day ONE THOUSAND and SEVENTY SIX

Prison nurse number 17

After working
3rd shift
at the
prison on
New Years eve
with 4
drunken admissions
one inmate
extraction and
everybody bitching
about working
the holiday
I drove
through a
huge snowstorm
to a
party my
family attended
and spent
the night at
as I
walked up
to the
window I
saw my
kids asleep
and all
my friends
on every
couch and
chair I
should have
knocked and
woken them
as planned

instead I
drove home
and spent
the morning
in a
scalding shower
trying to
wash the
stink of
my life
and that
prison
out of
my skin.

--Matt Borczon

day ONE THOUSAND and SEVENTY FIVE

New York City

Settled earlier
then many American cities,
but not so old
as most in Europe,
yet somehow became
the greatest builder
erecting more skyscrapers
than the rest of the world,
pioneering public housing
infrastructure like no other,
the urban capitol
of entertainment, vice,
with immense riches,
yet a poverty population
that shames democracy,
a complex union
of the good and bad,
a tantalizing mixture
of beauty, ugliness

--Gary Beck

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 23 poetry collections, 7 novels, 3 short story collections and 1 collection of essays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing, forthcoming is Desperate Seeker); Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force, Transitions and Mortal Coil (Wordcatcher Publishing, forthcoming is Temporal Dreams) Earth Links (Cyberwit Publishing: forthcoming Too Harsh For Pastels). His novels include a series ‘Stand to Arms, Marines’: Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions, forthcoming is the third in the series, Raise High the Walls); Acts of Defiance and Flare Up (Wordcatcher Publishing), forthcoming is its sequel, Still Defiant). Extreme Change will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Gary lives in New York City

day ONE THOUSAND and SEVENTY FOUR

the streets are empty

the streets are empty tonight
while children are in cages
america is attached
to screens, no longer aware
of reality. I watch a video
of a young man dying in detention
I am not out in the streets either

the streets are empty today
as the party of obstruction
and corruption tells us
they are clean, that the other
corrupt party is actually corrupt

the streets are empty tonight
and people throughout
the world live in terror
of the autocrat government
that rules this country
destroys their country
their lives in the name
of unfettered greed

the streets are empty today
while across the world
the streets are filling
as humans throw
off authoritarian regimes
they wait for us

the streets are empty
we wonder if it’s too late
we look for heroes to save
this never democracy
christianity and hollywood
have led us astray
there are no singular heroes
we are the heroes
we can stop this
we have to fill the streets

--Jason Baldinger

day ONE THOUSAND and SEVENTY THREE

the parade

just sit back and watch
sieg-ing heil in all the right places
mouthing out the national anthem
followed by majorettes holdin’
newspeak banners preaching peace
followed by a band playing
“Born in the USA”
never learning the lyrics just liking the sound
while in the grandstand
crowdin’ together like bottom feeders
so-called leaders are doin’
their yearly holiday chickenhawk cosplay
havin’ Tienanmen wet dreams
translating gunfire
into the tintinnabulation of cash registers
drowning out the ghost of Lincoln
weeping

--Mark A. Fisher

day ONE THOUSAND and SEVENTY TWO

TWILIGHT OF EMPIRE

someone has to say it
so let me start:

we are finished
it's over

no more complaining
no fretting over details
you couldn't control if you tried
and you are miles past trying

the streets are filled with faces
the streets are filled with blank stares
and rage

they are home to our shared tragedy
and we are too numb to understand

we look everywhere and see the enemy
we look and see the attributes
we are told to hate

every hand could grasp another's hand
every face could turn toward another face

the man at the gas station hates you
because you make too much money
or not enough
and someone on his television
says he should

the woman in the grocery store
has been warned about you
by her preacher

even your children are caged,
their minds pummeled by falsehoods
tarted up like fun

soon, they will hate you too

the world is not working

people roam the lonely streets
searching for a leader
they want to hear that they are correct
to hate, justified in their fear

they want to know it is okay
to think of killing

some want to kill blacks,
some believe whites must be eliminated
with others, it is police
or politicians of a particular party
or those who might vote for them

I'm certain there are those
who have it in for Koreans
or people from Peru or Canada

and everyone hates Muslims, right?

