested book, for her curiosity and interest about it,
the Kaiser station registrar for efficiently checking me in,
the nurse for preparing me to see the doctor,
my friend for having lunch with me at a favorite place.
And then the harassment comes at me, labeling me
with libelous accusations because of my origins,
my beliefs, my ethnicity, my religion, my people.
It comes at students in school and universities,
randomly, without an iota of compassion or empathy.
It comes at places of worship, not only with chants,
but with guns and fire. It even lands in cemeteries.
I’m accused of atrocities never committed, threatened
with death because I exist.
Where do I go to get replenished? To stock up
on hope, resilience, strength?
There aren’t enough of these on the shelves
to address the barrage of hurt aimed at us.
And the manager puts up the sign reading:
OUT OF STOCK.
Dmitriy Kogan
Sometimes I'm confused
Sometimes I'm confused about what I want
If I could move mountains, I would
If I could disappear into the wind, it would be a thrill
Just to get away from the present for a moment
Keith Dodson
Age Related
Pursuing older women
takes on
a different context
when registering
for Medicare
than it did
when registering
for the draft.
Living On A Budget
It’s cheaper
to walk
into a cigar shop
than a gun store.
It’s cheaper
to buy
a box of matches
than a box of ammo.
Yet, regardless
of budget,
there will be smoke.
Bruce Mundhenke
Dreams
Will I remember all this,
or will it be lost,
like a dream
slips away in the night?
Many of those I have known
are now gone,
I almost hear their voices sometimes.
There are many of them
I still long to see,
many I still wish were here.
As long as I breathe I remember,
are they still remembering me?
They’ve all gone away
and are lost to my senses,
still alive in my memory.
All of them have fallen asleep,
some say never to dream,
except in the dreams of others,
able to awaken from dreams.
James Fleet Underwood
The Bats
I’m out with a buddy Kirk tripping all night summer of ’84 we get chased into the
woods by the cops flashing their blue and reds spotting us drinking beer on the
monkey bars of a local school Kirk freaks running from tree to tree smearing
his face with dirt and stuffing his cap with leaves like a couple fat cops are
coming into the woods to wrangle two teens off to the clink there’s no talking
sense they didn’t even stop to grab the beers still in their bag under the
monkey bars calm everyone right down so I sprint out to grab them but when I
return to the sand pit in the woods Kirk’s split I try my luck drinking a warm
one for direction then slink through back yards between trees across town
unlatch the fence in my backyard it’s nearly morning I think I can get in the
house after mom leaves for work at 8:30 supposed to be sleeping at a friend’s
what are you doing coming home with the bats smelling like a drunk what’s wrong
with your eyes you’re not leaving that chair until you tell me what the hell is
going on pretty cold for a summer night I lift up the bottom boughs of the big
back yard pine to check if there’s space for a body to curl feel around in the
dark with my hand for roots and crawling things find crushed coffee cups
cigarette butts balled up paper bag greasy to the touch wonder if it’s another
man’s warmth I’m feeling in the dirt or the lower end of the chemicals kicking
off the hair on my neck standing on end like sparklers
The Beatnik Cowboy 