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. (

Monday, June 17, 2019


Michael Cohen testifies before Congress, 2.27.19
(to the tune of “Mein Herr” from Cabaret)

You’re a racist and a con man and a cheat, Don Trump.
To avoid you I would run across the street, Don Trump.
You claim, “We don’t need more Haitians,”
And you sneer at “shithole" nations,
David Duke rejoices every time you tweet, Don Trump.

You’re a braggart and a blowhard and a fake, Don Trump.
And you lie about the money that you make, Don Trump.
Tell the IRS it’s lower,
Tell the folks at Forbes it’s more,
How much bullshit do you think that we can take, Don Trump?

It’s not only tax returns that make you freeze, Don Trump.
You’re afraid to show your grades and SATs, Don Trump.
Though you say Maxine’s “low IQ,”
When you see she doesn’t like you,
You can barely read beyond your ABCs, Don Trump.

I regret the day that I said yes to you, Don Trump.
I’m ashamed of every shady thing you do, Don Trump.
In this hearing I reject you,
I will never more protect you,
And Republicans are shmucks to do it too, Don Trump.

--Cheryl Caesar 

Sunday, June 16, 2019


But We're British

Walking through the housing
Estate and ones nearby, I
Notice the amount of Union
Jacks that people have flying in
Their gardens, on huge flagpoles
Higher than their houses. I don't know
What they are trying to say. A protest
Against immigration ? Or pro-Brexit ?
I think that it makes them look like
Fucking fools. Americans can get
Away with flying Old Glory all they
Want to. But we're British and there's
Something about us that is intrinsically
Different from the folks from the U.S.A.
I am proud of my country. I'm proud
Of the Welfare State and the N.H.S.
To me these are the things that make
Us Great Britain. That we care about
Our people and we will not let anyone
Die from starvation or illness, if we
Can help it. But there's no way I would
Ever fly the flag in my garden. It
Makes you look like a racist, if you
Are one or not. I know this is wrong
And I fully believe in reclaiming the
Flag from the far right scum that
Have stolen it for their pathetic, evil
Ends. But in times like this, it's just
Too provocative, inflammatory.
And it makes you look like a dick.

--Ian Copestick

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer from Stoke on Trent. He has had over 140 poems published in nearly 20 e-zines including Punk Noir Magazine, Academy Of The Heart And Mind, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Outlaw Poetry, The Rye Whiskey Review and many more.

His debut collection of poetry " Detritus Of The Drunken Night " was recently published by Cajun Mutt Press and is available through Amazon.

Saturday, June 15, 2019


The Degenerate

This bar. Peppers N’at.

Holy shit.

Tom is 73, he says,
over and over.

He can’t hear. Says he has

a bank of televisions
and a VIP account at
Mountaineer Racetrack

and he’s the guy

(no one else)

who knows horse betting!

and it’s charming
until right after

he calls
my wife a SuperHero

because she teaches
little black kids

and says
those fucking monkeys

--Bob Pajich

Friday, June 14, 2019


102-million-dollar golf vacation

--I love golf, but if I were in the white house
I don’t think I’d ever see a Turnberry again.
I don’t think I’d see Doral again. I don’t think
I’d see anything. I just want to stay in the White House
And work my ass off (Donald J. Trump, February 2016)

the tax payers dime

fat-ass trump
has spent
hundreds of days

waddling off to florida
to the swamps of jersey
a little side trip to los angeles

and a round
at his shithole course in scotland

the 102-million-dollar golf vacation

paid for by you and me

as the bridges crack
as the roads get worse
as the water in flint is still tainted
as puerto rico gets forgotten
as people go hungry
and homeless

as the nation bleeds division

fat-ass trump
swings his
epic calloway in his baby hands

his dumpy cheeseburger
ass in the breeze

shit-stained khakis
and a white polo shirt

that nazi red hat
on his orange head

to keep that wig
from blowing away

so he can fly back to d.c. on mondays

and shove it
further up the ass

of this cartoon republic.

