day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY NINE

there's a new religion in town
the faithful gather in large halls
chant familiar slogans
the evangelist preacher
with a broad grin, adored
by his loving fans
preaches familiar phrases
we must defeat the enemy
we must not let him prevail
the crowd chants
We love you, we adore you
Save us from the enemy
Do you love us?
he smiles and says
I love you all
but he cannot love them
he has only one love
his odd orange ugly
smug grinning face
he loves the adoration
of the crowd
and anyone who
opposes him
he must crush
he fires up the crowd
kill them all, kill them all

--Thomas R. Thomas

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY EIGHT

Looking for an Old Horn

In the past, it is said, we had fins, we had wings. Memory is
A phantom limb; we swim, we fly. How we got to the top of
Babel doesn’t matter. What we do from here on out is all.

After 30 years, the child in you rises up before me with a tilt
Of the head, in a nervous bit of laughter, a lack of attention,
A shy, young one longing so much to return. But to where?

The master poet, Ghalib, said if you don’t drink or gamble,
Haven’t had a lover beat you with a slipper, or spent a night
In jail, you’re no poet. Yup, he’s right and we ought to know.

Friend, have you searched lately in the bottom of that neglected
Closet, among the bric-a-brac and faded clothes and looked for
That old horn? Why? Well, there’s a wall needs coming down.

What was the mountain thinking when Mohammed called?
Wait, did you say mountains think, Donald? Yes, of course,
Of course, otherwise why ever would Mohammad go to it?

The blue morning glory twirling around yellow caution tape
Is another form of prayer. My beloveds, with one warm deep
Sigh, we will rise above the trees, we will change this world.

--Don Wentworth

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY SEVEN

There is a Bar

There is a bar out west
that offers special drinks
for women
and not the kind that most
bars offer on
ladies night

but the kind that signals you need help.
It was invented by the bartender
who is, of course, a woman
and they are called angel shots

you can get them neat, or on the rocks, or with a lime.
Neat means you would like the bartender to call you a cab
because your date is not going well.
On ice is for an uber or a lyft
but a lime means you want the bartender
to call the police.

Because your date is not going well.

And there are signs in the women’s room
letting you know what your options are
and this is a good thing, I think,
telling my husband on the street
and he thinks so too
and we are both weirdly proud
of this woman and her plan to help keep women safe
and it isn’t until later
at night
when we are going to sleep
and I think about these drinks again
and the panic settles into my chest
squeezing my heart and lungs
so that I can barely breathe
and all I can see when I close my eyes

are girls
in body bags.

--Ally Malinenko

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY SIX

american groupthink and apple pie

it happened

at school pep rallies mostly

or on the school bus

going to the football game

the dozens

or the hundreds of them breaking into

school chants

or battle cries

then usa! usa! usa!

sounding like ravenous nazis on the prowl

you could only look around

in fear and wonder

at their red faces

the spittle coming out of their mouths

their fists moving like hammers

the blind capitulation

to conformity

american groupthink and apple pie

as they chanted the same doggerel

over and over again

like it was coming from their hearts

so it is no wonder

to see them all now as adults

pasty-faced and flabby

fat from the heartland

the mendacity of exceptionalism on stolen land

still chanting

but this time for crooked politicians

still caught up

in the same stupid orthodoxy

that has kept them

shackled to the many

the very blood and soil

that has been strangling

the essence of their humanity

since birth.

--John Grochalski

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY FIVE

Realizing

To unsee
Mammon, the son of the Devil, is a
certain kind of task.

Ridding yourself of

the smell of pine in your brain
and your
nose and your memory

Love & Hate use
memory the most. We propped
up,

we braced, we buttressed, the Prince
of Coins insidious and mouthful.
No words

metal on metal, paper on paper, fire
on skin.
Chewing, dribbling, drooling,

blathering, Apollo’s Arrow is required,
but this son is real. If you have faith
in life

and waking up tomorrow,
the color
red absorbs all other colors but blood.