your barber hates Mexicans
the pretty checkout girl
at the pharmacy hates gays

the people in your church
hate the people in the church
down the street
and don't think a whole lot of you

we live inside a game
held fast by a riddle

follow the lies
follow the money
follow the power

follow everyone who makes you
want to hate
and you will be lost in the maze

these are tricks, friend
follow them down the rabbit hole
and still you will be wrong

the unseen hand is at your throat
the unseen hand is jacking you off
the unseen hand can be a fist or a flower

I am finished
I am over it

the days are the same days
whether you suck down the fairy tale or not,
and I am through with the poison

so long

--Jeff Weddle

day ONE THOUSAND and SEVENTY ONE

seasons greetings

at the holidays

they had us working

twelve hour shifts

from open to close

and the place was a madhouse

of people off for

their holiday breaks shouting

their wine orders

and making dinner plans

with their asshole friends

on their cell phones

as the rest of us hauled

cases out of the warehouse

and stocked the shelves

as fast as we could

only to do it again moments later.

and they kept the holiday music

going the whole time

sinatra, dean martin,

good old bing crosby

who beat the shit out of his kids

for christmas

while the people in the store

picked out their wine

in bright jackets and festive hats

as they sang along with the music

as we ran around speaking

exhausted gibberish

hoisting more cases of wine

throwing the bottles of red and white

into slats

listening to the same twelve hours

of manufactured cheer

all those long hours

while the owner of the store

smiled benevolently at his customers

from his perch

and tried to figure out how

to cut our paychecks down to the minute.

and there was never a break from the music.

it played in the staff room as you

shoved down lunch

it played in the bar across the street

where we went for secret pints

and shots on our dinner break

it emanated out of cars in the cold

buffalo night

and it played on the radio

as you drove home beaten

and demoralized

through another december snow

it played in your drunken dreams

at night as the street glowed those

ugly christmas colors.

all those terrible, merry songs sung

by the smiling famous and the dead

silent night

the first noel

oh come all ye faithful

jingle bells

and the rest of that miserable pap

that gave you no comfort or joy.

it stayed with you like a venereal disease

that whole long and final month

of another bad year

burning and aching

so that when december twenty-sixth

rolled around

and everyone else was tired

from the yuletide and miserable

you suddenly felt like a million dollars

driving down the street

bleary-eyed and finally gone mad

blasting rudolph the red-nosed reindeer

with a tallboy of silver bullet

between your legs

in ear shot of every straggling bastard

coping with an egg nog hangover

heading back toward that job

for another twelve hours

as the world geared up

to ring in the new year

in just under a week.

--John Grochalski

                       

day ONE THOUSAND and SEVENTY

christmas tip

he shook my hand

and handed me an envelop

with a card and some cash stuffed inside

while i tried not to think

about how many times a week

i’d jacked-off to his hot wife

all of that sperm

splattered on my bedroom floor

and into paper towels

as i took her any way

my fifteen year-old mind could figure out

merry christmas, he said to me

then he shut the door

yeah, you too

i said to no one

before walking off to the next home

on the old afternoon newspaper route.

--John Grochalski

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY NINE

2019 Manger Scene

Ten days before Christmas
in a big box store
florescent dystopian feedlot
of the Plasticene era.

An assortment of bedraggled
polyester beasts
shuffle through the ruins
of their lives
in pajama bottoms
and shoddy slippers
at one in the afternoon
with that just got out of bed
quit caring a long time ago look
of misplaced dignity
slumped over shopping carts
stumbling drunk on their phones
trawling the vast acreage
of disposable gizmo’s
surplus trinkets
holiday bait
and neatly stacked
stockpiles of crap.

Digital coupon clippers
jam the aisles
with befuddled needs
besieged by desperation.

These are the fleeced
soldiers of capitalism
wounded in action
dead on their feet
vanquished
in pastures of plenty.

Outside the gates
of this pristine hell
a Salvation Army sentry
rings his bell.


--Stew Jorgenson

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY EIGHT

Tempo

The rush hour routine

sets millions in motion

going to jobs that pay the bills,

support industry and commerce,

keep the city running

as long as there’s power,

transportation, food,

the needs we might still control,

as we neglect potable water,

breathable air.

--Gary Beck


Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 23 poetry collections, 7 novels, 3 short story collections and 1 collection of essays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing, forthcoming is Desperate Seeker); Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force, Transitions and Mortal Coil (Wordcatcher Publishing, forthcoming is Temporal Dreams) Earth Links (Cyberwit Publishing: forthcoming Too Harsh For Pastels). His novels include a series ‘Stand to Arms, Marines’: Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions, forthcoming is the third in the series, Raise High the Walls); Acts of Defiance and Flare Up (Wordcatcher Publishing), forthcoming is its sequel, Still Defiant). Extreme Change will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Gary lives in New York City.

