day TWELVE HUNDRED and SIXTY

PRECARITY

“Where are the heroes and the saints, who keep a clear vision of man's greatest gift, his freedom, to oppose not only the dictatorship of the proletariat, but also the dictatorship of the benevolent state, which takes possession of the family, and of the indigent, and claims our young for war?” Dorothy Day

While Trump fiddle-fucks around playing president,

Spewing his white supremacist hatred,

Society begins to unravel, a social class at a time.

Anger and violence replace civility and law.

Among the rubber bullets and the tear gas canisters

Pure vitriol flows like acid.

Camo-wearing, gun-toting right-wing extremists

Clad in Hawaiian shirts like the Boogaloo Bois,

Believing they are exceptional and living in a democracy,

Fight their own Civil War against the government,

Amongst the masses of Black Lives Matter protesters.

Dissenters and demonstrators, virtuous and intent on making real change

While keeping their middle class, material-based, consumer lifestyles,

Pull back the hidden curtain of racism in America

For eight minutes and forty-six seconds,

Now a powerful symbol of police brutality.

The top 20%, university educated, belonging to the creditor class, hide,

Much like the orange-tinted racist, fascist faux president did,

Hiding in the White House bunker.

In the end, the poor will return to their sacrifice zones

And live lives of precarity. The well-off will stow away their placards,

 

Get up from their bended knees and

Return to their comfortable middle-class lives.

In this war of dominance, the elite will continue to profit and rule.

And unfortunately, those on the margin, seeing the insanity

Like Mistah Kurtz in The Heart of Darkness

Will remain on the margin.  

--Victor Henry

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY NINE

PYRAMIDS

The trailer park is
one hundred pyramids
of suburban decay

linoleum sided sarcophagi
bleached white by the
Bayshore sun

ambulances are chariots
without the lights on

no rush for the dead
who lay forgotten on
plastic covered furniture
while the news berates
their corpses with daily terrors

we worship the scarabs

the sons and daughters
of the trailer park pharaohs
who dance in the sun
and are revived with Narcan

I need to escape

--Damian Rucci

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY EIGHT

WHITE SILENCE

                                                Photography By John Grochalski

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY SEVEN

I CAN'T BREATHE

                                    Photographhy by John Grochalski

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY SIX

an existential fuck

no way to keep dread down
I mean that existentially
I mean that physicallywhen I'm alone
my heart becomes
a separate entity
it tries its damndest
to leap from my throat
from my chest

what leaves me stymied
is the grief, dying country
dying culture, dying economy
no surprises, moribund
corpulent, ossified are all
words for this republic then
now this republic of suffering

what leaves me stymied
is the grief, the numbers
of the dead daily
the lack of empathy
from the true believers
the manchurian candidates
their frothing protests
moloch be praised
moloch be praised

when I see friends
conversation teeters
we vacillate wildly
a little hope, a little dread
nothing for the pain
nothing for the anxiety

as we talk we pause
wait for traction again
the wheels of aching minds
what escapes is a sigh
heavy and weighted
a cry from our collective
organism brain

the force of will
to take another breath
to say another sentence
escapes us, wind rattles
through our teeth
on a page it might look
like ellipsis, like this
...
except longer
........................................
it can only be described
as an existential fuck

fffffuuuuuccccckkkkk
no force in a limp breeze
resignation at the hands
of this time escaping
lost between shores
of what's been, what's coming
of what's failed and what we hope for

I find comfort in camus
as I tread the water of now
I’ll do my best to paraphrase

if life is ruled by death
we should ignore god
and fight like hell against it

--Jason Baldinger

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY FIVE

Rise Up

“Not the hymn of promise but the body’s bright wailing against its limits.” – Danusha Lameris

Juneteenth during the summer of pandemic:
Black, white, every culture and gender
cry out in unified protest, “No more police violence!”
Those of conscience reject tasers, tear gas, chokeholds,
knees pressed on necks of the fallen.

Demonstrators chant as they march,
raise banners, wave picket signs,
share personal stories of experience, witness.
Relentless, unjustified homicides
have broken the back of silent complacence.

It’s past time for militarized officers
to stop terrorizing, misusing power.
Outraged communities rise up as one,
rebel against 400 years of oppression,
demand reallocation of funding, resources.

