Laurie Byro

Margaret's Green Man

In summer, the stream slows enough

for the nimble to wade. River rocks

create a path for dragonflies

and damsels to rest.

Chalky blue with crazy neon eyes,

we watch them flit and hover, too

exhausted to mate.

Their eyes are like berries the Green Man

favors. You, who won't believe,

smile when I speak of his visitations.

December, he trails me, inevitably

seduces the part of me

that still believes in demons.

Watching these creatures,

I think of my mother’s mother, Margaret.

It would be simple to say nothing,

to reach for your hand.

"Listen," I say, while they fly in closer

to hear. "Margaret had six children

and seven more pregnancies.

She used coat hangers."

You lift me up, move me into sunlight.

A hummingbird lands

on a doily of Queen Anne's Lace.

"He held a gun under her breast

those nights she didn't want to.

He was a cop."

You shudder, ask me

why I am spoiling our walk, why

the Green Man must have his way.

"It's the dragons" I say,

as they chase each other, flashing red.

"She told us as kids, they could

darn our lips shut if we dared

tell on them.”

My hand covers my mouth.

Ace Boggess

Face

Each dry cough is an angel of death.

Don’t touch your face, the experts say.

I touch my face with passion-

ate nervousness. I’m a dead man

lounging in sweatpants, ghost

waiting to join the world of ghosts.

My eyes itch. I’m not supposed to

thumb them numb, but do. I do & do &

watch the neighbor check her mail

five hundred feet away. Perhaps

we will trade deaths one day.

I rub my chin—not the beginning

of the end. Prison would be easier:

there, you see the fist that takes you down.

 

 

Danger

                Statewide Lockdown, Day Twenty-three

            1.

Listened to songbirds triangulate

the focus of a hawk above.

They bounced their signals

near to far to elsewhere,

safe on branches in the nearby woods.

 

            2.

Michigan protesters marched,

denouncing their state’s stay-at-home order,

defying it, passing a ladle

of arsenic broth to see who’ll drink.

 

            3.

Hawk wrote a lowercase ‘m’ in the air,

a letter for me & mine,

demanding food from the chow line.

It circled like a mako shark.

 

            4.

 

How many will die from arrogance,

gathering to air their grievances?

Same in Kentucky & Ohio,

states so close to mine

they could lay their poisoned hands upon me here.

 

Statewide Lockdown, Day Twenty-Five

Of three readings canceled since the virus,

today would’ve been my last:

north to Morgantown where acquaintances

would buy my signature on the title page.

 

Hard to sell books by hand

when hands are nightmare serpents,

or read aloud while voice spews

rot of a corpse flower blooming.

 

Wonder if I’ll survive to reschedule,

step to the mic, offer opening words in jest,

to a packed house, people elbow-knocked in rows,

wearing hats & holding onto colorful umbrellas.

Dan Brook

A Haiku Sequence on Abortion

women’s rights are key

abortion should be a choice

pro-democracy

 

it seems so basic

women’s rights are human rights

yet it confounds some

 

with their ignorance

invoking their religion

without knowing it

 

no prohibition

in their so-called Holy Bible

against abortion

 

the Bible is clear

life begins at the first breath

and not earlier

 

for what it is worth

the mention of abortion

tells when to do it

 

it doesn’t matter

the Bible shouldn’t rule us

Constitution does

 

their hypocrisy

absolutely astounding

without principles

 

they want to control

typical of the right wing

we want our freedom

 

when they attack us

we must forcefully fight back

defending ourselves

 

I clearly recall 

various students of mine

had to make a choice

 

simple accidents

unintended pregnancies

shouldn’t ruin their lives

 

I’m grateful for them

and grateful for their choices

as I learned from them

 

we need to expand

women’s self-autonomy

we’re not going back!

 

rights are contingent

democracy’s a process

please stay vigilant

 

one party supports

the other one opposes

cast your vote wisely

 

Roe, Roe, Roe your vote

fiercely to the voting booth

let’s reclaim our rights!

Joseph Milosch

A Perfect Irish Grave

 

From the upstairs closet of my memory,

I removed a mason jar full of my mom’s

button collection: blues, reds, clear fasteners

from dresses, and some from Dad’s peacoat.

I reflect on these things of little consequence

and their pull on my history. After her death,

I traveled to Michigan and visited the home

of her childhood. Parking in front of the path

leading to an abandoned farm, I balanced

with care the weight of sadness with silence.

 

In the northern part of the yard, the barn

shed its paint in red flakes. Its door hung

lopsided and remained open to strays.

The corn crib slanted away from the silo

and towards the hen house. The years

unhooked the coop’s fencing from bent nails,

and the chicken wire curled like a flag.

