day SIX HUNDRED and NINETEEN

 God Is On His Way

Just got a text from the Almighty.

He’s running a little behind.

He was on his way to your subdivision

to bless you in your five bedroom,

three bathroom abundance because

you are so much in need of divine grace.

Anyway, the heavenly El Camino picked up

a bolt off the road in the sidewall

of the driver’s side rear Firestone

because of all that highway

construction on Interstate 35

and, wouldn’t you know it, his spare was flat, too.

He called triple A and is just waiting for the tow truck.

Oh, he said to tell you that you’ll be fine

but you should have figured that out by now

with your health insurance and 401k balance.

He also mentioned he can’t stay long.  Something about Aleppo.

--Shawn Pavey

(Previously Published in Rusty Truck)

day SIX HUNDRED and EIGHTEEN

                        Overheard Poem for a Forklift

the guy who invented that thing
shoulda won the Nobel Peace Prize
he did more for humanity
than the last eight
jaggoffs who won

--Jason Baldinger

day SIX HUNDRED and SEVENTEEN

brett kavanaugh stalked

the halls of my high school

brett kavanaugh stalked

the halls of my high school

there was at least a dozen of him

in every grade

walking around like kings

on a monday morning

after another weekend on the prowl

talking their game about parties

about turning out girls

whether they wanted to or not

building reputations

tainting someone’s history

suave date rapists in polo shirts and dockers

driven to school

by daddy’s stock money tax write-off

trust fund romeos

who never took no for an answer

future club owners, future congressmen

boys who knew the words to every prayer

the first ones up and adam

to recite the pledge of allegiance

slick players who had america by the balls

had it worked out before they’d even turned eighteen

the patriarchy in motion

pushing the weaker ones into lockers

killing their self-esteem

red-blooded, blue-bloods

who were never denied a goddamned thing

the no means yes boys

with well-coifed hair and angelic smiles

devils in disguise

oozing confidence

wiping the lunch ketchup off their mouths

with the tatters of a constitution

that was molded

in their disgusting

gilded

image

paving the primrose path

for the next generations

of lily white brett kavanaughs

to come.

--John Grochalski

                 

day SIX HUNDRED and SIXTEEN

Rape Culture

“Ford says an inebriated Kavanaugh pinned her on a bed, muffled her cries and tried removing her clothes when both were teenagers in the 1980s. Kavanaugh has denied doing this and said he wants to appear before the committee as soon as possible to clear his name.” – CBS News

“From Anita Hill to the victims of Cosby and Weinstein, women are disbelieved, powerful men excused. When will we learn?” – The Guardian

Too many females have survived this old story,
self-entitled males, alcohol, sexual assault
covered up, minimized, ignored
by a good old boy network.

We are traumatized women who bear scars
reopened during each new egregious attack.
Men without remorse consider us inanimate
playthings put on earth for their pleasure.

As character assassination revictimizes
during disrespectful sham hearings,
we hear our own rapist’s malicious voice,
feel unwanted invasion, relive molestation.

I despair this time will be any different,
fiercely invoke a tsunami of feminist outrage
rising to capsize, sweep away political ships,
relentlessly drown criminal, misogynist vermin.

--Jennifer Lagier

day SIX HUNDRED and FIFTEEN

65 women
came To
Kavanaugh’s Defense

were they there
in that room
to stop that
that, that

thing

there was one

crying, trying
to scream

but you can't scream
when he covers your mouth

this isn't consensual

this wasn't mutual
when two
two, two

things

force you in a room
try to rape you

these 65 women
weren't there

this one woman
is still there

this thing is
raping her
every time
she tries not
to think about it

--Thomas R. Thomas

day SIX HUNDRED and FOURTEEN

Ghazal

Most mornings, on my drive to work, I’m surprised by the sky, mostly 

So different than the day before. No cloud stays in place for too long.

The sky has a relationship with water. We only know a little bit about it.