--Jennifer Lagier

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY FOUR

2nd amendment

then and now
applies only if
you are white

--Thomas R. Thomas

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY THREE

Reading Tyranny in Time of Crisis

As an outline
for the Days of Rage
known as The Trump
Administration

Is read as a should-be
Bible
for resistors

not unlike the one
he holds up
outside St John’s
church in DC

blaspheming the holy
words in a blatant
act of self-promotion

The real take away here
is the man who plays
a president on TV
walking past walls

of obscene phrases
and political rants
with him as the subject

words that represent
a sadness in the world
so deep the tear gassed
peaceful protestors cried

Even Jesus wept.

--Alan Catlin

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY TWO

Chili Con Carnage

I wake up in bed alone, with drool and sweat and worse on my pillow. There are crumpled dollar bills and a couple of bucks in change on top of the dresser, enough for cigarettes and scratch-offs, maybe a bottle. History is dead. Scum is all that’s left. The sun keeps showing up regardless.

&

The train was crowded, dirty, excruciatingly slow. I had boarded with the idea of arriving that night in time to be a character in someone else’s dreams. It doesn’t have to make sense, but, for a while, the train ran parallel to an oily black river in which naked corpses floated. None of the passengers traveling with small children even attempted to shield the children’s eyes. And that was fine with me. Growing up, I spent many hours watching TV alone in the basement in the dark.

&

I said to the doctor, “I’m dying.” He said, “How’s that my fault?” I had been having difficulty breathing for about a month. The doctor said it was my body attacking itself. “It’ll scald you,” he said with unexpected enthusiasm, “peel the skin and muscle right off your bones.” I wondered if this was a joke of some sort. I decided it must be and climbed down from the exam table. When I opened the door to leave, a man with a bloody face, his hands bound behind his back, was just standing there waiting his turn.

--Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY ONE

the hanging tree

we begin again
the evil
sweeps the land

hidden in
filthy robes
washed white

but inside
a foul stench
of hate

permeates
their putrid
souls

leaving these
innocent souls
swinging in

the fetid
wind of
the wicked

and yet the
constables stand
by and say

that the innocent
have in their
sadness

tied the knot
leaping to
their death

victims of
their
sorrow

refuse to
see that the
hands

of the evil ones
were on the necks
of the innocent

and we stand by
and wonder
and shake our heads

as a cold wind
blows through
our soul

--Thomas R. Thomas

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FIFTY

My husband Jeff at the summer solstice

“I always wait for the longest day of the year and then miss it.”
Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby

Never misses it.
There to catch the pendulum
at its farthest swing.

Earliest birdsong.
Longest days of tender green.
Latest evening light.

Now he sees a child
grabbing at a mechanism
he can’t understand,

yanking it apart.
Seasons, climates, sun and rain
veer out of balance.

Druids at Stonehenge!
Bring small orange effigies!
Cast them to the ground!

--Cheryl Caesar

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY NINE

TONGUE

                         
                                               by STEVEN B. SMITH

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY-EIGHT

THE AUTHORITARIAN AND THE OLIGARCHS

“Corruption is a cancer that steals from the poor, eats away at governance and moral fibre and destroys trust.” Robert Zoellick

America has been usurped
By an imbecilic hustler, a con man
Given to wishful thinking
And infantile behavior.

Donny Tiny Hands and his band
Of bad actors
Are callously killing citizens
To remain in power,
Putting profit over people.

Members of both parties,
Ignoring doctors
And scientists,
Preferring conspiracy theories
And spouting nonsense
About the Constitution
And an American history
They do not comprehend,
Quote scripture from a bible
They have not read.

What was akin to democracy
Is now a plutocracy, an oligarchy,
An empire of illusion.
Corruption and incompetence reign
On both sides of the aisle.
The power elite’s mantra:
Divide and rule.
Their objective: Disseminate disinformation
Amongst the masses.
Create chaos.

America promotes commercial
propaganda as entertainment,
Looking more like
A Third World clusterfuck nation,
A land of magical thinking,
Entrapped in a tragedy of comic proportions,
With too many overfed, indulgent, selfish,
Ignorant, myopic, and hypocritical politicians
Telling people what they should think and do.
.
A visit to the slums and shantytowns of Soweto or Jakarta
Or Manilla or Baltimore or Calcutta or Dhaka or Cairo
Or Aden Or Karachi or Kabul or Nairobi or Addis Ababa
Or Abuja or Rio or Mogadishu or Mexico City
“Might” shake up the left, the right, the moderates
And the progressives, but not the global top 1%
With their jackboot on the neck of the enslaved.