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY SEVEN

these dark times

instead of working gypsum fields
the world is now a cattle call
for chemo, the status of the ant
unknown as your wife goes nuclear
basically, apocalypse every day

you know brother
every native of this city
lacks fear of the apocalypse
we've seen it a million
times daily in our memory
it's been passed down
from our fathers, our grandfathers
they met the belly of hell
everyday as poor people do
they reach deep into its mouth
take what they need to build

a broken dream that is, was, america

it's collapsing now
it was never beautiful
this city microcosm
as tech boom gentrifies
another version of apocalypse
at least if you're poor

who would ever think
these dark times
are in seconds even worse

at least there's consolation
albeit not much
we've seen it all
every now and again
in another dimension
it's clear that over years
old stoners never die
they just set off
to watch sunsets
in another dimension

--Jason Baldinger

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY SIX

the carolers

the cops are lined up

in their little cop uniforms

at the atlantic avenue station

they are in rows according to height

the tall cops in the back

the ones with short guy syndrome

shoved up front

there are a couple of women cops

interfiled with the boys in blue

the head cop is stalking in front of them

he’s pacing

he looks like he’s ready to give it

to the whole group of them

little town of bethlehem

jiggle bells, deck the halls

the whole works

last week the cops were out on broadway

singing rudolph and frosty

like star-studded musical extras

while the protesters from across the street

chanted no justice, no peace

as the cops kept on singing into the lights

of a paddy wagon van

there are no protesters today

they’ve cleared out or have gotten bored

there are just a couple dozen of new york’s finest

laughing and smiling

movie cops in christmas mode for the tourists

the head cops says

white christmas in three

then he starts counting down

as we make our way across the station

where the less musical cops

are checking bags for bombs

standing against the wall on both sides

single file as far as the eye can see

with flak jackets and machine guns at the ready

german shepherds

with silver bells around their necks, snarling

waiting to bite your balls off

give you the true meaning of christmas

in america.

--John Grochalski

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY FIVE

Street Fire

The heaped hellfire on the street
slowly reaches for the pennon;
even today two protesters make love
and the man ejaculates Molotov cocktails
into the woman; she stretches, yawns;
if a cabal, future coup wades inside her womb
it shows no sign; the day scorches outside;
adrenaline wet pavements go nowhere everywhere;
sun licks a curb hit by a driverless car;
one perambulator bounds down the unfinished stairs.
The crackles in the street ignite every breath.

--Kushal Poddar

Short bio-

Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

Author Page - amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY FOUR

Ghosts of Christmases Past

I remember Christmas Eves

spent in emergency rooms

after loved ones overdosed

suffered panic attacks,

convulsed and hallucinated

from alcoholic withdrawals.

Holiday carols bring flashbacks

of Christmas Day burns,

cuts and bruises,

carving knife malfunctions

that resulted in stitches

or severed pieces of fingers.

Each year resurrects ghosts:

resentment, chest pains,

shingles, pneumonia.

All I want from Santa

is an uneventful Noel

without blood or drama.

--Jennifer Lagier

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY THREE

Sad Song

Birds, fragile  creatures

always lose

conflicts with humans.

As we destroy habitat

with urbanization,

agriculture, fracking,

endless assaults

on a vulnerable land,

whose owners don’t care

if there are fewer birds,

concerned with their power,

not unenforceable rights

of other species.

--Gary Beck


Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 23 poetry collections, 7 novels, 3 short story collections and 1 collection of essays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing, forthcoming is Desperate Seeker); Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force, Transitions and Mortal Coil (Wordcatcher Publishing, forthcoming is Temporal Dreams) Earth Links (Cyberwit Publishing: forthcoming Too Harsh For Pastels). His novels include a series ‘Stand to Arms, Marines’: Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions, forthcoming is the third in the series, Raise High the Walls); Acts of Defiance and Flare Up (Wordcatcher Publishing), forthcoming is its sequel, Still Defiant). Extreme Change will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Gary lives in New York City.

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY TWO

In This Blindness

The great blindness comes within sight
ahead of the umbrage, twilight.
Yes, I know the other connotations this
refers when we discuss about it in
the milieu of insects sizzling like a critic's grin
against a totem lamp and time.

