Autumn Elegy Rather than reasons for hope, we’re given pills of all shapes and sizes and colors. Not much here can be regarded as natural. Fifteen billion trees a year are sacrificed to make toilet paper. The Wampanoag, the tribe that helped the Pilgrims survive their first Thanksgiving, still regret it 400 years later.
Daniel S. Irwin
A Festival of Belly laughs Well, here it is again, A festival of belly laughs. Ha, ha, ha! It’s the deaf guy. Big laughs at the voting station. He’s missin’ every other word. Holler at the dopey dude. I should be used to it by now. But, it still pisses me off. Lost most of my hearing from Iraqi artillery fire invading Kuwait, Crossed the border from the south Leading the Marines in. Like the 600, cannons to the right of me, Cannons to the left…on again, on again. So now, being nearly totally deaf, I’m the butt of jokes by the good citizens. If I came back missing an arm or leg, It would be, “Aww, poor man.” I don’t wear the uniform that was Ripped up by shrapnel that, somehow, Fortune smiling on me, missed my flesh. So now, it’s just rude jokes and laughs. Makes one proud to be an American.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
The Answer I never thought Doing nothing Could take so long TV on Sound off Blur of news Slump sitting Silent squinting Saturday sunset Grunting to get up From my soft chair Heading to the front door Hurrying down the stairs From my smelly apartment Leaving the door open Halting at the corner Winded but pretending I’m not Getting old bends your back But I straighten up Eyeing the lights of traffic So many souls trapped Forcing my mouth to open Screaming For freedom All the world Peaked to hear Understanding perfectly The doom of us Escalating Near panic Weeping Down inside Hollow chests Crying Prayer After prayer And many of us Deeply feeling The answer is Coming soon Feeling it Feeling now! The Grip The grip Has an invisible whip Media Zip Numbing Speed Lashing As we sleep For we have become bloodless Not knowing how deep the cuts Disturbed and wounded We fight against ourselves Politics Cripple us Divide And conquer us Spinning what’s right And wrong A few Thinking they’re little gods Control Controlling Forgetting They’re outnumbered.
Emalisa Rose
That poem that won't happen It’s been carried through continents. Stuck to my side and my psyche, engraving its stench with its syllables. Cruelly, deleting me, when I try to recycle its dips dots and scribbles that ping through insomnia, in all of those vertical places. Unleashing its verbs, nouns and adjectives, undangling its participles. It peeks to pop up when I’m grounded in dialogue’s dribble, wishing for air and a place to just leave the convenience store and write it already. The one you can’t slip off the pen, forever, in plaguing both you and your muse, stalling it utero. Your masterpiece poem, that won’t happen.
Noel Negele
I pity the un-betrayed When I was a small boy I was a shy boy, but I was blonde and cute and other little girls liked me. It was like this up until high school. There was no abuse other than alcohol back in those days. But girls, girls liked me. I was very conceited as a young man so you can imagine how much I DIDNT get laid when opportunities were offered left and right. I was up there in my head. Not a good place to be. Not in such frequency. Finally, I was betrayed by a girl and my best friend at the time. I remember it feeling as if someone was knifing me from within but the blade never reached skin surface so the injury was never apparent to anyone but me. No one understand the gravity of hurt. It’s in the eyes, in that dour look on a man’s face that hides anger and bitterness It’s the eyes of the man who’s survived and is cautious of the battlefield now. Betrayal. The mother of all lessons. I pity the people who haven’t been betrayed yet, at least once. Because there’s betrayal everywhere and from everyone. Behind every corner or sly smile or half-convincing promises — It lurks behind every love story ready to ruin itself. There’s betrayal in your fucking telemarketers at night. I pity the unbetrayed. For theirs betrayal will echo louder and hurt more than the rest of us. We already know.