--John Grochalski


Thursday, June 13, 2019


Trump is autographing Bibles, 3.8.19
(To the tune of "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles")

Trump is autographing Bibles
Where the deadly twister blew:
With that same hand that paid Stormy Dan,
Locked kids in cages, signed Muslim ban.
Pitching snake oil to the yokels,
That's his favorite thing to do.
Trump is autographing Bibles;
Soon he'll claim he wrote them too.

--Cheryl Caesar

Wednesday, June 12, 2019


Where are we going, Walt Whitman?
The doors close in an hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight?


A Big-Box Store in California (A Conversation)

What does it cost you to live your life?
I'll tell you what it costs me.
Your shirt cost me twenty days, America.
Your shoes, fifty.
That cell phone is three months of toil.
Your latte is my day's pay, comprende?
What price bananas? Corporate terrorism.
Are you my angel? Or my jefe?
America, will you ever be satisfied? When?
Where are we going, Walt Whitman?

The coyotes are howling
The sun is setting
The desert is coming alive
As I jostle among the avocados.
As I cross into the promised land.
America, what is the root of your power?
Don't ask me, I just work here.
The bloom has come off your flower.
The doors close in an hour.

Please wash me on cold.
Remove my tags before wearing me.
Please spin the dirt off my leaves.
Pat me dry.
I don't believe in disposable fashion.
I believe fabric should put up a fight.
I believed your promises, America.
I believed Lady Liberty was my light.
Walt Whitman,
which way does your beard point tonight?

--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. (

Tuesday, June 11, 2019


You’re a genius, Mr. Trump!

(to the tune of the Grinch song)

You’re a genius, Mr. Trump!
Your intellect is keen!
Your uncle taught at MIT, and you picked up the gene,
Mr. Tru – ump!
You think a Lockheed Martin – actually can’t be seen!

You’re an adept, Mr. Trump!
You just follow what you feel!
If it snows in Minnesota, global warming can’t be real,
Mr. Tru – ump!
You tell us man invented walls – after the wheel!

You’re an Einstein, Mr. Trump!
And science is a breeze!
You think windmills must be turning when we turn on our TVs,
Mr. Tru – ump!
You’re seventy- two and -- you’ve never heard of batteries!

You’re a savant, Mr. Trump!
With a special kind of brain!
You can’t close up an umbrella, so you drop it by the plane,
Mr. Tru – ump!
Your only problem is – the rest of the world’s insane!

 --Cheryl Caesar 

Monday, June 10, 2019



Ultimately, the only power to which man should aspire is that which he exercises over himself. - Elie Wiesel, writer, Nobel laureate (1928-2016)

the pro-life politician preaches:
the scantiest hint of life in the womb,
a scintilla, a quibble, a single split cell,
is sacred and must be protected at all costs -

but woe be to those who make it
out of the womb alive

because pro-life politics promotes the death penalty
because pro-life politics promotes a profit-driven prison system
because pro-life politics promotes poverty and hunger
because pro-life politics promotes dying for lack of medical care
because pro-life politics promotes the extinction of species
because pro-life politics promotes the rape of the environment
because pro-life politics promotes war and destruction

either life is sacred or it is not,
timing is not the issue,

let a man answer for his crimes, but
is the spark of life still burning within
the rapist, the molester, the murderer,
or this season’s designated enemy,

any less sacred than that within
the fetus they once were?

if the sacred is dependent on economic
inequality, on selective deviousness and luck,
on religion-defined circumstance greased
through the gears of political expedience
for the benefit of capital gains,

where does sanctity reside?
and can it ever survive the
self-righteousness of the
self-appointed guardians
who profess to protect it?

the pro-life politicians.