The sky knows so many secrets. Like what the wind has against clouds.

If I had a beach house, I’d paint it sky color. If I had a desert shack or

Mountain cabin, they’d be sky color too. No paint brush would match. 

When you want to paint the sky, it’s probably best not to wear sunglasses!

Some poems point out the obvious. Nothing is more obvious than a cloud.

Old men often have cloud colored beards. Walt Whitman had one.

He was prone to weep like a rainstorm. His sobs startled butterflies. 

--Mike James

day SIX HUNDRED and THIRTEEN

all the good men

all the good men

i used to know

are on the internet

talking about god

how finding god has changed

their lives

they don’t talk about

the underage women they lured into woods

the women whose asses they pinched

in bars and clubs

the cigarettes that they

threw into overpriced drinks

when no one would dance with them

they talk about how jesus has saved them

they show pictures

of their beautiful kids

and their beautiful wives

beautiful sundays

in front of beautiful church

there is no mention about that hooker

they tricked into blow jobs

then threw her two cheeseburgers out the car window

to compensate for her trouble and time

all the good men

i used to know

are on the internet

talking about patriotism

and america

standing for the anthem

a couple of them would’ve stop 9/11

if only they were on the planes

they don’t talk about that woman

whose dress they tried sticking their hands up

in that bar on craig street

the day after the fourth of july

the way she yelled for the bouncers

and how they scattered

like leaves

onto firecracker streets

that are so safe for them to prowl like wolves

no, they don’t mention her at all

instead they put up pictures

of the american flag

erect like a toadstool prick

and jesus

jesus and that fucking flag

fireworks bursting

behind a meme

of a bible verse

telling all of us sinners

still out there

to get right in this life

because they've suddenly seen the way

because the end

is always nigh.

--John Grochalski

                                    

day SIX HUNDRED and TWELVE

Crossing Guards

Where two streets meet, busily, bodily,
between a park and a school - houses
too, like fish flipping on shore then still
and having made themselves line up
into rows with their final gasps of death.
Do you see it? My distaste for adverbs
and this precarious scene? I hear “Right Place Wrong Time” by Dr John in the air
and know intuitively someone honorable
and giving needs to be in charge, someone attentive and bright. Jimmy Carter and
Barack Obama would make good crossing guards. Keep us safe, and the joggers, the dog-walkers, and the children - please the children too. Not Pence. Not 45.

--Paul Koniecki

day SIX HUNDRED and ELEVEN

"I no longer see myself reflected in your bloody stars," he said.
This fruit poisons us and turns us
into monsters.
Chewing poverty leads to hatred.
Nice yellow glands on your lips.
I’m your cold in the economic change.
I'm debt, I'm a gun,
one that the glorious luck accompanies
and that unleashes its rage on your orange body.
The food is plastic,
and the sun burns my cancerous skin
without compassion.
You don’t know that your heart is a fried kiss of rancid humor
that I want to strangle.
Shooting gives you fun.
Killing the different is what you want
to stay alone in your infinite loneliness
and not throw up.
I don’t want to hear your thoughts
of a harlot anointed and drained
by slaves who lie words and songs. 

Tender and reproductive flowers give birth the black spring
in a hole that is my singing,
my food of faith expanded and passionate.
Everything is disease, infection.
The others lie more than the rest.
And the nature of my fluids
turns black on Mondays
when I read the news that you star.
Children of the third world have cracked nodes
and you laugh
and you feel fulfilled for being observed
by millions of immense eyes and
cooked meats that you want to chew and eat in panic.
The taste of the hunt is different.
Adrenaline is more addicted than heroin;
the lie.
And the old world turns, changes, and I don’t want to live
with people like you by my side.
Suicide for political, poetic reasons.
Stay with your church,
with your violations and deaths,
with your hatred,
with your racism and misogyny.
I hope you never get to win.
I’m already dead,
as well as my old fashioned world”.

--Oscar Varona