Imagine the fear and anxiety and suffering
The poor are experiencing.
To a daily struggle to feed themselves,
Now is added the specter of contracting COVID-19.

The more affluent of the world’s population
Grouses and grumbles about being locked down,
All the while not lacking running water and electricity
And food and access to medical care.

The orange clown pResident,
A modern-day Nero,
Fiddles while the empire burns and,
Not surprisingly, his MAGA red-capped base
Of low-information voters
Fiddles faithfully along with him.


--Victor Henry

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY SEVEN

FIGHT CORONA NYC

                                           photography by Gregory K. Clary

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY SIX

Last Things

"My mother said that stones were last things and would be around long after people were gone.  Other last things were oceans, metal and crows."

~ Jenny Offill's novel, Last Things   

George Floyd, murdered by a cop

pressing a knee on his neck,

becomes a rallying cry

for democracy’s last stand.

Final words: “I can’t breathe…”

Communities take to the streets and march,

condemn police brutality,

demand change, social justice,

tell the world, “Black Lives Matter”.

Peaceful protestors, journalists are beaten,

tear-gassed, shot with rubber bullets,

cleared from sacred spaces for a propaganda photo op

as fascism flexes jack boots and knuckles.

Tanks, private security contractors

circle the White House, erect a wall

to keep people out while inside a coward

tweets inflammatory insults,

turns off the lights, hides in his bunker.

Throughout the nation,

fires ignite, windows break.

Four hundred years of rage bubbles over.

--Jennifer Lagier

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY FIVE

I want to breathe freely

there's a black boy
8 years old
with his motherholds a sign
I want to breathe freely

I stay to the edges
see a muscle bound tree
in a torn punisher shirt
I know what that means
I watch carefully
until he's gone

a man in a lemon colored suit
nervous bangs on steakhouse door
shitting himself for a to go order
there’s a man behind me, we laugh
as lemon suit races to his car

we file past the old jail

the bridge of sighs
I think of anarchists

alexander berkman's
failed escape

like emma, if I can’t dance

I don’t wanna be at your revolution

crowd swells
stretches over blocks
they chant

I can’t breathe
I can’t breathe
I can’t breathe
I can’t breathe

at the top of the lower hill
thousands peaceful
at the head of the march
people film, photograph
sheer numbers
this is what democracy looks like

collective gasp
cops on horseback
ride through
middle of protesters
collective yells, screams
this was a peaceful protest

cop centaurs chase humans
across parking lot

water bottles and rocks

the first punches thrown

this is what a riot looks like

horses they pass
a woman nearby
shouts
fuck you
this was peaceful

this was peaceful

cop yells
fuck off

there is no de-escalation
she is shattered illusion
this is what a police state looks like

--Jason Baldinger

day TWLELVE HUNDRED and FORTY FOUR

When An Image Trumps Words

When fear stalks people going about their daily lives, police
can kneel on a man's neck because his skin's the wrong colour.
A spur of the moment plan to walk across Lafayette Square
to a church where a small fire started in the basement.
“Take off the riot gear, I don’t see no riot here,” was chanted.
Officials said protestors were ordered to disperse three times.
But many, including the press, didn't hear the orders.
St Peter denied Jesus three times before the cock crowed.

The forty-fifth President posed in front of St John's Church,
his daughter pulls a Bible out of her $1,540 dollar handbag.
While the press office tweet about hands held, not made into fists,
he holds the book as if reading the back page, looking for a soundbite,
a slogan, 'In God We Trust', backed by an all-white line of officials,
forgetting the church noticeboard is a gift to Photoshop-savvy meme-ists.

--Emma Lee

Emma Lee’s publications include “The Significance of a Dress” (Arachne, 2020) and "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, 2015). She co-edited “Over Land, Over Sea,” (Five Leaves, 2015), is Poetry Reviews Editor for The Blue Nib, reviews for magazines and blogs at http://emmalee1.wordpress.com.

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY THREE

Friends, Americans, countrymen — lend me your fears.
I come to divide the nation, not lead it.
The evil that I tweet will live after me;
the truth will be twisted by nationalist drones.
So let it be with America.
My critics say I am dangerous
— is that so grievous a fault?

America, you have enabled me.
Obama; Bush; Bush, Sr.;
and Clinton were honorable men,
Despite their various differences,
all honorable men.
But I’ll make America chaos,
subservient only to me.