You say, youthfulness of the decadence
disturbs you the most. So green. So dying.
I wipe the firmament, read fate in Braille.
My wishes canoe down Montaro, begs for
forgiveness. My flesh flies into a flame.
You grin again. Existence cannot provide
a solution to the death.

Silence, I request. A child runs a wheel
near the horizon. Because of the dim,
because of the pollution we cannot see him,
but can't we feel him embossed on the sky,
earth and beneath?

--Kushal Poddar

Short bio-

Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

Author Page - amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY ONE

EVANGELICAL

the churches are filled
with prayers and pot luck dinners
and people who love children
as long as their skin is white
and the churches are filled
with joy and choir music
and the churches are filled
with frightened people
who do not understand this world
but hate it anyway
and the churches
rally around the flag
and the churches
are dragging us all into Hell
and the churches
know only English prayers
are answered
and never for the poor

--Jeff Weddle

day ONE THOUSAND and SIXTY

Guitar And Gun

My brother buys a gun with a barrel to remain arctic for long
and a sawed-off-head guitar.
He, when drunk, sometimes forgets which one to load
with the leads and which one to strum following the lead.

Every night we shall pass his door displaying Keep-out to earwig
him breathing, his inhalation having an argument with
his exhalation, his balloons inside dandling the riddles of life.

His impromptu gunshots rehearse for a gig at some wilderness of crowd.
His guitar bangs its way into a trouble with our neighbors.
Together we stare at one bloody rabbit shell out in the moon
momentarily revealed through the tattered smog.

Two whiskey and tap water rock our guts. A guitar and a gun sitting in the porch.
Oh rabbit, run.

--Kushal Poddar

Short bio-

Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

Author Page - amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY NINE

Cold Streets

Winter is early this year

usurping Fall,

bringing frigid days

prompting us to dress warm,

those who have warm coats,

the rest shiver,

unable to afford

comfort clothing,

economic constraint

denying down garments,

allowing Iphones, tv,

poverty’s compensation.

--Gary Beck


Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 23 poetry collections, 7 novels, 3 short story collections and 1 collection of essays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing, forthcoming is Desperate Seeker); Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force, Transitions and Mortal Coil (Wordcatcher Publishing, forthcoming is Temporal Dreams) Earth Links (Cyberwit Publishing: forthcoming Too Harsh For Pastels). His novels include a series ‘Stand to Arms, Marines’: Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions, forthcoming is the third in the series, Raise High the Walls); Acts of Defiance and Flare Up (Wordcatcher Publishing), forthcoming is its sequel, Still Defiant). Extreme Change will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Gary lives in New York City.

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY EIGHT

santa con job

they are roaming manhattan

sliding in the slush and snow in sloppy packs

frat boys in santa costumes

with piss stains on the crotch

their sorority girlfriends

in the requisite whore mrs. claus costume

complete with fishnets

they are doing an annual pub crawl

they claim it’s for charity

but the only charity most of the neighborhoods get

are puddles of vomit

and a rise in sexual assault cases

i am standing outside a famous bookstore

that never has anything inside for me to buy

watching four of these red and white aliens

trying their best to remember which way is west from east

three o’clock in the afternoon in union square

and they are already stumbling blind drunk

jesus christ is what the holiday has come down to

another gratuitous display of heathenism

by our next generation of CEOs and lawmakers?

one of the blonde mrs. clauses spots me standing there

and tries to get her man to get directions from me

but he just says, fuck that faggot

and then the four of them stumble off

when they come wobbling back ten minutes later

screaming at each other

in front of hundreds of holiday shoppers

their big ball in the city ruined

by their own gluttony

and blondie starts making eyes at me again

i think maybe i’ll go back into the famous bookstore

give it one more shot

kill an hour before my pub opens up at four o’clock

where last year the world’s coolest bartender made it a sport

to see how many of those jolly motherfuckers

he could throw out

in one festive evening.

--John Grochalski

                                  

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY SEVEN

#Trumpbot

now I get it
tRump is a bot
a badly programmed

artificial intelligence
that some 15
year old

kid
hacked together
from something he

found on the dark web
now we need to
shut it down

--Thomas R. Thomas

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY SIX

Santa’s Walk of Shame

It’s Santacon in San Francisco.

Fat and skinny millennial Kringles,

slutty elves, rowdy reindeer

pub crawl along Van Ness Avenue

on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

They cram into, spill out

of tiny neighborhood bars.

Board converted buses

festooned with red and green upholstery,

fuzzy white fur headrests,

multi-colored twinkle lights.

