The Doldrums
I went to see
my therapist today.
Nothing new
to report.
But there are still things
I keep from him.
Like the recurring nightmares
or constant anxiety.
Outside the office,
a cold rain falls steadily
on the dead leaves.
Nothing ever seems
to change at all.
Alan Catlin
Ray
"Did you ever kill
anyone over there?"
the waitress asked.
"It was a
war, sweet lips.
Sure, I killed
people.
Slant eyes
were made
for killin'
I grabbed
this gook
mother
by the neck,
told him
in Viet Nam Ese
you have
20 seconds
to live,
motherfucker,
better start
runnin'
He hauled
ass all right
but I ain't
never seen
a gook yet
could outrun
a round.
He was no
exception.
Wish I had
my 'Yards
with me.
Those bastards
woulda cut off
his ears
and eyes
and nuts,
Man.
Sure, I killed
lots of people,
what of it?"
Replacements
No one wants
to know names
of the new guys
It’s not practical
as half of them
will be dead
inside of a week
Besides they
replaced old
friends who were
blown away
Who wants to be
reminded of that?
Peter Mladinic
Collaboration
I woke this morning in the dark with a face
in mind: a senior citizen wanted to reach out
and, I suspect, apologize for a wrong done
some sixty-five years ago. Sorry, no thanks.
I too have been tempted to reach out, even
atone. “Let sleeping dogs lie, let the dead
bury …” I think there’s an animal buried
in my back yard. There’s grass and then
an area, a sandy rise, like a pitcher’s mound,
and, here and there, patches of black plastic,
like those thick trash bags, little triangles of
black plastic sticking up. Part of me wants
to start digging, but I might have to call
the city health department or animal control.
What if it’s a person, a human corpse?
I doubt that. I woke with that boyish face
and a thought of buried things. Some people
have gardens. My friend Bob’s sister scattered
his ashes in her garden. Some people have
watch collections, others coin collections.
My DVD collection I got rid of. I replaced it
with, I’m proud to say, being somewhat tech-
challenged, digital movies! This morning
I thought Ray, I should go to Amazon for Ray.
The click of a button. Taylor Hackford’s film
starring Jamie Fox as the great Ray Charles.
In one scene Ray’s sitting at the piano and
the guy who plays the great Ahmet Ertegun
comes up to him. “Hey, Ray, I got this song …”
Ahmet sits at the piano, in a little whiny voice
sings “You can talk about the pit, barbecue.”
Suddenly Ray’s banging away at the piano,
singing, screeching, shouting, the camera’s
whirling, the moviegoers in the theater, ones
not dead from the neck down, at the edge
of musical greatness, are out of their chairs
at “Now this band’s going to play from nine
to one.” The camera’s whirling, “the house
is rocking.” Jamie Fox nails “Mess Around.”
When The Buffalo Springfield sang, “Hello,
Mr. Soul, I stopped by to think up a reason”
they were singing about the great Ahmet
Ertegun, the son of a Turkish ambassador.
I love that part in Ray, where, at the piano
he kind of mumbles, then Ray takes it, letting
us know it’s great to be alive, not ignoring
the buried things. Keep them in perspective.
Richard LeDue
“The First Drink”
Remembering empty glasses
staring at me
like eyes all cried out
after another night
of whisky and laughter,
I’m reminded of the hangovers
filling me up
with a fresh sort of pain,
that helped me forget
the reason for my first drink.
Daniel S. Irwin
Contemplation
All men are created the same and equal
Other than those who aren’t. Then ya got
The silver spoons and the empty bowlers.
God lives in Heaven ever since His ass got
Mugged in Memphis, or was that St. Louis?
Now, I like fried chicken but only with the
Feathers off and gutted and head missing.
I have taken time to slow down and look
At my life, contemplating my past, present,
And future choices. After a long hard look,
I decided the look wasn’t worth it. Just one
More stressor. Got enough crap happening
Without any effort on my part. Best just
Laugh about the whole thing, some good,
Some bad, some like monkey vomit at the
Zoo.
Zhu Xiao Di
Columns at Lincoln Memorial
I never counted
the columns before,
a total of thirty-six,
one for each state
in Lincoln’s time.
Numbers matter,
only when each one
is fairly honored.
Columns stand solemn,
weighty as peace itself.
There are more states today,
but never forget:
the evil of one bullet
is too many.
George Gad Economou
War Rages On
the wine flows freely like a piss-colored
river drowning villages. two empty 5L boxes
lying on the floor, defeated in the eternal battle against the page,
and the third one cracked and ready to follow its
brethren to the other side.
the war never ends, every battle lost nothing but the
signal for the commencement of the next one and the river
continues to flow until it transmogrifies into a tsunami
razing down metropolises and birthing atrocious monsters.
the page remains unconquered, unreachable, a distant
dream engendered in the lingering vapors that
rose from burning spoons.