--M.J. Arcangelini

Sunday, June 9, 2019


The high cost of dying part 4

the hospital where she's been for over a year can't keep her
insurance companies won't keep paying for her care
she just not getting better
it's just business you see

the rehabs won't take her
she'll stay too long there
and the insurance and Medicare pay for that
it's just business you see

we'll have to send her home
and teach you how to take care of her
it shouldn't take more than an hour or so to teach you
to do what a nurse, respiratory, CNA,
phlebotomist, physical therapist,
five doctors could do

we will give you the bed in the equipment send doctors and nurses
we are not willing to pay to keep her alive here
she'll have to go home to die
it's just business you see

--Thomas R. Thomas

Saturday, June 8, 2019


youngstown boys are still for trump

they love the tv tough guy
they’ll eat that tariff pain for lunch
as long as there’s a fight
it don’t matter
let the tattered flag wave
high and mighty
over those pancakes at the yankee kitchen
as long as the president is on tv talking tough
a guy the rest of the world
don’t wanna mess with
because he will get even
and don’t give them some kinder, gentler bullshit
don’t give them some female running for president
with her own agenda
her equal pay nonsense
that abortion crap
nah, we got the salt of the earth here
the real americans
god fearing
apple-pie loving
bootstrap, cold war babies
who’d have all the jobs
if it wasn’t for them immigrants
dragging down wages
and burdening tax payers
you see, the youngstown boys are still for trump
they’ll bleed his bullshit
til it bleeds them dry
they’ll go down with the ship
chase that gop clown car over a cliff
or to the banks of the mahoning river
and drown in republican hypocrisy
even though all of them good ol’ boy jobs
ain’t never coming back
even though the economic recovery didn’t come
to mahoning county
them steel mill plants ain’t burning like the devil
like the president promised
just 1600 jobs in lordstown
fucking gone.

--John Grochalski

Friday, June 7, 2019


Cleaning Out Mother’s House

Pull out the papers. Plunk them down.
Pick them up one at a time.
Wince at the weight of paper,
at the weight of words.

I remember the Vietnam Vet
sitting with us on cracked leather chairs
as the other students passed through
on their way to morning classes
in economics, calculus, chemistry.
He told us all that Nixon had done
for him, for his family.

I remember the EPA,
the place where I used to work,
checking for the shift in tense,
subject/verb disagreement,
comma splices.

I remember the day Nixon died.
I watched video of him playing
the piano, playing the same show
tunes that Dad used to play.

The talking heads on Mother’s TV
slap me back into the present.
Her hands like a grandchild’s
piece of pottery rest in her lap.
Her feet in Velcro sneakers
do not reach the bare floor.
She rarely speaks,
to me anyway.

I have to throw out these papers.
Empty this house of more
than just paper. Empty my mind
for what’s to come.

--Marianne Szlyk

Thursday, June 6, 2019


a simple place to be alive

it was around the end
of the oculist's revolt
periodically my department lacked
the random access

specifically i did spirit transplantation
and ancillary time-travel support
we were having issues with the
"see no evil" proclamation

souls kept rolling away -
picture phosphorescent hula hoops
on fire in the rain
we met in the lunch-room at work

you were on a break
i was deviating as usual
if deviation can be normative
pretending to wait

for you to finish
with the microwave 
i mumbled hurry drunken angel 
you said i wait for them 

stream of consciousness
back to the geneva landing site
the ground even and fine

as any beginning
and the end of love 
if we failed
the capitalist's misuse

of the large hadron 
collider would instantly pull all of reality
into a hole smaller
than the head of a pin

stepping off the tele-pad
you whispered
i want to walk with you
and safe at the edge of the forest

touch the bark of trees
see gloss in everything the way
light shines off
the nails of your fingers - listen more

closely - hear the colors
blue and green
like an argument between
the pine trees and the rain

due west we spied
a fallen tongue
of leftover rail
and followed it

kids walking the tracks
at summer-set
screaming for the moon
to wait its turn

that’s all i want for people again
in a dream of floods
the way a dam
remembers why

--Paul Koniecki

Wednesday, June 5, 2019


It’s Not About the South

It’s not about the South
I tell him.
It’s not about protecting children.
It’s about controlling women.
Those legislatures,
their daughters and wives and mistresses
will always have access to abortions.
Yeah, he says, I know
he says
but also it’s the South.
It figures it’s happening in the South.