By evening, broken bottles,

impressionistic bursts

of technicolor vomit

decorate sidewalks.

Abandoned beards and bells

join downtown detritus.

The following morning,

a hungover, disheveled Santa,

scarlet pants at half-mast,

staggers his walk of shame

through dim light, drifting mist,

back to an angry Mrs. Claus

who seethes in a seedy hotel.

--Jennifer Lagier

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY FIVE

Mass Burials

My hollow hands unlace my shoes.
I follow those from pinning of the butterfly to
the liberation of its wings.

Now I sit in the twin pools of my shoes
drowning in those. Four walls susurrate.
The neon outside dots together a river.

This way no ways home any longer.
In twin puddles my feet waddle into the deep.
Somewhere down there lie dreams
in their mass burials.

--Kushal Poddar

Short bio-

Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

Author Page - amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY FOUR

Cheeseburger Rodeo Blues

Darlin’
You sound like the girl in a bad country song
who doesn’t care about right or wrong
because it’s so hard being faithful
to a wanted man

and maybe that man’s a politician
who really loves to party
and maybe you’re in bed with him
but it ain't really adultery

it’s more like a fast ride or a fling
with a rhinestone cowboy
but that doesn’t mean a thing to the posse
if your man’s caught cheatin’ on democracy

--Stew Jorgenson

Stew Jorgenson is the mayor of Republican Bluffs, Arizona. Population 1.

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY THREE

John Lennon has been gone 39 years. Here's something I wrote almost a decade ago:

the day after john lennon died

the day after

john lennon died

thirty years after

john lennon died

we are walking briskly

down 75th street

the wind off the estuary

smacking us in the face

one ear bud in your ear

one ear bud in mine

a little drunk

a little happy

singing instant karma

in the glow of christmas lights

hung outside the warm

homes of neighbors

we don’t want to know

we are children gone

just a little bit gray

free from the bar

free from religion

free from america

free to sing in the quiet street

as loud as we never are

and as i turn to take in

that large tree

the one dressed in purple

and red lights

the one that illuminates

the whole block

i think nothing is wrong

goddamn

if only for a moment

nothing is wrong in this world.

                                    12.10.10

--John Grochalski

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY TWO

when he is finally gone
when we have impeached
or voted him out

will the stain
he has left behind
go away

or will we live with it
for a long time
will we live with

all the people who
have come out of the
hell of their own minds

who love the hate
that has spewed
from his mouth

have we crossed over
have we met the death
of this wounded country

have we reaped the fruit
of the sins of this nation
over these long years

you cross over
not to steal
but to live

a view of
the earth
from space

shows no lines
borders are
a construct

a lie
we tell
ourselves

to conceal
our greed
and hate

--Thomas R. Thomas

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY ONE

It Is Happening

You say it can’t happen here
but it is happening here
and it’s happening to you
right here
right now
in your home
live and in color
as you watch it happen on TV
in the crumbling coliseums
packed with hired sportsmen
and disposable gladiators
and glorious ideals
disappearing ceremoniously
at the half-time show

and you can see it happening
in displays of bellicosity
and righteous self-loathing
and grandiose deceptions
and patriotic flourishes
and blitz formations
and contrived endorsements
that we sack ourselves with

and you can see it happening
in the cheap seats and the luxury suites
and in the green streets
where money shouts
and the poor are shut out
and the invisible
and the miserable are marginalized
in a malleable reality we don’t recognize
because it’s painted with a festive veneer
sponsored by commercial enterprise
to hide the graffiti of our disappointments

and you can see it happening
on instant replay
in case you missed it the first time
it happened here
before the last world war
when barbarians were inside the gates
scalping tickets
while the home team fumbled the ball

and you can see it happening
vicariously through yourself
and participate indefinitely
while it’s happening to you
even though you’re not wearing a helmet
or kneeling on the sidelines
praying for a Hail Mary
with the coaches and the fans
and the officials
who can’t stop it from happening

and you can see it happening
in the end-zone
and under the bleachers
and inside the arenas
and behind locker room doors
and on the house floor
and wherever the rabble are
keeping score
because they’ve seen it all before
and they know
it’s going to happen here
when this game is over


