day NINE HUNDRED and EIGHTY FOUR

IN THE END

Everything fell from the statue
and crawled toward the city
toward the people drinking coffee
or wandering aimless streets
the people arguing
and the people asleep on benches
and some saw it coming
and thought they could fix things or hide
maybe escape
but there was nowhere to go
and the things crawling from the statue
came to the city
and the people were consumed for a time
and then some of them
went about their business
and some retreated to darkness
and when the bombs finally dropped
it was the children
who went to the statue
and stood there accusing the lie
and when death came
it came for everyone
and all that was left
was the statue
broken and aflame
and then there was nothing
and no way home ever again

--Jeff Weddle

From the book Citizen Relent published by Unlikely Books

day NINE HUNDRED and EIGHTY THREE

the belly of hell

yesterday’s clothes

wet with sweat

hang limp a locker

today’s clothes

come off

lie on a vacant bench

socks on cold concrete

yesterday’s clothes

again, now slowly

clammy thermal underwear

jeans then flame-retardant pants

thermal shirt, long sleeve shirt

flame retardant coat

helmet under arm

rubber boots slide on

squeak across tile floor

already sweating

locker room door opens

door to the shop floor opens

constant thunder

storms of graphite

climb in cracks

irritate any exposed skin

this is the forecast

the weather of a ten-hour night

the belly of hell awaits

--Jason Baldinger

day NINE HUNDRED and EIGHTY TWO

Women’s Work

They think it is just the
child care
or the care of the home

when they talk about

women’s work

but it is more
it is the labor
of lifting and carrying men
of making sure they are
emotionally sustained
that they are cared for
and loved
and promised that everything
will be okay

This is women’s work
as much
as managing accounts
and picking up the children
when they fall.

This is women’s work
as much as changing the coffee filter
and knowing which kid
on the soccer team has a peanut allergy.

We are open
to everyone
lovers and friends
coworkers and strangers
we with the power to heal all
because
thoughtfulness
and openness
are considered
only feminine

instead of human

We are the nurturers
which means
we are

feed

and you can come to us
mouths open
teeth bared
whenever your
hunger
matters more

than ours

--Ally Malinenko

day NINE HUNDRED and EIGHTY ONE

Drafting Pencils

Salesmen would use

our drafting pencils

and keep them -

as if they were

just pencils.

That is like using,

a machinists micrometer,

a welders mig welder,

a carpenters Skilsaw.

Tools of the trade.

Some day I’m gonna

break into his

gold embossed

leather briefcase

and steal his

vapid personality.

--Thomas R. Thomas 

day NINE HUNDRED and EIGHTY

fear and loathing in springville, ny

somewhere out there

was a book of poetry

with my name on it

but an editor who wouldn’t return my calls

so i made art out of carrying

windows and doors down wet planks

in an early april mixture of snow and rain

when the truck died in springville

i wanted to call it a sonnet

hungry and tired we were miles away from anything

but some asshole’s half-built mansion

but the radio worked

so joey and i sat huddled in the cab

listening to hate-filled pundits

and sipping the dregs of cold coffee

waiting for someone from the company

to come and pick us up

my body was writing haikus

to sore backs and banged up knees

to a rust belt city where a guy

couldn’t get a decent job to save his life

and all joey wanted to talk about were guns

and school shootings

how much he hated black people

even though they didn’t

have anything to do with either of those things

and how when his dad died

he’d probably sell the company

to the competitor

instead of carrying it on

maybe get himself a house down south

near half-naked women on a beach

i thought about my editor

and my book of poetry

how no one buys poetry

but almost everyone owns a gun

i thought about the turkey sandwich

that i didn’t buy at the wegman’s

on our way to the job that morning

a little insurance for my stomach

that i wasn’t willing to make

how joey’s dad ate two slices of pepperoni pizza

every day for lunch

and paid me next to minimum wage

to break my ass

and act as a sounding board

for his idiot son

so when joey turned the ignition again

just for shits and giggles

and the car suddenly turned over

and we pulled out of the work site slop

back on to the highway

i thought about how

when we got back

i was going to secretly quit the job

drive down to the pizza restaurant

and get me two slices of pepperoni

eat them in the car

with a nice cold beer

and some coltrane playing on the stereo

pretend that i was a millionaire

best-selling author for an hour

then crawl the two miles back to the warehouse

to wait on the next job

or the next immortal poem

to come.