My critics say I am dangerous,
and my critics are honorable men.
But did they entertain at great rallies,
where hatred made your heart full?
Is it this that seems dangerous?
When all are are divided, no Union is left;
Nations should be made of sterner stuff.

Oh America, thou art ruled by brutish beasts!
For you have lost your reason!—Bear with me;
My prescription bottle is in my pocket,
And I must pause to tweak.

~ Trumpus Antonius

--Eric Robert Nolan

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY TWO

of every black child

his knee was on the neck
of every black child
watching this on
television

every tear that ran down
every mother's face was
the knowledge that shit
never changes in this
country

every protest, every sit in
every building that burns

the powers that be simply
presses down a little harder
in their response

they don't get paid to listen,
to calm, to see that justice
is served

their money is made
in oppression and
appropriation

and you wonder why every
ghetto is full of churches
and liquor stores

why the suburbs have
the good grocery stores

why the rich kids get to
go to the good schools

slavery still exists
they just like to call it
something else these days


--J.J. Campbell

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY ONE

sitting at solitaire
perplexing a specious
argument unformed

by my foe who
follows blindly
a leader who

yearns for the
blind faith of
foolish followers

I find the
distracting
play allows

my inner mind
to peruse the
weakness of

the non argument
the weakness
of the foe's

folly, I smile
at the simple
solution

that their
argument
fails at the

beginning—
the foundation
is flawed

so there is
no cause to
pursue the

structure of
a weak base—
my cards have

nowhere to go
now my game
is over

--Thomas R. Thomas

day TWELVE HUNDRED and FORTY

DUMP TRUMP

                                         --Steven B. Smith

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY NINE

HIS FAMILY

They never look very happy in
any of the photographs. Seeming
distracted, constipated, they
frown, look away, or stare
blankly at the camera.
Especially the wife, who
appears to view everything
with distaste and disdain.
As though she’s just sniffed
a carton of sour milk or
walked past a homeless person
on her way into a gilded hotel.

The luxury, the privilege, even
the solid gold toilets don’t
seem to please them anymore.
Their power is simply to be
wielded tediously as a right
bestowed upon them by a
glitch in the democratic process
which allowed the candidate
with the fewest votes to win
a viciously waged election.

And still they look less than
pleased with all they’ve done.
Have they discovered the
bottom of the treasury at last?
The limits of unbridled looting?
Surely they have not run out
of environmental regulations
to overturn, negate, and reverse.
No, they simply appear to be
sour by nature, evil by inclination,
and unhappy by disposition.
May they remain so in perpetuity:
every meal causing indigestion,
every gesture resulting in pain.

--M.J. Arcangelini

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY EIGHT

barney sits outside the indigo tavern

barney sits

outside the indigo tavern

like it’s going to open any minute

he sits on the wooden bench

that he’s usually on

smoking his unfiltered cigarettes

he sits there

like there’s a new pint

waiting for him inside

and a mets game on the tv

like phil is in there with his cheap scotch

dennis with his cheap white wine and ice cubes

barney sits there smiling

like he’s got a joke to tell darlene

if she’s lucky

he’ll flirt with jill

barney sits outside

checking his watch

but the indigo has been closed for three months

as the pandemic raged on and on

the american flags outside the bar

are yellow and drooping

tattered at their fringes

no one planted new flowers

in the big stone plots

bill caught the covid from watching fox news

and dennis is afraid to come outside

darlene says that stimulus check

didn’t do her for shit

and the unemployment

barely lets her slide by

barney sits

outside the indigo tavern

on a bright sunny day in june

waiting like he always does

as a truck full of day laborers

pull up to the curb

and get out of a big red truck

they have ladders

and tool boxes with them

saws and big planks of wood

a for rent sign

and the bright brass keys

to the indigo’s classic front door.

--John Grochalski

                                                                       

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY SEVEN

if the kids knew the truth

imagine if the kids
knew the truth about
the civil war

imagine if the slaves
once freed, were given
the land of the ones
that lost the war

imagine if hatred
wasn't so damn
easy to teach

imagine if everyone
knew of the role of
people of color in
science and medicine

imagine if the textbooks
actually talked about
tulsa and black wall
street

imagine if we dared
to just fucking let
the truth out of its
cage and be free
to run

imagine if white women
didn't immediately think
of a lie when a black man
was around

imagine if white men
respected black women
enough to not think
immediately about what
rap video they saw you in

imagine if the kids actually
grew up in a world where
the innocent only die of
natural causes

--J.J. Campbell

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY SIX

“Treasure of Sierra Madre” Re-imagined in a Time of Coronavirus

“Face masks -we don’t need no stinkin’ face masks.”

