Thursday, November 21, 2019


We May All Be Dead Tomorrow: a poem for impending apocalypse

We may all be dead tomorrow,
but we aren’t dead today.

Today there is coffee that’s been made too sweet and costs us too much and is sold in a solid glass bottle we can fill with better things later.

Today there is a rich, thick, golden sun spilling across our floors.

Today there is a child who likes our company and asks for our time for no other reason.

Today there is a project in our hands that is coming along and full of beauty. Today that project was full of mistakes, all of which, it turned out, could be undone in the course of a morning, and for which it was no less beautiful.

Today we are full of our own mistakes that cannot be undone in the course of a lifetime, for which our lifetimes are of no less value.

Today there is a reach toward justice, with no promise of it ending up in our hands.

Today there is reaching anyway.

Today there is no rest from teaching.

Today there is a man who used us, who needn’t have, who practiced false, pretty shapes with his face in our mirrors and took the medicines we tend to share freely because lifetimes tend to be short. Today, he still doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong and he shows us so, just like he did yesterday, and probably just like tomorrow.

If we’re not all dead by tomorrow.

Until then, there’s anger, and time left to reflect on the ugliest shapes of our own truest faces, and time to say no,

and a cat staring lazily out our window,

and wool sweaters with hoods that swallow heads like dark tunnels,

and a chance to feel sorrow,

and hopefully, more of the same come tomorrow. 

-- Tomi Tsunoda

Wednesday, November 20, 2019


Petulant Prez

President Trump
threatens angrily
to shut down the government
unless he’s given money
to build a wall
preventing Mexicans
from crossing the Rio Grande,
sneaking into America
in hope of a better life.
Trump will punish the people
if he doesn’t get what he wants,
almost unrestricted
in his abuse of power.

--Gary Beck

Gary Beck has spent his adult life as a theater director. He has 14 published chapbooks. His poetry collections include Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press), Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing). Conditioned Response (Nazar Look), Virtual Living (Thurston Howl Publications), Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force and Transitions (Wordcatcher Publishing). His novels include Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing), Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pig Productions), Sudden Conflicts (Lillicat Publishers). Acts of Defiance and Flare Up Wordcatcher Publishing). His short story collections include A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications), Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). Feast or Famine and other one act-plays will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of magazines. He lives in New York City.

Tuesday, November 19, 2019


                After Russell Edson

On Monday, November 2, 2020 the unpresidential president stands on fifth avenue. A corpse at his feet. Smoking gun in his hand. A crowd congregates. Begins to cheer and clap.
The corpse sits up with an exasperated expression on its face and shouts, he shot me. You saw him do it, didn’t you?
The crowd heckles the corpse and begins to chant. BRING-IN-THE-BODY-BAG. BRING-IN-THE-BODY-BAG.
The corpse shrugs its shoulders, slumps over, and quietly waits for rigor mortis to set in.
The crowd roars. Marches to the closest polling station a day early and waits to cast their votes for the unpresidential president who will tell investigators that he simply fired the corpse. That the real culprit was the system. The rigged system . . .

--Corey Cook

Monday, November 18, 2019



nighttime flight too much pain to run anymore no more certain ways to run just lean down just lay down curl up and wish it away wish it away lean away let the world fly certain ways to run no more certain no path through pain let go lay down let go let the world go away too much pain too much pain lean down in vain fly away let the world fly away in vain

--Robert Beveridge

Sunday, November 17, 2019



and as the ambassador is live on TV speaking at the impeachment hearing tRump sends out a tweet attacking her, saying everywhere she served as ambassador turned bad.

he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t stop himself from intimidating her while she was a witness in an inquiry about him, about whether he had committed an impeachable offence. he actively intimidated a witness in front of the whole world - that itself an impeachable offence.

this from a “man” who thinks he is invincible, a “man” who is a modern model of a mob boss, a minor super-villain who has his finger hovering over the button to destroy the world.

and this is the president - what have we done to ourselves?

--Thomas R. Thomas

Saturday, November 16, 2019



the churches are filled
with prayers and pot luck dinners
and people who love children
as long as their skin is white
and the churches are filled
with joy and choir music
and the churches are filled
with frightened people
who do not understand this world
but hate it anyway
and the churches
rally around the flag
and the churches
are dragging us all into Hell
and the churches
know only English prayers
are answered
and never for the poor
--Jeff Weddle

*taken from the book Citizen Relent, published by Unlikely Books*

Friday, November 15, 2019


taking a small breather from all the Trump bullshit
to honor a lovely lady whom i went out on my first date with
22 years ago this very day:

pittsburgh like a postcard

full of wine
and thai food

i ask you
what you’d like to do next

and you tell me

as long as it doesn’t involve
you going one way
and me going the other

that instant
when i knew loving you

would be a simple game of genius

played out in the first fall snow
that framed pittsburgh like a postcard.

--John Grochalski

a version of this poem appears in the anthology 
Unconditional Surrender: An Anthology of Love Poems
on Low Ghost Press....which you can also purchase right HERE