--Paul Koniecki

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY FOUR

SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT

Knocking at the door, there’s a couple burly looking, simian types.
In uniform.
It’s ICE.
Yeah?
Is this the residence of a Mr. Jay Stephan Passer?
Yeah?
Do you live here alone sir?
Who’s asking?
Immigration and Customs Enforcement, sir. Are you here alone?
Got some house plants.
We have on plausible intelligence that there is, as the ICE guy pokes and prods at his flatscreen electronic device, a Victor Emilio Chavez von Zeppelin II habituating the premise?
A who? Are you kidding me?
Quite serious, sir. Now ICE man is looking over my shoulder.
There’s nobody here by that name. Unless you’re looking for my cat.
Your what?
My CAT. Feline? Pet? Four-legged, furry, with a tail? Likes to lap milk?
Please sir, remain calm.
I’m perfectly calm! What is this? You’re here trying to deport my cat? Who is by the way a perfectly law-abiding citizen.
Just following protocol, sir, simply routine.
The two ICE guys exchange glances; grim, sympathetic, final.
For all I know, there’s miniature surreptitious cameras
shoved up my unsuspecting asshole.
Zeppelin II struts up to the door.
Speak of the devil, here’s your culprit, the accused, your assassin!
Sir! I asked you to PLEASE REMAIN CALM!
I’m standing there, thinking.
I mean, this kinda thing happens every day, right?
Papers?
What?
Papers!
He’s not pedigreed, he’s a rescue. Nursed him back to health. With tuna fish. And a constant drip in the sink.
Naturalization?
Excuse me?
We’ll need proof of his place of birth.
You mean is he a Mexican cat? Dominican? Canadian? Fuck sakes, this is San Francisco! Sanctuary city!
Native-born English speaker, then?
Cat, the cat speaks cat. That’s what cats speak. Cat.
The burlier ICE guy puffs up. His face slackens, his acne reddens, shines, vibrates. It’s not a pretty sight.
YOU NEED TO ANSWER THE QUESTION! DOES YOUR CAT SPEAK ENGLISH?
Yes, sir! My cat is fluent in meow! Especially when I fry a bit of liver!
The ICE men’s eyes flit and fly around in their sockets. I’m a little worried these old boys are about to embark on some medieval fascist route.
Zeppelin II sidles by my legs, suddenly tenses, then streaks out the door.
Saves the day in the hallway.
He’s pulled down a rat,
almost his own size.
The ICE man nods accordingly.
That’s what happens, he says, to the opposition.

--Jay Passer

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY THREE

                                      A Hymn for the Surveillance State

walking into the dollar store
sign on the door says
this location is under video
surveillance for your protection
                     for your safety

I see these signs more often
It’s like they weren’t here
then like magic they are

safety is an illusion
our lives and the world
we live in are reflections
of the universe we live in
and the universe is chaos

we try and make order
from chaos in order
to make sense of our lives
we believe we have control
but the reality is simple
we only have a modicum of control

the reality is simple
this is a police state
this is a surveillance state
fascism and totalitarianism
are in full bloom

we trade freedom
we trade our rights
for the illusion of safety

as humans
we are free
as Americans
we are decidedly not free

--Jason Baldinger

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY TWO

Piss City

San Francisco used to be Piss City
no bathrooms
every alley a yellow creek
Now it’s Shit City
morale is low
and the homeless are tired
of scrounging 97ȼ
for a small fries
so they can crap at McDonalds
Yep, those brown piles
aren’t from dogs
I didn’t know
we had things so good
back in the Piss City days
but now I guess
we all know better.

--Jon Bennett

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY ONE

Omarosa, Omarosa

By Suzy Tenenbaum

8/16/18

Worked in hell where she did revel

Now shares secrets of the devil.

Sang his praises and got hired

Upset Kelly, then got fired.