I let it go because I know that later on
a police office will stand on a subway
and mock women for wanting abortion.
Will read out loud the reasons why
they claim they should have rights to their body,

should be able to have control over their lives.
He will be filmed doing this and nothing will happen.
No one will care that he tried to scare women he didn’t know.
No one will care that women
and their choices
and their bodies
were a joke to him.

This will happen in New York City
which always seemed
so far from Alabama
we know
is actually
so horribly close.

--Ally Malinenko 

Tuesday, June 4, 2019



                                             Photography by Ally Malinenko

Monday, June 3, 2019


song of the border wall (fence)

make it the finest of springy-metal
the kind you can bounce a basketball on

make it from the weaves
of lindsay graham’s used underwear

string it together
with all of donny john’s
bullshit and hate, his xenophobia
misogyny and lies

paint it orange like his fat face
or pale yellow like his comb-over hair

make it as crooked as the whole trump family

dress it nice and long
like the contours of mitch mcconnell’s neck

black like the veil
that he’s draped over democracy

make it shine like pompeo’s smug smile
bristly like john bolton’s war hawk mustache

as big and bold
as brett kavanaugh at a frat party
masking his petty little existence with beer

make us a border wall (fence)
as rickety as the foundations of our democracy!
as spineless as the GOP!
as cowardly as the democratic party!

make us a border wall
that SCREAMS america

one made to stand the test of time
but will probably fall over and turn into dust.

at the smallest inkling of a storm.

--John Grochalski


Sunday, June 2, 2019



                                          Photography by Ally Malinenko

Saturday, June 1, 2019



                                Photography by John Grochalski

Friday, May 31, 2019


Don’t Give Up on Us, Baby: A Letter to Europe

"Don't give up on us, baby.
Lord knows we've come this far."
Think of it, almost 250 years.
Ever since dandy Lafayette
came to us, and dowdy Ben Franklin went to you.
Remember, my French students,
when you showed me Chandler in a box,
learning what friendship means?
We're in the box. Two years of this calamity.
Don’t nail the coffin on our amity.

"Don't give up on us, baby.
We're still worth one more try."
Remember when we watched George Bailey deciding
between his trip round the world
and saving the family business and the town?
And you murmured, “Ah, oui, le dilemme cornĂ©lien”?
We took the wrong fork in the Cornelian dilemma,
sacrificing others and losing ourselves.
We’re in the slum of Potterville now.
Pray for us, like George’s neighbors, family, wife,
so we can awake to our real, our wonderful life.

Listen to this silly song by Soul,
an Anglo-American one-hit wonder.
Watch Stephen Colbert joining forces
with John Oliver, Trevor Noah and Samantha Bee.
Remember the time we watched Gene Kelly
singing in the rain, and you said,
“This song tells us that love is waterproof”?
Stand by us, your soggy American cousins. Be true.
"Don't give up on us, I know
we can still come through."

--Cheryl Caesar

Thursday, May 30, 2019



                                           Photo by John Grochalski

Wednesday, May 29, 2019


Making Feminism Great Again

Today a man spit in my face.
Then, while he held my head in place
Until my throat relaxed around his cock,
And moved me into a position
Where he could force a toy up my ass,
I thought about how he had voted for Trump.
I wondered if I was a disgrace to feminism.

And then I came.

--India LaPlace

This poem was taken from the current (and TERRIFIC) anthology
of poetry HORROR SLEAZE TRASH POEMS which you can
find to purchase right HERE 

Also, I've been lucky enough over the years to have some poems
published in Horror Sleaze Trash, for years by editor, Ben John Smith,
and for the last few by the wonderful team of Arthur Graham & India LaPlace.

for more of an inkling into what they do, you can check more HST action
out right HERE (note for the fainthearted: there's some NSFW content here)

Tuesday, May 28, 2019


**Got this one in the ol' WineDrunk inbox and found it pretty interesting
I'll let the creator explain***

This past Fall I co-curated an exhibition in Lisbon, Portugal, Tributaries, that opened on Sept. 30th and ran for ten weeks, under the auspices of the international artist's cooperative, Urban Dialogues. While in Lisbon, I went into the oldest continuous bookstore in the world, Chiado Bertrand Bookstore, that was founded in 1732 (the year of George Washington's birth). I found this Portuguese published book about Donald Trump that I immediately bought because a redacted title of the book jumped out at me, O Me Too.

