day SEVEN HUNDRED and ELEVEN

delivery men in the rain

the sky collects poison

and hurls it back

as acid manna

for the trees

as amazon.com kids

collect their packages

of conspicuous consumption

and google their good fortune

to send for lunch

and delivery men in the rain.

--John Grochalski

                                    

day SEVEN HUNDRED and TEN

To the Little Man

Trump's a billionaire crapping in a gold toilet bowl

in a tower named after him high up in New York.

He only wears hard hats for cameras at rallies,

and the last tool he held was his own tiny penis.

His rich father kept him from military service

while your dad was getting his arse shot to ribbons.

He beats bunker sand in his Florida golf course

while you're lugging boxes or fixing a car.

He pays money to porn stars he's fucked, then denies it;

and you’re on your porch in the afternoon drinking,

watching a scabby dog nosing your garbage.

Do you think, do you honestly think, little man,

he would care if your whole family fell off a cliff?

--Bruce Hodder

day SEVEN HUNDRED and NINE

Compare Contrast

a man speaking his mind = a bold man who knows what he wants

a woman speaking her mind = a woman bitching

a man boldly disagreeing with a woman = a man leading the lost

a woman boldly disagreeing with a man = a woman bullying

a man reporting sexual harassment or abuse = a brave soul

a woman reporting sexual harassment or abuse = a lying slut who regrets the “morning after”

a man resisting the conventional wisdom of the church = a prophet

a woman resisting the conventional wisdom of the church = a heretic who has stepped out of her place

a man calling out a woman = justified correction

a woman calling out a man = belittlement, unjust criticism, what a harlot

a man declaring a hard truth = an authoritative truth-teller

a woman declaring a hard truth = a woman speaking out of turn

a man answering an erudite question = an authority

a woman answering an erudite question = a poser talking about what she doesn’t know

a man speaking with passion = a man speaking with passion

a woman speaking with passion = an aggressive feminist

 - Rachel Toalson

day SEVEN HUNDRED and EIGHT

A New Moral World

Robert Owens believed

Robert Owens had money

he purchased a town

to introduce socialism

which in America at the time

wasn’t yet a dirty word

ideas don’t always become deeds

and idea people never trust

working people, working people

never trust ideas people

the new moral world fumbled

and socialism quickly became chaos

the lauded experiment cleaved

Owens mostly bankrupt

sold the town

tried again but no one

gave him another town

even though Texas

not yet a state, considered it

in New Harmony Indiana

where the experiment died

it’s said they were to have a funeral

for the death of the idea

typical of America

the night before

someone stole the casket

containing the invisible corpse

of a nascent idea

--Jason Baldinger

day SEVEN HUNDRED and SEVEN

Graveyard

I live in a small town, where out in the graveyard,
a sign warns: security cameras are watching.
Look out for the flash of the lens in the night-time.
It’s to stop you from fucking under bright gothic moons;
or from making a porno; or from pissing on trees;
or from smacking a vein so you can dream with the dead.
It’s to keep you from sleeping with a stone for a wind-break
when you’re homeless, with nowhere on Earth where you’re welcome.
The graves might look picturesque covered in snow,
but a greasy corpse stiff from the cold scares the public.
Do the decent thing, die like the wild birds, unseen.
That way your name won’t get into the papers.

--Bruce Hodder

day SEVEN HUNDRED and SIX

Life Down the Lane

Went to the Answer Man

but he wasn't home

stopped by the Woman Who Knows

to no avail

asked the gods but as usual

they're silent

looked for upstanding citizens

but never found them

the priests lied

as did the politicians

and the CEOs nibbled truth to death

as they stuffed their options with wrongs

tried Hollywood but they wouldn't

turned to poetry but no prize

so went back to my corner

brightened the light

cleaned a bit

set out some chairs

and waited for what is to show

so maybe we can talk it over

sometimes the Pope shits in the would

and sometimes the bear eats you...

what ya gonna do

--Steven B. Smith

day SEVEN HUNDRED and FIVE

the music box

there is a music box

that plays in the foyer of my building

fat, jolly santa at a piano

pounding the yuletide favorites

the superintendent and his wife

put it out there every year

when they decorate

and every year they let their monster child

scooter up and down the hallway

and past my apartment door

as they sing carols and put up decorations

then they go back into their apartment

far away from the santa music box

where they don’t have to hear

tiny christmas songs pouring into their home

all evening and into night like i have to

every year the super has christmas up without fail

yet my water-logged roof continues to crumble into dust

and the cockroaches here

are turning into an army

i try to be a good neighbor about the music box

for the old bats who sit in the foyer

talking about their pasts

for the young professionals coming home from work

playing on their phones

as they collect their amazon packages

but after a few drinks i go into the hallway

and shut the music off

there is only so much christmas a man can take

and they play the music at work

and in the liquor store anyway

this battle usually goes on for about a week

the super and his wife turn on the music box

and stand guard over it

as their child screams and howls and scoots

and then later i stumble out and shut it off

after they’ve gone

eventually someone gives up until the new year

i’ve thought about sending a message

smashing the santa music box

and leaving it in pieces outside the super’s door

finishing this little war

once and for all

but i have a reputation here of being drunk and unkind

and someone in the building

is selling heroin to high school kids

and they have cameras up all over the place here now

so it’s jingle bells, jingle bells for me

off and on until armageddon or january comes

and the super takes christmas back down

until the next time

with his brat kids scootering up and down the hallway

as the music box plays its last carol

and i sit in my apartment

watching yellow pieces of my ceiling

fall onto the dusty wooden floor.

--John Grochalski