President Clueless didn’t know

Then put on a tweet storm show.

Omarosa, keep on talking

Tell us tales of those you’re stalking.

Put out some tapes I’d like to hear

Whisper in my own sweet ear.

I’d love to hear a new conversation

About the Russian operation.

This dirt you share is satisfying

Another look at who is lying.

Omarosa we can’t trust you

Even if your words are true.

You’ll burn out soon, I’d place a bet

But look away—I can’t just yet.

\

Bring him down, tell us more

That gets him closer to the door.

Out you both go to the dump

Omarosa and her guide dog trump.

                                              

day FIVE HUNDRED and EIGHTY

A Horrible Case of the DTs

I was walking in the Presidio
road bikes all over
girl comes along, up, up, up
she’s sobbing
peddling and sobbing
Later, a lady going to work
at Next Door, the big homeless shelter
fresh faced, tidy,
name badge dangling
and she’s in tears
I’d say, “People! Do that shit
at home!”
but I’m sure
they’re doing it there,
too.

--Jon Bennett

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY NINE

She’s Full of Lies, No Doubt

- a New York Times comments section found poem from the article on Asia Argento, a voice of #MeToo settling with her accuser

but also
is this man kidding?
Why did he meet her in a hotel room?
that’s the usual place to have sex isn’t it?
And when he saw where things were going
he could have gotten up and walked out the door.

I find it hard to believe Bennnet at all,
for some reason the fact that he was seventeen was
no concern
And it’s rape at 17 because he’s helpless and immature
but, magically becomes a man at 18
What a laugh
probably was the best day of his life.

And this is the end of the Me Too
movement and good riddance
that whole thing was a witch hunt anyway
if you don’t want to play the game,
don’t go to the hotel room
is all I’m saying.

And more importantly
screw her and her hypocrisy
and let’s be honest he probably wanted it
but the bigger issues
is that this MUST
be why we lost
our
dear
beloved
Anthony
Bourdain

--Ally Malinenko

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY EIGHT

                                    Another Day in America

there’s a man on Douglas
looking up at the sky
as I get closer, he makes
eye contact says
have you ever seen
anything like that?
points at three helicopters
triangulating
he says there was a gunfight
on the street corner
over the hill
the choppers
are looking
for the shooter
he wonders
how they’ll find them

I nod, think about a friend
who texted this afternoon
said her building was on lockdown
an active shooter situation outside

it should be disturbing
but this is just another
day in America

--Jason Baldinger

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY SEVEN

HANDS UP DON'T SHOOT

                                             photo by John Grochalski

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY SIX

the modern office
a tribute to corporations 

torture comes
in many forms
power preys

the more petty
the power the more
intimate the murder

killing in small degrees
he draws blood in
whispers and threats

in small cuts the
modern inquisitor
present with power

over just a few victims
holding hostage
future livelihood

the modern murderer
kills with a smile
a pretense of benevolence

--Thomas R. Thomas

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY FIVE

 MILES AHEAD

the Obama years

replay like Miles Ahead compared to

the tawdry showband noise

blaring from the Trump Casino

--Chuck Joy

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY FOUR

heaven is hell

you can’t justify

the rape and assault

of thousands of kids

you can’t explain it away

or apologize

this catholic “problem”

you can’t reason promising children heaven

while putting them through hell

ruining countless lives in the name of christ

back then we knew the priests to stay away from

…or some of the lucky did

father richie who always wondered

why martin never came around

used to call us and whine on the phone

used to grab us in the hallways

the ones who didn’t attract him as much

oh, where’s martin?

why is martin treating me this way?

