Sunday, September 30, 2018


 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)

Saturday, September 29, 2018


                        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

Friday, September 28, 2018


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
paving the primrose path
for the next generations
of lily white brett kavanaughs
to come.

--John Grochalski

Thursday, September 27, 2018


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

Wednesday, September 26, 2018


65 women
came To
Kavanaugh’s Defense

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


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


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

Tuesday, September 25, 2018



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

Monday, September 24, 2018


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


Sunday, September 23, 2018


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

Saturday, September 22, 2018


"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