Monday, September 24, 2018


all the good men

all the good men
i used to know
are on the internet
talking about god
how finding god has changed
their lives
they don’t talk about
the underage women they lured into woods
the women whose asses they pinched
in bars and clubs
the cigarettes that they
threw into overpriced drinks
when no one would dance with them
they talk about how jesus has saved them
they show pictures
of their beautiful kids
and their beautiful wives
beautiful sundays
in front of beautiful church
there is no mention about that hooker
they tricked into blow jobs
then threw her two cheeseburgers out the car window
to compensate for her trouble and time
all the good men
i used to know
are on the internet
talking about patriotism
and america
standing for the anthem
a couple of them would’ve stop 9/11
if only they were on the planes
they don’t talk about that woman
whose dress they tried sticking their hands up
in that bar on craig street
the day after the fourth of july
the way she yelled for the bouncers
and how they scattered
like leaves
onto firecracker streets
that are so safe for them to prowl like wolves
no, they don’t mention her at all
instead they put up pictures
of the american flag
erect like a toadstool prick
and jesus
jesus and that fucking flag
fireworks bursting
behind a meme
of a bible verse
telling all of us sinners
still out there
to get right in this life
because they've suddenly seen the way
because the end
is always nigh.

--John Grochalski


Sunday, September 23, 2018


Crossing Guards

Where two streets meet, busily, bodily,
between a park and a school - houses
too, like fish flipping on shore then still
and having made themselves line up
into rows with their final gasps of death.
Do you see it? My distaste for adverbs
and this precarious scene? I hear “Right Place Wrong Time” by Dr John in the air
and know intuitively someone honorable
and giving needs to be in charge, someone attentive and bright. Jimmy Carter and
Barack Obama would make good crossing guards. Keep us safe, and the joggers, the dog-walkers, and the children - please the children too. Not Pence. Not 45.

--Paul Koniecki

Saturday, September 22, 2018


"I no longer see myself reflected in your bloody stars," he said.
This fruit poisons us and turns us
into monsters.
Chewing poverty leads to hatred.
Nice yellow glands on your lips.
I’m your cold in the economic change.
I'm debt, I'm a gun,
one that the glorious luck accompanies
and that unleashes its rage on your orange body.
The food is plastic,
and the sun burns my cancerous skin
without compassion.
You don’t know that your heart is a fried kiss of rancid humor
that I want to strangle.
Shooting gives you fun.
Killing the different is what you want
to stay alone in your infinite loneliness
and not throw up.
I don’t want to hear your thoughts
of a harlot anointed and drained
by slaves who lie words and songs. 

Tender and reproductive flowers give birth the black spring
in a hole that is my singing,
my food of faith expanded and passionate.
Everything is disease, infection.
The others lie more than the rest.
And the nature of my fluids
turns black on Mondays
when I read the news that you star.
Children of the third world have cracked nodes
and you laugh
and you feel fulfilled for being observed
by millions of immense eyes and
cooked meats that you want to chew and eat in panic.
The taste of the hunt is different.
Adrenaline is more addicted than heroin;
the lie.
And the old world turns, changes, and I don’t want to live
with people like you by my side.
Suicide for political, poetic reasons.
Stay with your church,
with your violations and deaths,
with your hatred,
with your racism and misogyny.
I hope you never get to win.
I’m already dead,
as well as my old fashioned world”.

--Oscar Varona

Friday, September 21, 2018


sick with joy while the streets fill with blood

doesn’t take that long to
find a man willing
to set the sleeping child on fire

doesn’t feel like a day where
i’d decide to kill myself

blue sky and the shadows of clouds
crawling like
cautious cancer across the hills

news of the war or its aftermath
and then the whispered rumors of a new enemy

a better drug

the machines of business
fueled by the corpses of patriotism
and so i tell me son i love him

i close my eyes against the
approaching winter

i trust no one who
claims to have never been lost

--John Sweet

Thursday, September 20, 2018



This is how the world ends
one person at a time
one car careening into a wall
one driver falling free from her seat
one car smoking and a flick of flame
the asphalt slippery with gasoline
the stonework fence fractured
the police on the way.
This is how her world ends

and, yes, even though she tells us
I’m OK. I’m OK. She’s not OK.
her hands shake, her words slur,
she can hardly stand straight,
walk straight, pimples of blood
outline her forehead, her neck

Her friends—are they her friends?—
Tell her to run, leave the car.
It’s all right.. It’s all right. It’s not all right.
Get everything out of your car.
Do you have dope? Have you been—
It does not matter. She goes to her car,
she rocks near it, she steadies herself,
she tries to start it—this is how
the world ends for her this night.

--Michael Brownstein