father richie who the pittsburgh dioceses

moved around from church to church

for almost twenty years

letting him take nude photos of boys

fondle their gentiles and whatever else

pine over their adolescent flesh

while watching us sweat at cyo basketball games

before some bishop put him on leave

because the heat grew too big

because ignorance in sin have always been the catholic way

father richie who died in columbia

living his “flamboyant” gay lifestyle

murdered in his apartment

while running a boy prostitute ring

for horny american men

“flamboyant” is a catholic word for shame

you can’t justify

the rape and assault

of thousands of children, motherfuckers

you can’t apologize this horror away

there are no sorries

there are no one million our fathers

no thousands of hail marys

to serve as a penance

no bullshit words from the pope

no bullshit edict from rome

no confessional booth big enough to house

your reverent flock of rapists and pedophiles

there is nothing left on this earth

for a religion as corrupt at its core

that has damaged so many lives

except to die

its withered and black death

die on the vine

and be no more.

--John Grochalski

                                    

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY THREE

dog

you call a woman a dog

you call a black woman a dog

you’re the dog

mr. “president”

the orange mutt of america

smearing your orange diarrhea lies

on each and every street

you’re the dog

little kick-me racist

putin’s poodle

pulled along by a russian leash

traitor-terrier

with no balls

sowing hate

from sea to shining sea

with every single whiney

twitter bark

--John Grochalski

               

                                               

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY TWO

Clean Sheets

The Cova Hotel
is getting all new blankets
and the old ones
are sitting in boxes
in the parking lot
Arlen is drunk
he drops the boxes on the pavement
and they split open like apples
“Careful, dammit!” says Stubbs
When Arlen is done
Stubbs gives him $3
and a hit off his pipe
then puts up a sign
“Clean Sheets- $2”
The sheets and blankets
form a big white cloud
on the sidewalk
and the junkies line up
to buy them
Around here
the clean sheets
never last long.

--Jon Bennett

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY ONE

                                      The Day Job (For Nancy Krieg)

we work till we’re blind
figuratively perhaps
but when the garage door
goes up in the darkness
comes down in darkness
it becomes hard
to tell if we haven’t
accidentally transformed
into moles
and then the days bleed together
and together and together
until they become a river
we can’t actually see
for having our heads
under, the paycheck
gets no bigger, we stretch
and stretch and stretch
to the point of breaking
it’s a wonder we can even pretend
to be alright, all our heart
given out before we have time
to even rest with ourselves
of course, the world seems crazy
of course, it feels insurmountable
we wait, look for a magic wand
something to clear cloud cover
give you a few minutes to feel human
again blank without the flow of the world
and with the sun directly on our faces
breathlessly easy for a short while

--Jason Baldinger

day FIVE HUNDRED and SEVENTY

white boy roy

white boy roy is at it again

he doesn’t like all of these trump doomsayers

i mean who’s bombing our cities?

the economy is doing well….so shut up

white boy roy won’t buy into the hysteria

white boy roy is white

so white boy roy is above hysteria

white boy roy thinks you’re hysterical over trump

white boy roy uses coded language

but, still, that means he doesn’t have to consider women

or homosexual people

or people of color

in his opinions

white boy roy is SO beyond identity politics

YOU people lost him the election with that shit

white boy roy wants to speak to the working class again

the WHITE MALE working class

white boy roy wants the rest of you to take a seat

and let us handle it from here

his privilege is as rotten as a dead dog by the side of the road

he doesn’t care about kids in cages

reproduction rights

black people being shot by cops

muslim bans etc.

white boy roy sites articles that entrench his patriarchy

he posts links that have been sculpted to his opinion

when you disagree

you can smell white boy roy’s smugness

from across an ocean

white boy roy calls for social media civility

while he tries to tear you down

white boy roy sticks a russian flag in his mouth and smokes it

he says it’s good to talk to russia

then he sits there sipping on craft beer

waiting on you to respond

white boy roy thinks he’s a contrarian

but he’s got contrarian confused with the word capitulation

if he had hitchen’s ashes in front of him

he’d piss on them

white boy roy still claims that he’s a liberal

but he doesn’t have anyone fooled

white boy roy is NOT your friend

he’s that wolf in sheep’s clothing hiding in the forest

no matter what goes down in america

white boy roy will be fine

to spin his bullshit anew

white boy roy is blood shed on indigenous land

he should take a good hard look in the mirror

next time he speaks

white boy roy

you need to read some history

and shut the fuck up.