Covid 45
visits Ford
plant

commissioned
to make essential
pandemic
medical supplies

praises the Ford
sketchy bloodline

refuses to wear
mask in public

Put upon by
Trumpenstein
Michigan AG

suggests, “Not wearing
a mask in public
violates state law.”

Threatens to bar
further
state visits

is flummoxed by
vicious presidential
taunts that

suggests ending out
applications
for absentee ballots

is illegal

Then illegally
threatens to
withhold
state aid

on eve of
catastrophic

once in five hundred
years flood

45 says he
won’t wear masks
in public

as it would
make him look
ridiculous

appear weak

One wonders:

Has he ever seen
himself
in a MAGA hat?

--Alan Catlin

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY FIVE

4 short untitled poems

I

my blood is bloodnot starting fluid
for a machine
that doesn't
see me
as anything more
than expendable

II

there is no such thing
as normalcy
any politician
who promises normalcy
promises outdated oppression

III

I wonder what
happens when every
last dollar funnels
to the top?

IV

colonization
didn't end
when empires
crumbled
when occupying forces
were ousted

colonization
like a virus
adapted
it comes
with every dollar

spent

--Jason Baldinger

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY FOUR

the architects

when

the cops

kill another black person

and the riots start

the poor innocent white people

suddenly become architects

worrying

about the burning buildings

oh the buildings!

oh the buildings!

they worry about those buildings

more than they worry

about the people

who have been beaten

brutalized

and murdered

at the hands

of a corrupt system

that they’ve breezed through

their whole lives 

with the ease

of a beaming blonde family

having a sunday picnic

in a big beautiful

park.

a pack of rosy-faced
innocent frank llyod wright's
for sure.

--John Grochalski

                                   

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY THREE

to protect and serve

threatening skies

the police usually like the rain
keeps the crime down on most
days

but tonight, the city is going
to burn for the dead

murder after murder by those
that are here to protect and serve,
keep the peace

my white skin has afforded me
many luxuries many of my friends
will never fucking have

i'm painfully aware of such
a privilege

it's also why i never bat an eye
at the protests, the looting, the
mob mentality that takes over
when chaos erupts

they have centuries of being
fucked over to make up for

they have every right to be pissed
and be hungry for some elusive
justice

the powers that be keep pressing
their luck

one day, the cracks that have formed
will be the canyon of their karma

--J.J. Campbell

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY TWO

I remember 1967 – 2020

1967  I remember sitting Ronnie’s backyard
          Listening to the tanks roll down Gratiot
          To help quell the riots in Detroit

1967 I remember Ronnie’s dad telling us
        His two black workers had called in
        To say they wouldn’t be into work
        They were staying home to protect
        Their homes and neighbors from rioters

1967 I remember my dad coming home from
        Work at Chevy Gear and Axle and telling
        Mom and I how he saw white men
        Breaking into stores and looting

1967 I remember the tv news and the pictures
        Of what they called race riots

1967 I remember that even then I knew they
        Were more than just race riots
        They were people who had enough
        Of brutality, of racism, of poverty

2020 I watch tv news from Minneapolis
         Police brutality, poor people rioting
         I remember the years between
        And know we have learned nothing

2020 I read the news about racism
         I hear about a child threatened
        To have the police called because
        He was walking on his own street

2020 I read about a woman calling 911
Because a black man bird watching told
Her that her dog needed to be leashed

2020 I read the President’s tweets and
Listen to his words and know
The dream is still deferred
Yet, I remember the dream

2020 I read, I watch, I remember

--Tom Blessing

day TWELVE HUNDRED and THIRTY ONE

When The Virus Is Over

When this virus is beaten,
when the lockdown is over,
and we'll all be partying
in the streets.
There will be a financial crisis
like nothing seen before.
Every country in the world
will be in more debt than ever.
It'll make 1929, or 2008 look like
losing a pound coin down
the back of the settee.
That's when the real shit will
really hit the fan.
When every government in the world
is going to be making cutbacks
that will make any other depression,
or recession we've been through,
seem like nothing.
Nothing at all.
We're going to be seeing things
I shudder to think of.
In the good days when the
virus is over.

--Ian Copestick