day FOUR HUNDRED and NINETY SEVEN

tommy lasorda

i go to meet my wife
at the wine store
she’s in there with some dude
who has his fist in the air
like he wants to give her a fist bump
and i think, do we know this guy?
my wife is backed away like he smells like dog shit
and, oh, oh, i think
i’m witnessing sexual harassment
sexual harassment of my wife
so i go in there all….
and he sees me coming for him and he’s all…
then out of the blue he says by way of an introduction
hey, tommy lasorda
and i wonder why he’s bringing up
some fat, retired baseball manager
in the middle of harassing my wife
but then i realize that i’m wearing a dodgers hat
and tommy lasorda was the manager of the dodgers
from 1976 to 1996
he won 1,599 games and two world series championships
and oh, i forgot
this asshole was sexually harassing my wife!
so i say, yeah, tommy lasorda, real tough-like
so this d-bag knows that i’m not playing around
all the while i’m thinking
why tommy lasorda
like there are so many other great l.a. dodgers from that era
that he could’ve mentioned
like steve garvey
or orel hershiser
or sandy koufax or don drysdale or
fernando valenzuela
i’d even take pedro fucking guerrero
but he picks tommy lasorda
who, let’s be honest, didn’t really do much
but sit on the bench and yell shit
when he wasn’t getting up to hijinks with the san diego chicken
it wasn’t tommy lasorda who took a 3-2 count
backdoor slider over the fence in the ninth inning
of game one of the 1988 world series
that was kirk gibson
he did that on two injured legs
i would’ve taken kirk gibson over tommy lasorda
i would’ve taken anything actually
over this piece of shit harassing my wife
all casually
then saying, see you guys later
like we all came into the wine store together
after a quesadilla lunch
when i know it was just my wife and i
sitting there eating quesadillas
and not some sexually harassing third wheel
who couldn’t name a los angeles dodger
beyond the last time
some woman gave him the time of day
without him telling her
that she needs to smile more
because a smiling woman just makes his day
and all i could think as he left
was that i didn’t say shit to him
was that i should’ve asked my wife
to go to the grocery store instead of the wine store
but last week
she was in the grocery store in her women’s march t-shirt
and some fat old asshole
who probably looked like tommy lasorda
shouted
TRUMP!
TRUMP!
at her
so it really doesn’t make a difference
where a woman is alone
wine store
grocery store
dodger stadium
there’s always some male asshole
waiting to harass them
tell them how sexy they are
that they need to smile more
call them a bitch if they don’t respond
if they don’t act gracious
if they don’t act like this is the best
shit that’s ever happened to them
greater than all the loves of their life
greater than any joy
better than taking a 3-2 count backdoor slider
over the fence
at the bottom of the ninth inning
of game one of the world series
and hobbling around the bases like the king of the world
with tommy lasorda waiting for you at home plate
to give you a big hug
and a smack right on the back
of that well-sculpted
athletic
american
ass.

--John Grochalski

day FOUR HUNDRED and NINETY SIX

The New Normal

Yesterday

My seven year old

Politely asked the nurse

Could she please get the freeze spray first?

The IV is the worst part

At the start he

was too sick to care

That minor stick only a thousandth of the pain in his small body

Irrelevant

I thought I would watch him die

He was dying

White cell count elevated

Anemic. Blood transfusions needed

He had stopped talking

I lie on his stick legs in the

Metal hospital crib

As they fed the tube up his nose

On the day when he could no longer say my name

When the doctor came

With hope in the form of difficult choices

He said

“This will be his normal.

He is only three.  He will not remember a time before.”

And that was odd and at the same time

comforting.

It was also true.

And though I carried him back for the first treatments

Yesterday he walked beside me

chattering all the way

I have taken him to every single treatment.

I taught him to look away and to breathe slowly

When the IV had to go in.

There is no choice.

It has to be done.

Every eight weeks

The IV must go in.

This is the new normal for us.

Once, the hospital messed up and

sent me the bill staggering in the thousands for just one visit

For a fix that makes him well

and an artist, a good student, my living child.

His bill is covered because what

he has is a disability

It is the difference between

Living and Dying.

It has to happen.

The IV has to go in.

But the new national normal

Would change all of this

One of my senators called kids like him

“Burned out buildings”

Not worth the renovation

Not worth spending on

So I called and I wrote and I tweeted and I emailed and I signed all the petitions.

And I begged people I knew and didn’t know to do the same.

My own cousin wrote

“Trump will make America great again. Wait and see.”

And her sister wrote

“Why are you always so angry?”

Because this is the new normal.

And yesterday

He asked by himself for something

To help erase the last

Of the pain that stands between him and eight weeks

of wellness.

And every day I will check the news to see if it will be a day

That I can breathe a little

Or a day where I will fight on

Because this is the new normal.

~MG Gainer 5/18/18

MG Gainer:  English Professional for hire (Editing, Social Media, Instructor); proud WV native, so keep your jokes to yourself. Pronouns: She/her

 

day FOUR HUNDRED and NINETY FIVE

MY GRANDDAUGHTER

her daddy never finished high school

not for lack of trying

that second year of tenth grade plenty

her mother, my daughter

I’m grandpa, maternal grandfather

my daughter, her mother

she tried to see something in him

they never married and they never argued much

after a few years they just seemed to give up

dad comes around once in awhile

big events he wants to share, birthdays, the circus

my granddaughter

yesterday she ran into the house

eight years-old, all excited

Daddy took her to the rally at the Colosseum

she got to shake the President’s hand!