Cold Air
the freezing air crawls down the lungs, giving a
small sting down there in the blackness. no waves
because ice blocks are covering the ice, the seagulls are hiding
in their nests somewhere warm. the sand’s petrified but we
could always find a soft spot, somewhere to sit and breathe in
the frigid air. we’d keep ourselves warm with bottles of
rotgut and 8balls of glass. the blue smoke we exhaled rose up,
heading for the moon, promising the aliens a good high.
we drank, we got high. held each other tight as the temperature
reached inhuman levels and we’d refuse to get up and escape the
beauty of isolation. no one else braced the winter cold and
it was how we loved it. as I walked home from the bars
in the cold, the freezing air brought back those cruel
memories of happier times; I punched a lamppost and
almost threw myself in front of a speeding truck.
I got into the first bar I saw, ordered a glass of Patron neat.
it tasted just like those nights at a distant beach and had to
use Jim Beam and rum to wash away the pain.
Srijani Dutta
The Journey of memories
Let me heal
From the pangs of a feeling
Of my bohemian youth
I was a naïve child
Whose reason beguiles the reality.
Oh! God,
Dear and respectful-
The unseen force
Like Shelley’s West Wind
Blowing eternally
Coming down from above;
Let me allow to express
Let me forgot
The wild, mild memory of a long-lost
Short lived hope and love
Weird, strange and bizarre
It sounds now-
Present has the power to ignite
The flames of the burnt ashes
Ashes of mortality
Transient, unrequited emotions--
That appear to be lucid and sorrowful
Like a recurring curse.
The more the days pass by
The more it hits me harder
Like a trespasser,
Like a diagnosed malady.
I am a fallen angel
With a subjective gaze and objective view
Of the material world
Sometimes abstract and unreal
I am a miserable bird
Who got some injuries in her wings
Feeble and frail
Alone in her crowd
The burden of age has mellowed down the memory
Still, it grows
Grows like smoke and smog
During the scorching day;
Is it a memory of forgetfulness?
Or
Is it a recurring disease?
A numbness encircles my eyes
Eyes got dry like a lifeless old human
A complete wasteland of neglect and indifference;
I close my eyes
To call for Thee
The power-
To get an instant relief
To embrace infinity.
18.09.2025
Alan Catlin
Mister Lucky
When he was in Nam
got transferred
from Danang to some
dinky dao airport down South
in east jesus on the coast
of nowhere.
He was short, but, pissed,
thinking they needed an
air ground controller there,
like Custer needed more Indians,
and he was stuck all by his
lonesome with a bunch of strange
hand jobs he didn't know from shit.
Two weeks later,
he was sucking in the smoke
of many dreams,
trying hard not to cry, or
be as paranoid as he felt,
trying hard to feel lucky,
being the only guy in his
former unit left alive after
that base at Danang got overrun,
and some serious shit hit the fan,
"Jesus, fuck, Man, shit……"
was all he could think to say since
he heard the news, and he felt as if
he'd been fucked royal up the ass
in the jungle by Sir Charles himself.
Hadn't slept in four days,
'cause every time he shut his eyes
the screams of the dying men he knew
at that base, woke him up into this
place that was so much worse than
bad dreams.
Guys who saw how he was sd.,
"He was a walking Section 8
waiting to happen. As good as dead
as far as the army was concerned."
"He was better off dead.
At least then it would all be over
and he wouldn't have to think about it
anymore.”
Unknown Soldier
He was born on the Fourth of July
beaten at student demonstrations
in Madison
Chicago
Columbia
He was shot at by national guard
troops at Kent State
arrested and confined in solitary
after Jackson State
Bitten by police dogs at civil rights
marches in Alabama
Mississippi
Georgia
He was Vietnam Veteran for Peace
at anti-war marches
well into the 70’s
Was tear gassed
billy clubbed
pepper sprayed
But he never gave up
and he came back
and you can see him marching now
He is your father,
brother
uncle
cousin
on crutches
with prosthetic limbs
riding in a wheelchair
Follow him and
shake his hand
if he has one
Flashback
"I beat the bottle but
I can't beat the war"
after an acrylic on canvas
by Ron Mann
30 years after
the fact a lawnmower
two yards over
backfires and just
like that I'm back
in-country sucking
in lawn chemicals
instead of air,
all that fertilizer
for a mind on a
perpetual edge
recalling an agent
orange dawn that
colors all the jungle
a dark unnatural
light like the hand
of death pressing down
the sharp, bladed
grass next to a
recently roto-tilled
garden plot, that
graveyard for lost
crops, plowed under
plants, dead soldiers
composted a dark, rich
loam thick with earth
worms fattened on
the rotting skins
of the dead
Sushant Thapa
Soul-Walking
Deep down inside
We feel.
Feeling is a treasure.
It is a domain of
Arrival.
The distances cannot be felt,
Unless we have a heart of sky.
I kiss the world,
It is wrapped in a bandage.
I pray and look at
The world's bitter sweet cage.
Trapped in the cannon ball debris,
I cannot step with firm conviction,
Yes, I am shaky.
Tears speak of volumes:
My breaking heart,
An art that decorates to heal.
The wounds are kissed in hate.
Would you look inside,
And do the soul-walking?
I want to meet the "you"
That I address in my poems.
That "you" can be real,
And at times my readers,
Friends, lovers and
Secretly adored beliefs.
When we adapt to a bad company,
True lovers go out of hand.
They were the moral grounds,
But young life felt like mistakes and experiences.
I want to do the soul-walking,
The new ways will appear
Out of everywhere.
The Beatnik Cowboy 