Monday, June 24, 2019


Michigan, Warmed

Islands of garbage
float across the ocean
They fester and reek

No ice in the world anymore
The only ice is in the dirty martini
I drink in the backyard
of my tropical Michigan paradise

My son is coming later to plant some more
palm trees
No corn anymore
no soybeans
Granddad would have been surprised to
see my sugar cane crop
the sweet smelling tassles
flowing in the breeze

I told him I’d never live here
I was pissed off, feeling confined by family farming
I wanted something bigger
more life

No streets out here in the country
dirt roads
dirt and gravel
I’m done with drugs, Grandad
I know I broke your heart
but that’s what hearts are for

If you’d come from a city
you would have known that

Islands of garbage float across the ocean
They fester, reek
and the salmon and trout in Lake Michigan
have given way to
evil little fish that stowed away on river freighters
and came up from Chicago
riff raff with the blues

Doesn’t matter to me
I sold my boat long ago
I lay out in the backyard working on my tan
and watch the
palm fronds sway in the breeze

Fruit rats in the sapodilla trees jump from
branch to branch
If only Grandad could see them!
He’d laugh

The old, mean wasps are still here
Sometimes one stings me in the face
but that hardly disturbs me
drinking my dirty martinis
in my tropical Michigan paradise 

--Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Work by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois appears in magazines worldwide. Nominated for numerous prizes, he was awarded the 2017 Booranga Centre (Australia) Fiction Prize. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and as a print edition. His poetry collection, THE ARREST OF MR. KISSY FACE, published in March 2019 by Pski’s Porch Publications, is available here. Visit his website to read more of his poetry and flash fiction.

Sunday, June 23, 2019



That must be why the library
looks so much like a mausoleum.
So many corpses of various sizes
are coffined in its dark rooms.

It’s all language and pictures anyhow.
And isn’t that what phones are for?
Your second best friend has more to say
than Emerson or Hawthorne.

And, besides, her face is grinning
up at you from the parking lot at Walmart.
There’s cars and shoppers in the background.
But not a literary lion in sight.

You’re in a coffee shop texting fiercely.
A TV screen on a back wall is
showing a subtitled Fox and Friends.
If it doesn’t popup or roll across a screen,

then there’s just no reading it.
There was a time when the café was a way of life,
a continuing education of writers, musicians,
philosophers and artists.

The conversation was combative or communal
and sometimes even both.
No laws. No limits. No exclusions.
And there were always those on the periphery,

half-listening, half with their heads in a novel.
But every word, every point of view,
was birthed somewhere. sometime
in the pages of a book.

And, moments alone, sent the cognoscenti
reaching for a volume, not an IPod.
“Reduced hours” says the sign on the library door.
“Budget cuts” is the typical explanation.

Anyone in America can still grow up to be president.
But a librarian is a different story.

--John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes

Saturday, June 22, 2019



I read about what
those poor migrants
in the caravan are fleeing,
the gangs and bloodshed,
and an urge swept me
to go down to the library
and the bookstore,
and burn all the self help books,
all the ones that coddle
those of us with full bellies,
houses, jobs, two cars...

Who don't live with the daily fear
of rape and murder,
the ones that assuage
our soft existential concerns
about midlife crisis,
and the meaning
of our shallow lives.

We who will sit down
fat at thanksgiving tables
bitching about an invasion
of foreigners,
drunk on the juice of grapes
picked by their fingers,
and stuffing ourselves
with a turkey
they raised, caught,
beheaded and plucked.

Our hatred fanned
to a white hot flame
by masters of propaganda
whose books should also
be burned at the stake,
like the self righteous
and hypocritical trash
they are.

--Brian Rihlmann

Friday, June 21, 2019


                                               TRUMP PENCE CLOSED

                                               Photography by Jason Baldinger

Thursday, June 20, 2019


America, America

I will protect you to the death
of a million Mexicans
bones bleaching in the desert.

Of 5 million Syrians
begging to be allowed to

Of hundreds of Jews
packed in the hull of a stinking little boat
fleeing Germany.

America, America
the wretched refuse
washing up like garbage
on our shiny, inviolate shores.

I will build a wall to protect you,
another brick in our long history.

I guess you could call that love.

--Ethan Goffman

Ethan Goffman’s poems have appeared in BlazeVox, Mad Swirl, Madness Muse, Ramingo’s Blog, Under the Bleachers and well as the anthologies The Music of the Aztecs, Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love, and Narwhal’s Lament. He is co-founder of It Takes a Community, a Montgomery College initiative that brings poetry to both students and local residents. In addition, Ethan is founder and producer of the Poetry & Planet podcast on

Wednesday, June 19, 2019


Just a reminder before today's wonderful poem that July begins WineDrunk's FLAG PROJECT, in which I'll be posting submitted pictures of the American flag/American flag-ish images that people send.  If you're looking for an idea as to the scope of this and how creative and out the box you can get with your submissions, I offer this humble example:

Looks kinda like a flag, right?  Honestly, I'm just curious about the various incarnations of the flag (and there are a ton) that we can come up with.  The hope is to see the usual contributors, new ones, and even those of you out there who read this protest blog but feel you've been unable to contribute....your neighbor painted their car RED WHITE and BLUE....take a photo of it and send it my way.

SUBMIT2RESIST: winedrunksidewalk AT gmail DOT com

For those of you sending/already sent poems to me, I will begin with the poems again come August 1st. 

Also to keep in mind....because we never properly acknowledge labor in this country but instead pollute our Labor Day with Labor Day sales/Bullshit Barbecues, in September i'm going to post any poems that people send me about work...your work...the work of others...anything that keeps this Capitalist system afloat even under 800+ days of an idiot racist game show keep that in mind as well.

thank you all for contributing and reading/viewing the great work I've had the honor of putting on here for EIGHT HUNDRED and EIGHTY ONE days.

now...on with the show....

Political Apnea

There is nothing
sexy about politics.
It drags on forever, while
I stare at the ceiling.

Just when I think politics
can't continue much longer,
it finishes abruptly,
rolls over on the mattress,

and goes to sleep, then grunts
and snores with tortured gasps.
I try desperately to rest,

while I lie with my ass
in the puddle.

One day I will leave
politics for good,

but for now, I am beholden
and need the security.
I roll on the sagging mattress,
twist my pillow against my ears,

clench my jaw
until the noise subsides.

I have no other place to go:
just this uncomfortable bed
with no promise of improvement,

and the morning is years away.

--Leah Mueller

Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Tacoma, Washington. She is the author of two chapbooks and four books. Her next two books, "Death and Heartbreak" and "Misguided Behavior" will be published in Autumn, 2019 by Weasel Press and Czykmate Press. Leah’s work appears in Blunderbuss, The Spectacle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and other publications. She was a featured poet at the 2015 New York Poetry Festival, and a runner-up in the 2012 Wergle Flomp humor poetry contest.

Tuesday, June 18, 2019


Thoughts and Prayers

Tell me, my people,
how will you prepare the children’s bodies?

Will they be wearing suits?
That is proper, for a funeral.

Or, will they be wearing their school clothes,
holey and streaked with blood?
That is proper, for a protest.

When they are lowered down,
or scattered to the wind,
what words will you give to comfort

and demand?

--Josh Medsker

Josh Medsker's writing has appeared in many publications, including: Contemporary American Voices, The Brooklyn Rail, The Review Review, Haiku Journal, and Red Savina Review. For a complete list of Mr. Medsker's publications, please visit his website. (