Sunday, September 20, 2020

day THIRTEEN HUNDRED and FORTY TWO

A Voicemail from Jimmy

I know it will go away one of these days.
But for now, I still have it stashed away.
a voice message from two years ago.
It starts “Scott, this is Jimmy Cvetic.”
Jimmy calling my phone while I was
likely still in bed. Leaving this voicemail
for me, saying, “I wanted to tell you that
I liked your book.” Jimmy saying I have
nice style and saying that word “style”
like Bukowski, his hero. Jimmy says
it’s a good book—“And I’m not saying
this to blow sunshine up your ass, ok?”
he says. Then the message winds down.
I know this old cell phone will one day
delete the voicemail or else not turn on
one morning, but for now I still have this
little bit of sound saved there, this moment
before he was gone. We’ve got his poems
and I have this voicemail. I have it saved.
For now. So that if I want to, I can hear
his voice again—maybe just once more.

--Scott Silsbe

Saturday, September 19, 2020

day THIRTEEN HUNDRED and FORTY ONE

FUCK TRUMP

                                          Photography By John Grochalski

Friday, September 18, 2020

day THIRTEEN HUNDRED and FORTY


Toll The Bell for America

We are losing the time
To fascists on the rise
America gone far away
Gone far away gone
Gone far away gone

Sinking in an ocean
Of sick fascist ideas
America gone far away
Gone far away gone
Gone far away gone

Falling into the night
With might the only right
Nobody cares at all
And everything will fall

America gone faraway
Gone faraway gone
Gone faraway gone

--Charles Kruger


Thursday, September 17, 2020

day THIRTEEN HUNDRED and THIRTY NINE

The 7 Faces of Trump







                                Art by Steven B. Smith


Wednesday, September 16, 2020

day THIRTEEN HUNDRED and THIRTY EIGHT

The Chronic 2020


                                       photography by John Grochalski

Tuesday, September 15, 2020

day THIRTEEN HUNDRED and THIRTY SEVEN

She Got My Mind Messed Up

It’s what I don’t want to talk about.
It’s what I don’t understand, or else
what hurts me, and so, what I avoid.
I would rather discuss how good that
handcabbage is from the new Chinese
restaurant. Or how strange it is to listen
to a baseball game on the radio that has
crowd noise piped into the public address
because no one is in the stadium, because
there are no tickets being sold to the game.
I worry that my friends think of me like
a dog with a bad case of fear aggression.
But of course I won’t bring it up to them.
I think I might feel better if I got some
work done—some writing, some music.
Or maybe it would just make things worse.
There are fleeting moments when I forget.
And I’m alive with my realms of being.
Before reality returns. This new living.
Is something burning? Is something here
on fire? It smells like something here is
burning or on fire. It might be in my head.


--Scott Silsbe

Monday, September 14, 2020

day THIRTEEN HUNDRED and THIRTY SIX


October Unsurprise

Grifter-in-chief and his crime family,
enabled by power-poisoned Moscow Mitch,
Leningrad Lindsey and assorted low-level stooges,
stage a banana republic coup.
Americans are stunned into stupid
acquiescence by Fox News propaganda.

Daily revelations pull back the curtain,
expose long-term knowledge of lethal Covid potential,
a decision to sacrifice hundreds of thousands,
ensure re-election, keep the economy
from free-fall implosion.

Now we’re promised an October surprise:
untested vaccines, unsanctioned treatments
with sketchy remedies promoted
by campaign contributors
who also own big pharma stock.

We have learned nothing from cartoons
featuring Lucy repeatedly urging
a guileless Linus to run toward a football
she’ll sadistically snatch from reach
just before his shoe kisses rubber.

--Jennifer Lagier