--Stew Jorgenson

day ONE THOUSAND and FIFTY

goodnight california

maybe it was loma prieta
the earthquake that stopped
the world series, boys of october
vibrating across a twenty-six inch screen

we were told that one day
the san andreas fault
would shake california free
drop it off into the ocean
float like an island
sink like a stone

fires burn across california
tonight, a new norm
dry brush kindling
paradise in flames
we have pushed
this world to its brink

the future is bleak
there is no heaven
paradise was sold
in pieces without question
now as the climate rages
we ask when paradise
will be uninhabitable

--Jason Baldinger

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY NINE

midtown manhattan as the days

bend their will to the holiday season

i wish there was a timer

to denote when this bullshit begins

because you just can’t tell anymore

looking into the windows of big box pharma stores

that mix their jack o’ lanterns with santa claus

come the first whiff of autumn

midtown manhattan as the days

bend their will to the holiday season

and i’m just not ready

for this depression to settle in

a beautiful gray and rainy sunday afternoon

and still so many fucking people around

taking pictures and clogging up the streets

packs of high school blondes

in matching red, satin jackets

talking their heartland talk

walking their heartland walk

moms and dads in midwest college gear

pushing, whining cherub babies into the neon blur

of tourist traps selling ten-dollar cupcakes

i feel like the holiday season exists

for people who never developed

a sense of personal autonomy

or who need something to do

in between summers

but i know that must not be true

its more like a game or a dare

that we play on ourselves annually

a ritual sacrifice

to the gods of capitalism

just to see how it feels to fully succumb

(at least those of us

who can afford to)

hollowing ourselves out

in kindness and good will

in gifts and gatherings

as famous ghosts sing songs on the radio

as the days

quietly bend their will

back to winter

where come january second

we wouldn’t so much as spit on stranger

than wish them

a happy holiday.

--John Grochalski

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY EIGHT

REMEMBERING “THE BIRDS” ON A FORT BRAGG BEACH

I walk the headlands path
and descend to a beach
where a hundred or more gulls
sit in the sand

at my approach they stand
and begin to walk
inching away
as though I’m herding them
like a sheepdog

as I draw nearer
the “what if?” enters
stage left

(the phone booth scene
remains seared into my brain)

but they’ll never do it
they damn well COULD
they could tear me to ribbons
pluck my eyeballs
but they won’t

they don’t think they can
they don’t think

and us?

well...sometimes
someone does

and sometimes
someone acts

just....one....person

then a crowd gathers
and the pitchforks appear
their sharpened spikes gleam
amid legions of torches
burning with less rage
than the clenched fists
and shackled hearts
of those who hold them high
against the darkness of the night
the darkness they perceive
behind those high walls and fences

the palaces are stormed
and the heads lopped off
the spoils divided
and balance restored

for a little while

I come too close, now
a single pair of white wings
flashes in the sun
and the rest of the flock
follows him out to sea

--Brian Rihlmann

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY SEVEN

Term Limits

the trouble with
term limits is
the power

drops
to the people
behind the power

the hidden people
who pull the
strings

of all the
politicians in
the seats of power

with term limits
we can’t vote
out

the
hidden
power

--Thomas R. Thomas

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY SIX

son of an idiot

  --for Donald Trump Jr.

the son of an idiot

is on tv and twitter

bragging about his book sales

and how he’s triggering the liberals

with all his tough guy talk

but his books are bought and paid for

by russian oligarchs

and his own trust fund

the son of an idiot doesn’t care

with his beard

to cover his weak chin

but nothing to hide his jellyfish spine

the son of an idiot

wears his ignorance proudly

he wears it like armor

like he does his thousand-dollar suits

and his boozy new york tan

when he’s slumming

bellow the mason-dixon line

shaking the hands of all of those true americans

people who just a few years ago

that coward son of an idiot

wouldn’t condescend

to waste his spit on.

--John Grochalski

                      

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY FIVE

How Democracy Dies

‘The point of modern propaganda isn't only to misinform or push an agenda. It is to exhaust your critical thinking, to annihilate truth.” – Garry Kasparov, chess champion

The land of the free has become

an expansive realm of the stupid.

Our reality show presidential pretender

cozies up to Russia, corrupt thugs

who help him steal an election.

Once in office, he is abetted

by gangsters and grifters,

dismantles rule of law,

shits on the constitution,

takes a twitter victory lap to delight

his illiterate, red-meat supporters.

Televised impeachment hearings

trot out Trumpanzi enablers, apologists,

improbable conspiracy theories

to deflect sworn testimony

offered up by expert witnesses.

Extortion, bribery, cover up, collusion….