To the west is the house with bleached wall

 as cracked as the porch steps. Pausing

on the path to her childhood home,

I stooped and uncovered a portion of the body

belonging to the broken statue of a blue

and white Madonna. Her veiled head poked

from under the root burl of a wayward rose.

 

I knelt, and with my pocketknife, I shaved

the knot away from her head and shoulders.

Loosening the dirt beneath her ribs, I dug

a tunnel to remove her from the earth

and found a glass button buried inside her.

It reminded me of Mom’s collection and

her wish to have an Irish rose planted beside

her headstone. Here, a Burgundy Rose grew over

the burial site of the Virgin’s statue, making it,

as my mother would say, a perfect Irish grave.

 

Leaving the Straights of Dover

The other thing is that the enemy planes were diving down, machine-gunning the boats and everything else. They bombed ships we were trying to get to. You might get halfway and there’s no ship there, because it’s been destroyed.  Comments after the battle of Dunkirk by private Rymer, Cheshire Regiment

 

Taking a sea cruise on The Norwegian Sun,

I watch the clouds cover the moon and turn

the North Sea into the color of ripe olives.

 

When the lights of Dunkirk become visible,

the dead from that battle reveal themselves

as foamy crests riding the waves.

 

Has too much time passed to think about

The Defenders? Does anyone remember

the ME 262s strafing the English boats

like a carpenter hammering coffin nails?

 

Without moonlight, distance is indiscernible,

and the dead rings the bell in the temple

of my ear while the wind blows white caps

away from the north shore of France.

                                                                                    1 AM  07/2023

 

A Chilly and Rainy Afternoon

 

On a chilly and rainy afternoon in late August,

the waves leave a sheen of gasoline,

leaked from outboard engines, all along

the back wall of the boathouse foundation.

 

Floating on their sides, three dead fish drift

inside the shed. One of their eye’s stares

at the beam of the roof and the other,

at the rock and seaweed bottom.

 

Creaking hoist ropes and anchor chains

add to the boredom of the cat. He watches

the fish, pushed by the waves, their heads

bumping the foundation’s wall.

 

About the boy sitting on an overturned

bucket, no problem. As he reads, he becomes

lost in the streets of Paris. Pausing he looks up

at the rain hitting the lake. Then, he turns

the page of his book, The Three Musketeers.

 

R. Bremner

The inescapable

apocalypse

collapsed

on yesterday’s

future.

 

You give

what you think

I want.

You take

what you think

you need.

 

I give

what I think

you need.

I take

what I think

I want.

At the end of the day

the moon plays hide-and-seek

while it tries to decide

what to wear for tonight’s soiree.

TAZ Erzinger

Elegy of a Hermit Crab

All that was natural

has mistaken its naturalness.

Living now in a plastic container,

melting every day into my back. A presence.

Uninvited. Touching every part of life. Neither

organic or clean. How is it so, we cannot question.

Existence is hinged on something

that will pollute forever.

Sea Burial

Bellied up whale caught on the shore.

Sand cradles its girth

pipers have gathered in mass.

 

Below the unsettled water

holds our pod in an embrace.

The wind howls

even the sky mourns.

 

Grief is a thing, the density

of the sea. We do not

measure it in time because

we live by instinct

Our only hope, it wasn’t in vain.

Kingdom

-after Melissa Lozada-Oliva, Bitches

The creatures of this planet are all family.

Colourful, family.

Exotic, family.

Noisy ass, family.

Sometimes you never even see, family.

Big and small, family.

Brothers from other mothers, family.

Earth, wind, fire and water, family.

Clinging to the trees, family.

I can fly, family.

Enjoy the sunshine on a beautiful day because

it makes us feel good, family.

You can smell the rain and spy the flowers, family.

Always need to eat, family.

Creating nests and homes, family.

We all have our place, family.

Underwater, deep seas, family.

We require fresh water, family.

Take only what you need, family.

We cannot afford to choke our seas full of plastic, family.

It’s not okay to be greedy, taking more than you need, family.

Migrating for survival, family.

The living, breathing and propagating, family.

Life pulsing on this globe, rising towards the sun, family.

We need to continue on, family.

Who has right to reign this Earth?

Whose kingdom is it anyway?

What kind of species deserves to inhabit it?

Family.

Paolo Bicchieri

unless you lived in public housing

 

“ima cook indefinite / i'm heaven-sent”--Stove God Cooks

 

peb called it the sheet of shame

draped hunger over the fridge

 

lurking in the garage with us

by the shit bucket / fiberglass.