When I got home I was able to also redact A Trump Pee Poem an as I progressed down the book cover, I was also able to redact I Go More Anal and then I placed DJ-45 in front of a golden wall.

--Mark Blickley

Mark Blickley is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. He is the author of Sacred Misfits (Red Hen Press), Weathered Reports: Trump Surrogate Quotes from the Underground (Moira Books) and the forthcoming text based art book, Dream Streams (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). His video, Widow's Peek, was selected to the 2018 International Experimental Film and Video Festival in Bilbao, Spain. He is a 2018 Audie Award Finalist for his contribution to the original audio book, Nevertheless We Persisted.

Monday, May 27, 2019


The Color Only Found in Caves

for Phil Geist

It isn’t something I’m sure I can properly articulate.
A sort of struggle between my mouth and my mind.
Either it’s getting better or I’m just growing used to
the pain. Baldinger says that we are all getting old
and weird and we were already weird to begin with.
Look at us with our brand new medical conditions.

People regularly disappoint me. Even those closest
to me. Maybe especially those who’re closest to me.
I disappoint myself too—but I forgive myself easily.

I’m too in love with certain things of this world—
and I know that. That young student who snorted
when she laughed. Or the boathouse on the river
that my old teacher Petey pointed out to me while
we were out on his Boston Whaler. Or else the box
of letters I have sitting on a shelf, waiting for me.

And stories—I love a story with a surprise ending.

Phil told us the story of how once, when he was
a child, he was climbing a tree and his grandfather
saw him, but instead of yelling at him for doing it,
which Phil thought he was going to, he yelled up
at him, “Keep on going—you’re almost at the top!”

--Scott Silsbe

Sunday, May 26, 2019


Man of Mar-a-Lago

You do not have to be good
to have a quest. Evil dreams
can be impossible too.

When you tilted at the windmills
of our government, you were unhorsed
and bruised, but so were we.

Your Aldonza remains Aldonza, because
you never believed in “Dulcinea” anyway.
You were just the head muleteer,
who crossed her palm with silver.

Your Sancho was already the governor
(if a bad one) of an island.
And no, he doesn’t really like you.

Your only dream was to be knighted
with universal adulation:
Don the Stable Genius. And even this
would never be enough, never equal
the flash of approval in old Fred’s eyes,
the nod of acceptance that never came.

And now Fox and your last Friends,
are circling you, turning their mirrored shields,
and you fall, blinded by the glare
of reality. But still, forever chanting:
I am the best.
I am the greatest.
I alone can fix it.

--Cheryl Caesar 

Saturday, May 25, 2019


The Island of Misfit Toys

when the shit hits the fan
he’s got a go bag packed
all he has needs is to grab
his .22, his 30-06
and a twelve gauge
speed down to the Allegheny National
climb a tree
wait out the end of would
wait till he doesn’t see smoke
then he’s gonna come down
the first man
alone in the ashes of his great society
and he’s gonna get his ass up
to what used to be Cleveland
there was a Ferrari dealer
back in the good old days
when times were bad
once he gets to the lot
he’s gonna drive every
damn car there
drive every fucking one
till they’re out of gas
leave them wherever

he’s gonna be the only living
survivalist in an island
of misfit toys

--Jason Baldinger

Friday, May 24, 2019


Can he be as dumb as he

seems on TV?

Or is he merely

the psychotic dog

in a dog and pony show

holding our horrified

attention while behind

the scenes the gray men

in the halls of Congress

change rights we thought

immutable? Is his

smarmy smile trying

to hide the Howdy

Doody strings pulled by

Putin from his faraway

palace that Fascism built?