--John Grochalski

                                                          

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY NINE

Your president

constantly, incessantly,

calls the press an enemy

of the American people

praises a foreign leader

for his tendency to

kill journalists, naming it

“good leadership”

says nothing about T-shirts

worn by his crowd

with the words:

Rope. Journalist. Tree.

Some assembly required.

How do you feel

about your grudge

against journalists

at a newspaper

you hate

now?

(It’s Just a Question)

--Rachel Toalson

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY EIGHT

The Canteen Fascists

The canteen fascists meet and watch Sky News
each night at 2 a.m. to hate the world.
The factory business clatters on beneath them.
Led by the manager, they pour vitriol
on the refugees of Calais and how well they’re dressed,
and the phones they’re pictured using (‘That’s a fuckin’ Samsung!’);
it even makes them livid that the men play pool.
The boss says, ‘Send the fuckin’ bastards home.
Those cunts, every one of them’s with fuckin’ ISIS.
They only want to come here for the benefits.
Then they pray all fuckin’ day and blow your arms and legs off.
A tank and a machine gun, that would do it.
Send the Army into Calais, then they’d all fuck off
back home to whatever fuckin’ stinkhole made them.’

--Bruce Hodder

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY SEVEN

The Art of the Deal

Trump spoke in whispers
with Putin, beaming
at the deals he made

proud he sold Alaska
for a tidy profit
pocketing the

800 k from the
8 million dollar sale
scoring a golf course

by Prudhoe Bay
Putin smiled as he held
Trump's balls in his hands

--Thomas R. Thomas

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY SIX

civility

civility

only counts

in the conservative mind

when there’s a brushback

against them

otherwise they expect people

on the left

to be docile

to take things as they are

which is what they always are

which is white male patriarchy

even leaders on the left

lose their shit

when their rank and file get rowdy

they plead for calm

they plead for cooler heads

then they sit there

with their hands between their legs

and watch those republican fat cats

take and gut and gut and take

the very core and fabric of this republic

they plead for us to vote for them again

because they want to keep their jobs

in these trying times

it’s easy to want to get in line

take the smart and sensible route

but a part of me

wants this old guard

to get the hell out of the way

stop your bullshit calls for civility

as republican swine move

to hurt women

to hurt gay couples

to hurt the latino community

to continue to stomp on the black community

with the ugly impunity

that is 100% american born and bred

get out of the way

when we chant at those bastards at restaurants

when we chant at them getting into their cars

when we shame them for being vile

and lacking any shred of humanity

get out of the way

because you’re gym buddies with these swine

because you share a congressional restroom

get out of the way

or we’ll shout you motherfuckers down too

democrat

republican

let none of you have a single thought

or a decent meal in peace.

--John Grochalski

                                                            

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY FIVE

INDEPENDENCE DAY, 2018

This year it is a new Independence Day,
a day on which my country can celebrate
our independence from logic,
from reason,
from truth,
from evidence,
from scientific method,
independence from facts,
from integrity,
from morality,
from ethics,
from decency,
independence from the Constitution,
from legislative process,
from treaties,
from comity,
from culture,
from civility,
independence from compassion,
from kindness,
from charity,
from racial equality,
from economic equality,
from gender equality.
Time truly to celebrate our
independence from civilization!
So light the fireworks and send them
cascading into the air, rank after rank,
to explode in empty displays of
brief blinding light and deafening roar
like giant guns going off in the distance
of somebody else’s war achieving,
in the end, nothing more than
to frighten the dogs and babies.
Pop open another beer,
crack the seal on that whisky,
as the grills cool down in the chill night
and the speakers blast nostalgic,
patriotic songs from a time when
independence meant more than
a license to bully, more than
permission to piss on anyone who
doesn’t look and act like you.