 

skeletal structure hey cigarettes

smell sweeter at critical mass

 

and it was better than brooklane

village / government-imposed

 

rules but at pop’s laws laze

because fuck them, that's why,

 

he’d say, freedom to the front

after those 10 days in country,

 

scarlet letter on his non-house.

and i didn't have it the worst:

 

not crime-born, food stamped

from the get, mom nicks paper

 

route money on the daily, smoke

meth flay the stars loose, so

 

figure my guilt when i sold to her,

so bop country music / cosplay

 

head north to pan for gold /

oregon trail-ass fantasia /

 

but unless you lived in public

housing / garages / tents / vans,

 

you may not understand gunn

spitting versace a 1,000 time

 

shame draped over the valley,

dunking the hills / god cooking

Mike Maggio

Raw Footage

            --after Leonard Cohen

I was sitting watching the news

and there were bombings and killings and all the usual kinds of violence

being perpetrated against innocent people in all parts of the world

and they were talking about this 16 year old Palestinian boy

who had strapped explosives around his waist

so that he could blow up some Israeli guards at the border crossing

and I was wondering what could make someone so young so desperate

and then they told us how the kids had all made fun of him because he was short

how he was promised 23 dollars and 7 virgins if he blew himself up

and then they brought his mother and she was crying and complaining

about the people who take advantage of children

the most vulnerable of the vulnerable in this sick sad world

and I asked myself how a people could become so hopeless

that they had so little left in this life, that they had given up everything

that the last and only thing they had to offer was the only way

they could imagine that there was even a glimmer of hope that they would get out of

this situation that had kept them prisoners for so many years

 

I was reading a book about the holocaust

and there was pain and suffering and pathos beyond the capacity of human endurance

and I remembered a time when I was a child of 6 or 7 years old

I was at a friend’s house and there was a movie playing on the TV

and I watched as a roomful of women holding babies and young children were herded naked into showers

and when the spigots were turned on there was gas instead of water

and I watched in horror as the women held on tight to their children

in their one last gasp of motherly love

and the pain was so great that I closed my eyes and wished that I hadn’t been there in that room at that time but the image by then was so seared into my memory

that even today as I write these words, as I wonder how much misery

could be caused in name of politics and power

the pain is still so great that I consider ending my life

just to stop it, just to ease it just a little bit

because so many people have suffered, so many people are still suffering at the hands of the greedy

for reasons that even the wildest animals could not comprehend

 

I was walking down Constitution Avenue

in this capitol of the free world

where the archives of democracy are housed in a museum not far from here

where the president of this great country resides in this not-so-great era of our history

and I came upon a man huddled by a fire wrapped in an oily, grimy cloth

and I looked beyond the feigned smile and the request for spare change

I looked into his vacant eyes and his hollow face and I saw raw fear

draped over his frail frame like a pall

the face of a man who was enduring the last indignity

in a long line of indignities his people had faced when they were wrested from their villages

when they were shackled and sold and beaten and stripped of every ounce of humanity

and I looked in his eyes and I saw myself

and I thought this could be me lying in the street hungry and cold

this could be my son, my daughter, my wife, my mother, my friend

it could be you my friend

it could be anyone of you, lying out there helpless and destitute

wondering what angry god could have allowed any and all of this to happen

 

I was sitting at my desk writing a poem

or a story or some other piece of nonsense

that some venerable publication might see fit to print between its pristine covers

and I was thinking that maybe I could make a difference

that maybe we could make a difference

that maybe we could do something about the pain

other than write poems or sing songs or paint pictures

or talk about it over cocktails or huffed over a hot mug of Starbucks

or hiding behind our newspapers in our cozy cafes

while the homeless and the destitute parade outside

like ghosts, invisible in their veils of pain

because it could be you my friend, yes you

or the person sitting beside you or the person sitting across the room

take a look now, stand up, walk around, try to feel your neighbor’s pain

because we are all in this together my friends

because my friends as we share this moment now

we are all getting closer to that time when we will eventually be in pain

whether we become destitute or homeless or maybe lose a spouse or a loved one or maybe you’ll wake up one morning and find yourself alone looking in the mirror

asking yourself what have I done with my life, wondering where all the friends are

as you pick up the razor blade and wonder whether you should use as directed

or to make one simple cut across the flat of your wrist instead

 

And I want you to promise me my friends, that when you leave here tonight

while you’re going home by yourself or with your loved one or with your friend

and you come upon someone who is in pain

maybe one of the homeless that live just behind this building

or the woman who has been abused by her husband

or the teenager who’s selling his body on the street corner

because he ran away from home and doesn’t know any other way to survive

or the man who is recklessly shooting his gun because he lost his job, or his wife or his best friend to some incomprehensible act of violence

or the street whore who hides her wretchedness behind a patina of heavy makeup

when you see any of these people I hope that you will go beyond your shrugged shoulder or your offer of spare change or your attempts to assuage your guilt

that you will do something bigger and braver to help ease the pain of your brothers and sisters

 

And if you promise me this tonight my friends, then maybe, just maybe, for just once

in these long, miserable, painful 52 years

I might get just one complete night of rest.