What do his followers

see in him? Were they

so frightened by Obama’s

complexion they wanted

someone, anyone, who would

tell them being white still

meant being the best?

It doesn’t matter their jobs

pay minimum wage,

and they barely finished

high school, but their kids

didn’t. But they are white,

and they can hear the

“code words” he speaks

telling them what they

need to hear that white

is right and white folks still rule.

Or is it the Edsel Effect?

People who bought them

vigorously defended them,

when they knew they

were junk because they

had invested too much

money and ego in them.

Or are his supporters

like abused women,

who forgive and forgive

his many moral lapses,

his “Grab them by the

pussy” attitude and

many mistresses,

his repeated lies given

with such a cavalier

attitude, his neglect

of their welfare

because, despite all the

evidence to the contrary,

they still believe he loves


Or are they afraid

of the cost of being

a Trump traitor?

The shaming, the shunning,

the loss of community?

Would they miss the

heady rallies bordering

on worship, cheering

every word, no matter

how untrue, because they

are being told over and

over, they are the elect,

the saviors of America

if they just follow him

and believe only him.

if they shut their eyes,

and ears to the Fake News

who is anyone that

disagrees with him?

He is their only savior

in a world bounded by

his words which have

built his real wall -

a wall between his

followers and reality.

I really want to know,

what has created this

phenomenon because I,

too, love America,

But it’s an America Trump

doesn’t know and never will.

--Janet Stotts

Thursday, May 23, 2019


Here in America

tRumpism triumphs.
Democracy is in crisis—
unemployment low,
the economy booming.

Those in power willingly trade
catastrophic species extinction,
befouled water, poisoned air,
for immediate profit.

Neo-fascist, dystopic America
drains the public treasury,
encourages violent intolerance,
control over women’s bodies.

It’s stupid Watergate, the end of days.
More of us feel disenfranchised, ignored.
Drug use and suicides multiply.
Rule of law has been declared obsolete.

--Jennifer Lagier

Wednesday, May 22, 2019


“The smiler: On Jared Kushner”

(Following Laurence Tribe’s tweet on 3.9.19,
and thinking of Chaucer’s “The Knight’s Tale”)

Here we see plain the dark imagining
Of felony, and all the lobbying;
No cruel ire, but cool and slimy greed;
The pickpocket; the smarmy smirking weed;
The smiler with the knife under the cloak;
The White House burning in the dirty smoke;
The treason, murder in the Consulate;
Benedict Arnold selling out the State;
Not head of government: a hidden part
Of this corruption: evil’s beating heart.

--Cheryl Caesar 

Tuesday, May 21, 2019


REMINDER: WineDrunk SideWalk is doing an American Flag photo project in July. No political agenda, just spending the month posting people's pictures/art of flags (or a poem if you have). Think of this as a small examination of that most ubiquitous of American Symbols. So please send me photos (mostly) or any kind of art you think would fit the project. I'm setting no deadlines, and if i get more subs than the month allows we'll have multiple people on multiple days. 

SUBMIT2RESIST: winedrunksidewalk AT gmail DOT com

American Meme

Paris Hilton
doesn’t know where we go
when we die
and neither do I
and neither do you
but today
I don’t feel so special
to be afraid

I guess
the documentarian
wants me to feel sad
that these kids
who got what they wanted
are now hooked,
that modeled themselves after
sex tape sluts
and underage drunks
are 30
and feel alone
that watch their friends
living a life
that follows a traditional course
and they think
they’re having fun

no one is having fun
anymore than they let themselves
3 kids is a worry
maintaining love is a worry
just like having a brand
just like pedaling vodka
on instagram

--Luke Kuzmish

Monday, May 20, 2019



The rich man may speak softly,
politely, sound benevolent,
and still be heard
as he passes the cash
beneath the table -

The poor man must shout
and bang at the table
to be heard
not once
but over and over again
until the table shatters
and the machinations
of the rich are exposed,
the corruption made clear
the greed in their hearts
loosed at last to speak
than their quiet, hollow
words would ever allow -

then will we be heard -

--M.J. Arcangelini