--Chuck Joy

day FOUR HUNDRED and NINETY FOUR

More Spleen from Uncle Charlie

Where is Poe?
These streets, these flat elephantine thighs
dragged through the soot.

Specters! Hooligans!
Addicts!
Dog shit!
What have you done with Montparnasse?

Shit on Christ! Where the hell is Poe?
I demand an audience at once!
You call this
Civilization?
The air is choked with nonexistence.

You! Fetch me some hashish at once...
And if you please,
where in the name of God
might one find a decent moll in this shit house of a town?

Hell to pay! Take your damn he-she!
I know your kind, diluting the absinthe with cream soda.
Fucking heathen!

I piss in your hat.

--Jay Passer

day FOUR HUNDRED and NINETY THREE

norwegian day parade

all of the white men

are wearing sports t-shirts

and hats emblazoned with the american flag

they are making america great again

by loitering on street corners

with beer breath before noon

the women have visors

with rainbow-colored see-through vinyl

they talk about the men in sport shirts

drinking beer on the lord’s day

the streets are lined with people

waving norwegian flags

ruddy faced kids who’ve never seen california

let alone the northern lights in winter

cheer in plastic viking hats

as long black limos push waving white girls

and geriatric g.i. joes

down sun-soaked streets of majesty

behind wooden viking ships on wheels

they are celebrating culture

pasty pale-faced culture

the right kind of culture here in brooklyn

eating food with no discernable tastes

pasty pale-face food

the kind of culture that doesn’t get complicated

that can assimilate in just a generation

culture that won’t get you stopped on the streets

by cops down here

cops who waved at cars passing by

cops who know their neighbors

cops who do not carry ak-47s and wear camouflage

like they do in other parts of the city

where parades get flagged as possible terrorist activity

where gyrating and dancing are seen as a threat

and all of the white men cheer

when the white girls wave

their blonde hair as golden as the sun

and all of the white women wave their flags

remember back when they were young

and rode down 3^rd avenue in limos

and all of the geriatric g.i. joes should be put out to pasture

as politicians sweat on podiums

holding damp paper

waiting to introduce this week’s wounded veteran

to the kids in viking hats grunting

and flexing their muscles

little kids with blond hair and blond teeth

who look like little conquerors ready to tackle history

the ones who will become soldiers

the ones who will become cops

cops who will know their neighbors

cops who will wave at cars passing by

and marvel at viking ships on wheels

and marvel at white girls waving

who will bow when the national anthem gets played

by multi-cultural kids in a marching band

kids who will become the kind of stand-up guys

who will only use their ak-47s

on the right kind of people.

--John Grochalski

day FOUR HUNDRED and NINETY TWO

Fast Food

I see the kid laying tangled in his bicycle
outside the McDonald’s in San Diego. It’s as if
my brain was mechanically separated and pressed
into a splotch of an exit wound right then. I’d
panic when mom took us for dinner and for about a year,
made incredible scenes, with full, crazed tantrums
to stop us from staying, always insisted
on the drive-thru, and when
we did eat there because my sister
wanted to ride Grimace, I’d wolf down everything
and memorize escape routes, my heart
pounding in my ears, little feet pacing the rubber floor,
filthy with pollen and splatters.

--Bob Pajich

day FOUR HUNDRED and NINETY ONE

Watching

the
president
talk
about
sending
more
soldiers
into
Afghanistan
claiming
we
will
win
this
war
after
16
long
years
feel
like
a
crow
standing
on
the
road
during
a
pouring
rain
unable
to
fly
too
tired
to
move
looking
at
the
oncoming
car
knowing
how
it
will
end.

--Matt Borczon

Matt Borczon has written eight books of poetry, the latest My Reality is out through Alien Buddha Press.

day FOUR HUNDRED and NINETY

He would have been celebrating his birthday

How do you choose a bouquet
of flowers for a seventeen-year-old boy?

I close the bookmarks of guitars.
I was never sure which was his
favourite, was going to ask him
to suggest a top five and I'd pick
one so it would still be a surprise.

How many seventeen-year-old boys
dream of a bouquet for their birthday?

It's a day you don't think about
until something makes it extraordinary
and suddenly you remember
breakfast, your journey to work,
that unexpected phone call.

A bouquet it has to be. I'll create my own.
The standard ones are all white and blank.

One Texan yellow rose for truth.
White lillies for life that stretched toward
but never reached adulthood.
I thought red roses but they look too much
like drops of blood, splatter from bullets.

I wrap it with thoughts and prayers
as another boy, shot at school, is laid to rest.

--Emma Lee

Emma Lee's most recent collection is "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, 2015), she co-edited "Over Land, Over Sea: poems for those seeking refuge" (Five Leaves, 2015), reviews for The High Window Journal, The Journal, London Grip and Sabotage Reviews and blogs at http://emmalee1.wordpress.com

day FOR HUNDRED and EIGHTY NINE

all of history

the desert at fifteen below and

you want to talk about god

to the starving and the slaughtered

you want to fuck the daughters

of the men you crucify

want to teach them the equation

that lets power become

more than love

and so this poem will be my

song of joy at the news

of your death

these words will be the stones

that grind your bones

into dust

--John Sweet