 

From deMockracy, Copyright 2007 Mike Maggio

 

 

PALESTINIAN DRIVER -- NEW ORLEANS

drives the trolley

along the riverfront

past Toulouse and Canal

this stop the French Quarter

next stop Cafe du Monde

 

greets passengers

from the riverwalk

wistful smile

thirty years

from Jerusalem

City of God

here in the City of Sin

 

Palestinian driver

faithful lover

peers at the tracks

caresses the controls

rolls graceful

in unison with the trolley

turns toward me

for brief remembrances of time

on the West Bank

of the Jordan

points to the West Bank

of the Mississippi

 

applies the brakes

helps passengers off

assists newcomers on

along the riverfront

rich earthy face

old-world facade

balconies dense with irises

cathedral nestled in Jackson Square

 

this trolley

with reversible wooden seats

this man transplanted

screeches with age

plies like Sisyphus condemned

back and forth

back and forth

 

one trolley

one man stranded in time

here on the riverfront

in the city

where life yawns heedlessly at the sky

 

 

Low on Water

Briefly wishful, the industrial grass wilted     no water               no sun      no powerful radiation

rays     no epoch nervous clouds of sorts       the near-death experience             no waifs

no humans       no beds         no apartments       just appalling darkness              obsessed

darkness                uncontested darkness        and we along often chased                    cheerfully blinded              a morsel of persia     a morsel of withered land       an iguana           a rubber band and flesh            a dish      a screw      a paper clip      an arid crack of soil    a hundred and twelve

 

and                        and

 

from Let’s Call It Paradise, Copyright 2022 by Mike Maggio

 

Lisbeth Coiman

photo by Marvinlouis Dorsey

Asphalt People

I

Los Angeles doesn’t spare

a chance to see the spectacle

Asphalt people

 

darkened skin with grime & abandonment

swollen ankles            oozing despair

eyes lost in the misery of this urban horror

 

66 thousand faces of displacement

 

Couch surfing or gym memberships to personal hygiene

Ghosts of nocturnal rapes run naked on San Pedro & 17th

Twin Towers asylum

 

Like refugees in the South American Andes

Asphalt people push their shopping carts

loaded with disappointments & helplessness

 

Only there are no border crossings into hope

Asphalt people - refugees in their own land

No TPS out of this nightmare

 

It takes a special kind of grit

to not hear voices / Angry voices wanting the end

This schizophrenia of contradictions

 

Bugatti riding past homeless encampments

The delusion of democracy

The dissociation of an economy built on free labor

 

The psychosis of using 400-year-old strategies

To keep

People of color            women            physically & mentally disabled          seniors & transwomen

 

unhoused & excluded from the benefits of privilege

unbalanced & medicated

worst yet         intoxicated

 

by the venom poured onto this concrete reality

Fentanyl & alcohol

II

Souls pawned to banks

for a chance to live on borrowed safety

mortgages outliving occupants

 

Woman screams

“ungrateful” to my face

for not praising her god

 

How dare an immigrant have what she hasn’t achieved

as a white American woman in her lifetime?

 

For displaced immigrants

The expectation is to stay on the ground

paying rent punctually

When an individual suffering from mental disorders

pulls herself together and claws her way out

they call her privileged       sanction her

 

III

Displacement by gentrification

Property flipped on the side of exploitation

young unmyelinated people calling themselves Pilgrims

 

Gentrification doesn’t happen without official complicity

 

IV

They prefer to walk over or around

schizophrenic unhoused neighbors on Figueroa

glue their fragmentation with antipsychotics

 

They don’t need no medication

They don’t need no mind control

treatment hides in meaningful work and decent pay

 

A paycheck at the end of the month

feels mighty good &

doesn’t have side effects

permanent housing

cleanses the asphalt

Laura Sermeño

Ezra Pounds on your Brother’s Grave

If you couldn’t have me

for yourself

then you would venture for life

 to destroy me.

Such a common enemy,

the man you stabbed your own back for.

Your love, a hatred to yourself.

You believed you could disappear

into your devotion for him.

Maybe God does warn of

Infatuation like this.

You ruined yourself once

to fit into him.

You’re destined to play these roles

on an infinity loop. If not in real

Life, then in your mind

as it warps and contorts to fit him.

You are not his rib.

He is not your soul.