--M.J. Arcangelini

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY FOUR

Long Beach Cried Today

July 3, 2018

For Captain David Rosa

It starts with the big engine fire trucks, followed by

ambulances, squad cars, finally motorcycles.

The uncountable sirens in unison

wailing into the open air of our broken-hearted city.

I will never forget the sound, so otherworldly.

They’ve come from throughout Southern California and beyond.

The procession seems endless,

but what does time matter in honoring this man,

a fire captain and murdered hero?

I approach a police officer

to express my sorrow.

I weep as I speak the words.

Composed and stoic

in his creased black uniform,

he thanks me.                                                                                                                         

--Jeri Thompson

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY THREE

This year my fifth grader said

he would not accept the

presidential merit award

for educational achievement

because there is no merit

in presidential bullying

and name-calling.

This year I said, okay,

but smiled to myself.

(The Next Generation is Coming)

--Rachel Toalson

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY TWO

sunset park

little cops

drive their little cop vans

through sunset park

in the morning

collecting the men

standing around in small circles

doing nothing

but being latino and drinking beer

they collect the men

one by one

a conversation then the cuffs

then the little cops

drive their little cop vans

out of sunset park

without so much as stopping

to look at manhattan

in the distance

glittering like a jewel

in all that splendid summer sun.

--John Grochalski

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY ONE

TRUMPLAND
(After Ginsberg)

Trumpland is deaf.
Trumpland has sold its soul for gold.
Trumpland only likes dictatorships where dissidents are killed and people don’t have rights.
Trumpland has crapped on Honest Lincoln’s beard.
Trumpland has proven Allen Ginsberg’s point. He said America was dead and he predicted Trumpland.
Lady Liberty in Trumpland’s made of pizza boxes,
and holds aloft a Bible with the love redacted.
In Trumpland only poison flowers thrive.
In Trumpland the pedlar of illusion wins.
Trumpers make speeches on their barstools drunk.
Trumpers can eat more in a single sitting
than you can in a month, and they are proud of that.
Trumpland is the apogee of crude and vulgar.
In Trumpland, apparently, there’s no more room.
Trumpland doesn’t welcome you unless you’re white
with bucket loads of money you will give to Trumpland.
Trumpland only preaches what it doesn’t practice.
Trumpland and America are not the same.
When Trumpland dies, the world will look on laughing,
and America will rise up from the dust, reborn,
with hope among its age-old crimes and vices.

--Bruce Hodder

day FIVE HUNDRED and SIXTY

the fourth estate

the new fourth estate
champion of words
speaking with

intense eloquence
beaten down by the
new American fascism

wired to the will
of the people
even to those

who believe the
lies of the fascists
are for them

yet we are the
gravel under
the jackboots

we are the new
fourth estate
the new Gutenberg

speak the truth
with liquid black ink
dancing on the wires

I am the voice
of freedom, free
from all but the truth

we wield this weapon
crackling on the wires
to the revolution

--Thomas R. Thomas

day FIVE HUNDRED and FIFTY NINE

A Dream of November

The red, white, and gold belly
of the plane bulges above me.
November wind becomes roar of engines,
no longer October’s swoosh and swirl
of trees, of leaves, of hair.
I can no longer hear you.

I do not look up, knowing
I will see the cloudless sky
and the plane, the last thing
I may see. Nothing good ever
happens on days like these.

I run away, denim skirt slapping
thick calves, bruising them, losing myself
on uphill streets past three-decker houses.
My heart races. I brace myself,
escaping the city, the plane’s target.

Miles away, the plane crashes,
smashing against an out of season
baseball field. Sirens throb, faster, faster
than my heart. Someone else dies.

Catching my breath, I inch back
to the crash. I find you,
still talking.

--Marianne Szlyk

*This poem previously appeared in Rasputin*