As evidence mounts,

Faux News propagandists

instruct true believers

to pay no attention to truth.

What’s left of democracy splinters.

 --Jennifer Lagier 

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY FOUR

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

It’s happy hour
and the slots at Fux news
are swilling stale beer
like it’s yesteryear
circle jerking the truth
with frothy mouths
wiping their hearts
on their sleeves
speaking media jargonese
network narratives
as they please
frolicking in tragedy
at the low bar.
They are
out of the loop
getting duped
getting blitzed
wolfing it down
scooping it up
half nuts
on their butts
pissing in our ears
with their infotain-mint breath
as they break the news
in situational ethics rooms
for boob tube rubes
watching Happy Daze
while my lodestar gently weeps.
Who says the hypnotized never lie?
The anchormen never blink
as they nurse their drinks
foxtrotting the facts
with Jumbotronic smack
schmoozing you
in the prime-time snooze
pouring six-pack serenades
of forgone concoctions
and reporting jive
from the hounded soul of America.

--Stew Jorgenson

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY THREE

Ode to the Pardoned Turkey

O turkey who takes

away the sins of grave

consequences,

catch a farmer’s eye

when he picks you

for a trip to the capital.

Travel by cozy truck.

Stay pampered in rooms

with towels and maids.

Arrive safe and sound

at the gleaming White House.

Enjoy your fame as

the fatted one, a bird

who weighs forty pounds.

Your day has come.

Stand on a table, unleashed,

before flashbulbs

and applause. Events

at the Rose Garden are

peaceful now while an

ax falls somewhere else.

Our leader has kept you

from a violent end.

In his memoirs, he’ll

record his good deeds

and leave out the rest.

--Sarah Henry

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY TWO

let's pretend we’re elephants

it's not dissimilar
to walking into
an open mind closing

alley ways between stacks
hoarded canyons
light in condemned spaces
detritus and debris

I don't know how a human
lives this way, strangled
by materialism, stuff, shit
nothing of value
the dregs of need
the inability to fill a landfill

the mind becomes
more like a fist
every day, blunt
with no flexibility

bricks fall from the sky
on an unused set of wings
constant beeping
a children's song
let's pretend we’re elephants
the graveyard is near

--Jason Baldinger

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY ONE

the whistleblower
is not the witness
the whistleblower
opened a can of stink
the can of stink
is the witness
kick the can of stink
spill the stink
on all the clean clothes
of all the guilty criminals
especially all over tRump
the criminal who is
trying to cover the lid
of the can of stink
who will deny until
his dying day as he
has always done

the witnesses are
all who sealed the can
and those who saw the stink
before the criminals
sealed the can of stink

leave the whistleblower alone
the whistleblower is the hero
who risked their life
who is in danger from
the criminals with
the stink on their hands
and in danger from
all the fooled who love
the criminal in the
White House

--Thomas R. Thomas

day ONE THOUSAND and FORTY

More Churros/Less Cops

It was a woman selling churros,

in Brooklyn

and last week it was a man eating on the platform

in San Francisco.

Men with guns gather at the bottom of the subway steps,

crowded in packs, looking lean and wolfish

the have a wide stance and a hard laugh,

they block doors

as the rest of the city tries to catch the train home.

We just want to go home.

A video appears on my phone

four more cops wrestling a fourteen-year-old to the ground,

knees on backs, his feet twitching in his shoes,

the penalty for selling chocolate for his school,

the hard, barking demands for identification.

I look around the subway car,

and wonder what child

has identification?

In response, the police issued a statement

saying the man refused to comply

I look around the subway car

and wonder in what world

is a fourteen-year-old

a man?

The next morning someone

scrawled

More churros

Less cops

on the subway walls

like a battle cry

like an anthem

like a prayer

or a poem.

--Ally Malinenko

MORE CHURROS/LESS COPS

                    Photography by Ally Malinenko

day ONE THOUSAND and THIRTY NINE

IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT

if I was feeling charitable
I might say
it’s not your fault
you’ve been groomed for this
twisted into this shape
by forces beyond your control

you can’t be blamed
for a lack of empathy
you can’t be called a liar
if you believe your own lies

and I believe
you could pass a polygraph
I’m sure of it

they say it’s common
among those
deemed batshit crazy

so it’s not you...
but the ones
who saw their hopes and dreams for America
reflected in that dog ugly mug of yours

and now dig in their heels
while you spout invective
they’d have lynched
the previous guy for

and I mean that literally

--Brian Rihlmann

day ONE THOUSAND and THIRTY EIGHT

AIN’T THAT AMERICA?