--John Grochalski

                                                          

day NINE HUNDRED and SEVENTY NINE

King of His Universe

He lived in the best Penthouse
in the best city, with the best
view. He only shit in a gold toilet.
He works for himself and has
personal assistants to run his
life, there is no mud on his shoes,
a private chef brings in his meals.
He has a model wife, but he has
not found the perfect woman. He
knows he is good at sex because
he practices on his own. If he needs
an elephant at 3 AM someone
will get him an elephant pronto,
this is the power he wields
and he is king of his universe
even if his queen has not
been crowned.






 --Julene Tripp Weaver



Julene Tripp Weaver is a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle. She has a chapbook and two full size poetry books. Her most recent, truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award, and won the Bisexual Book Award (2017). Her work is widely published in journals and anthologies. Find her online at www.julenetrippweaver.com & @trippweavepoet

day NINE HUNDRED and SEVENTY EIGHT

The Terror

our government is holding us hostage

wack-a-zoids with high capacity rifles
are blowing us away
daily

we only hear about the ones with high death counts
there are hundreds of others on smaller scales
happening every day

the government is allowing this to happen
they know that gun control would stop it instantly
but they won’t do it, they won’t help us

everyone knows that scared sheep
will just stick to the herd

and there’s so much money to be made
in the business

of death

--Heidi Blakeslee

day NINE HUNDRED and SEVENTY SEVEN

                                AN EXCELLENT CONCOCTION

He spreads truth 

with raspberry jam 

on crackers 

eats it whole

has never tried it 

with another flavor

--Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.

day NINE HUNDRED and SEVENTY SIX

Mediocrity

it takes a rhythm
to do the the boring things.
one can’t dream or think

or you lose your way in the
pursuit of mediocrity.

one two three four
one two three

--Thomas R. Thomas

day NINE HUNDRED and SEVENTY FIVE

The Space Around You At Every Moment Of This World

This is somewhat of a comfort

at a high price

the price of freedom

just try to break

the routine

just you try it

after the war

That's what draws me to them

their wild scratching

and then they sing out

beat hips punk da

da they dare

Focus: berries

They didn't need

to talk about me

it was in their looks

as I trudged with the rugs

washed with goat soap

in the icy lake

we brought them back

they said my legs were pretty

I knew I should hide them

my most useful items

in my toolkit

my basket woven

of the best grasses

twigs I could search for

it was not enough to please them

it would not be what I remembered

it was the rounded loaves

the fish baked inside

little roosters it was called

We lived inside stone circles

to weigh down the tent

now it is called Barras

where it filled with water

my red felt

zigzags at the seams

where my fingers can follow

they have big hooves

for walking

on the crusty snow

Soviet architecture

down in town

where in summer

at the dance pavilion

others gather

Mosquitoes or no mosquitoes

anyway I left them

to their elbows

their stepping shoes

Doghair birch and velvet

cover mountains

beside the patch of H

two oh

even here I start to miss

things absent

from my thoughts

Well I died

nobody noticed

not even the rich the known

nor the poor

not known to them either

The herd has found lichen

here often

pick the best to chew

purple glint eyes golden

In 1496 the familiar

was not

that anymore--

backwards writing

the mill hidden

by all those willows

houses too slanted

to be of any use

color became

something else

around so much water

riches resources

was

I know green is a color

but that is not green in Duerer's "Willow Mill"

That is the color of electricity and metal sun rain.

J.V. Cunningham

proposes noise

creates all.

Examine

the body the bones

look time

in the face,

then erase

this memory.

This might take

some thinking

then forgetting about

the thinking. I got lost

at purposes.

Normally, I should last

until fiction then

want to sneak a peek

at death

towards the very end

without actually

ending up there.

Here lies my white '81 VW Rabbit

rusting just a little bit more

after all that hullaballoo

over the oil

I will join it soon

my rabbity teeth

lost under some tires

or that cheap jack

in the back under

the heavy hatch

everyone slammed too hard

like it was an old pickup

and not the European auto

it was never dying

how it did my youth

The auto junkyard

graveyard

leave

a lot

up to

one's

imagination

possibly volcanic

what happens

in Raymondville

Pie Town

easily Poe Town

& whether it is

beside the Mississippi

or another long place

time is not enough

for life living

it was not stormy

at the graveyard

or the junkyard

--Susan Kay Anderson