John Grey
MOVIE CHANNEL I'm watching another movie from the thirties. A woman coughs. Two scenes later she's dead. A bevy of beaus is courting Bette Davis. But why? Black guys wheel suitcases down railway platform. They smile. Sometimes, they even sing. Fred Astaire, in black and white, has no discernible body. I still giggle at the Brothers Marx. Charlie Chaplin keeps his mouth shut. Rin Tin Tin saves the day. And when Errol Flynn swashbuckles, I have no doubts that they don't make movies like that anymore. It's more than just lounging on the couch, the television remote dozing at my side. This is time travel. Clark Gable's ears protrude and yet the women love him. Those same women know their place. Except when they don't. It's the time of the depression, yet it's all about how not to be depressed. Even when the hero dies, the sobbing keeps its distance. Besides, murders are solved. Good triumphs. The girl behind the perfume counter meets and marries Ray Milland. Blacks open doors, take hats from visitors. They smile. Sometimes they even sing. The war is on its way yet no one's fighting it. Not when the west needs to be won. Indians are shot in vast numbers. They don't smile that I've noticed. And they sure don't sing. But, against the odds, people are brave, do the right thing. And, in the end, they invariably choose the right one. It's America in black and white, except it's extremely gray from where I'm sitting. And, whenever the opportunity arises, Old Glory, that ubiquitous flag, is raised. It smiles. Sometimes it even sings. TOO MUCH TO ASK That my juices stay vital. The Civil War finally be over. Fading black and white photographs regenerate themselves and even add a little color. That cockroaches no longer breed like cockroaches. My earwax doesn’t smell. The chip on my shoulder is chocolate. A certain side of my personality doesn’t emerge at all. That gas fumes never again mix with the odors of fish. My tuneless punk band has a shot at stardom. Drummers master their skills without ever having to practice. Fruit stick to their guns, don’t go rotten. That faith is rewarded at least once a week. Mozart replaces Valium in the medicine cabinet. The shaman’s instructions actually work when carried out. Ghosts are real and friendly. That the guy on the barstool next to me is not a cretin. Bureaucracy is less Kafkaesque. Strip joints exist only to help in giving directions. Interaction runs smoother. That book-reading militias replace the gun-toting kind. Vacant lots find something to do. The gas station urinal is not stuffed with paper. There’s a parking space at the bakery. That anyone who wishes to be alone can be. The forest remain deep, secret and just noisy enough. Shell-shock be reserved for those seated near the amps at heavy metal concerts. Charlie Parker’s not forgotten. That, should the occasion demand, the air be full of horns and hallelujahs. Or, if not, be as quietly dazzling as the stars. Wishes, once vetted for possible harm to others, come true. Four generations of my family can exist peacefully in one house at one time. That I’m invited to the right parties. There’s still old hippies in the world. All my motives are genuine. That it’s not too much to ask. THE UNDENIABLE VIEW From this whirlpool as it spins through space, the view through windows of the massive inscrutable buildings has an unreal quality, fine furniture and shiny waxed hardwood floors like occasional glints of hope, but the man in the chair with bald head and glazed eyes suffering through the doom of every last one of his ambitions. like a lizard without the tongue reflexes to zap that passing fly as his fingers tap the inevitable thrum of the grave, the clogged artery of dust and worms that ultimately puts every last one of us out of circulation – did I say “window”? I meant mirror.
Randall K. Rogers
Selected Drinking Poems by Randall Rogers (Smelly) Moments In Time A universe is a river of alcohol spreading capillaries of experience and love to growing bodies minds and souls: the mouth is the gateway to the asshole the eyes are the windows to beauty but it is the breath that makes one smelly both good or bad for life. Firing Blanks/Parental Practice Sometimes because I have no child and drink (as so many do) I look next to me and start teaching air to grow up and not choose voluntary death because I fashion myself a drunken single parent bachelor INCEL with potential. Mendacity Drunken friend there are no others out there life on Earth is it Eve made it so discovering the secret of life and death - original sin - sealed our fate begging God to return ever since no reason to offer up – set up - another morality play (for us to knock down) allowing matter consciousness enough to create transcendent ideas enough to make life beautiful without booze. Omnibus Drink Selection Happy Hour Into conscious mechanization I pour into the fluid life of a margarita machine solid state meandering pulse free to ripple surge develop ice cube sugar electricity spark enough to blow our minds to smithereens weeping depression melancholia restricting life support till visions and breakfast pull us all back from the brink of sanity still breathing pure magic. 2021 Attending a concert drunk nowadays is a lot like entering a hot dog eating contest: you take your life in your hands. Glorious Abandon! Mystify your world look for souls you’d want to go to heaven with and drink with them love them toast them share truths and insanity with them boast as brothers fight spend time in sweet inebriation drunk with their wives in carnal knowledge with them hold dear to mystery to define them in alcoholic shining armor! enhance amber clarity to obtain position in their thought where they rest assured come fortune or naught failure or success grounding of a middling stifling drudgery life or cognitive tempest sex with you is the answer too all will be well…. With another round.
J.J. Campbell
chalk lines of bodies in the schoolyard i feel like an old whore out of luck out of time out of any useful thoughts needed for what this world has become broken rainbows chalk lines of bodies in the schoolyard the first hit is for the pain next is the chase for the elusive dream that brings relief the poor are more likely to die from attrition yet it is easier to swallow that we're all junkies wastes of flesh the excuse for the rich to get away with never paying taxes we'll go dancing under the bridge near the great river with any bit of life left we'll slip into the cold water of tomorrow and never be heard from again ------------------------------------------------------------------ three or four days later i remember dreams when i was younger and i always had a woman by my side some tantalizing muse that would whisper the most evil shit in my ear to make me laugh and we would write and paint and drink until the sun came up three or four days later and every time i thought i found that dream woman something always got in the way be it life be it my fragile ego be it the inability to ever be good enough for something other than my hand the nights i drink myself to sleep increase with every passing year eventually, the clock will run out
Bruce Mundhenke
The Wire Come on out of your shell, Take a walk upon the wire, Watch that you don’t fall, Beware of the fire. Look down at the abyss, Fire down below, Careful as you move along, Take it nice and slow. Fire down below you, No way to ascend, No way to know what is ahead, When the wire has reached its end. Don’t think about the abyss, Pay no attention to the fire, Dig each righteous step you take, As you travel on the wire. No way to go backward, Back into your shell, The wire is now your home, Your shell has served you well. But the wire might lead to heaven, Or the wire might lead to hell, But it’s your wire to travel, Pity if you fell.
Howie Good
To Those I’ve Wounded What I didn’t do I should’ve done, and what I did do, I shouldn’t have, and now I can’t escape my own history, a stench like dead-flower water in a vase.
The Beatnik Cowboy 