Here’s what you do:
First, don’t be queer or colored
and if you’re a woman
just shut the hell up and smile.

Them liberals come from Satan
to take your guns
and make you pray
to ramalamadingdong
or some shit.
Just do like I say.

If you don’t do nothing wrong
the police ain’t gonna fuck with you.

Comply, mother fucker.

Jesus Christ, boy.
It’s all so fucking simple.

When are you people
gonna quit living in the past?

--Jeff Weddle

*Taken from Citizen Relent, published by Unlikely Books*

day ONE THOUSAND and THIRTY SEVEN

just another old man with a ponytail and a beard

in san francisco on a saturday night

they come into vesuvio’s bar

right after my wife and i order our second beer

otherwise we would’ve left

there are twelve of them

cramped around a table meant for six

they look like a fucked up last supper

or the type of shallow trolls

who have to go out drinking

with their dozen closest friends

it’s saturday night in america

and i’m not made for saturday night anymore

but i’m all the way on the other side of the country

and i feel like i need to get my money’s worth

before it’s vodka on ice in the hotel bed

watching MSNBC and FOX News duke it out for moral supremacy

these apostles are loud and ignorant

the dudes keep screaming “bro”

and the women just scream

there’s a lot of five slapping

and talk about being wasted

and bar hopping or bar crawling

and how they been at it for hours and…bro!

one of the women says, like, this is the bar

where, like, jack kerouac, like, wrote all his poems and novels

not true

…but what’s really true anymore?

besides, no one cares anyway

with fresh five-dollar pints

of anchor steam littering the table

and the next pub already in their line of sight

the truth is relative

when the waitress brings our second round

i ask for the check over the sloppy din

like i’m someone important and have to rush off

and not just another old man

with a ponytail and beard

in san francisco on a saturday night

binging my new pint

like some kind of anxious frat boy

almost choking on the beer

as those kids laugh and scream through their round

kings and queens of the bar

their relevance so glaring

that it renders me blind.

                                                                                    

--John Grochalski

day ONE THOUSAND and THIRTY SIX

We May All Be Dead Tomorrow: a poem for impending apocalypse

We may all be dead tomorrow,
but we aren’t dead today.

Today there is coffee that’s been made too sweet and costs us too much and is sold in a solid glass bottle we can fill with better things later.

Today there is a rich, thick, golden sun spilling across our floors.

Today there is a child who likes our company and asks for our time for no other reason.

Today there is a project in our hands that is coming along and full of beauty. Today that project was full of mistakes, all of which, it turned out, could be undone in the course of a morning, and for which it was no less beautiful.

Today we are full of our own mistakes that cannot be undone in the course of a lifetime, for which our lifetimes are of no less value.

Today there is a reach toward justice, with no promise of it ending up in our hands.

Today there is reaching anyway.

Today there is no rest from teaching.

Today there is a man who used us, who needn’t have, who practiced false, pretty shapes with his face in our mirrors and took the medicines we tend to share freely because lifetimes tend to be short. Today, he still doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong and he shows us so, just like he did yesterday, and probably just like tomorrow.

If we’re not all dead by tomorrow.

Until then, there’s anger, and time left to reflect on the ugliest shapes of our own truest faces, and time to say no,

and a cat staring lazily out our window,

and wool sweaters with hoods that swallow heads like dark tunnels,

and a chance to feel sorrow,

and hopefully, more of the same come tomorrow. 

-- Tomi Tsunoda

day ONE THOUSAND and THIRTY FIVE

Petulant Prez

President Trump

threatens angrily

to shut down the government

unless he’s given money

to build a wall

preventing Mexicans

from crossing the Rio Grande,

sneaking into America

in hope of a better life.

Trump will punish the people

if he doesn’t get what he wants,

almost unrestricted

in his abuse of power.

--Gary Beck

Gary Beck has spent his adult life as a theater director. He has 14 published chapbooks. His poetry collections include Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press), Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing). Conditioned Response (Nazar Look), Virtual Living (Thurston Howl Publications), Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force and Transitions (Wordcatcher Publishing). His novels include Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing), Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pig Productions), Sudden Conflicts (Lillicat Publishers). Acts of Defiance and Flare Up Wordcatcher Publishing). His short story collections include A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications), Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). Feast or Famine and other one act-plays will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of magazines. He lives in New York City.