Lee Boek

Ambition 

Give me a job 

A woman and a prefab house 

Give me a pension I can gain 

Let me have a couple of kids 

A faithful dog 

Then let me explain. 

I want a life 

A real good wife

A family and a job 

I want to put my kids through college. 

Someday I’ll retire and play 

Have fun with my grands 

Even my Greats 

Maybe travel a bit. 

Hold it Right There……(Tuvan singing)

I hear it, (coping hand to ear)…It’s breath!

Let’s live and let live.

Hold it buddy, get off a my case

Get off a my case

Get off a my case.

Hold it buddy right there.

See you comin’ cross the parking lot

A bible in your hand

Headin’ right straight towards me

Ah said, “Hold it right there, man,

Hold it buddy right there.

Cool it!

I don’t want to hear that shuck and jive every day

That I’m alive

Everybody talkin’ bout heaven aint goin’ there”

And some of us already been

If you got something itching on you

Just scratch on your own damn skin.

It’s Her Body

What poem could I write

To express my disgust

At the loss of a Right

For a woman to decide

Whether she should or wants

To give birth?

“It’s her body,” Uncle Sam would scream

Shaking his old bald head

Marveling at how obvious that right should be.

Why should it be decided by others

That you Must be Mothers?!

Is it you're body Woman?

Do you relinquish your Right

To the state or the church?

None of this is Necessary. 

A woman can decide for Herself!

Karen Pierce Gonzalez

Last night in sleep

I was a blackbird on a wire outside a church. When the Sunday morning doors blew open, I flew in and perched behind rafter cobwebs in the back of the room, unnoticed by those gathered around a loaded AR-15 on the altar. Voices shot out; ricocheted off walls, shattered stained-glass windows, bulleted psalms blasted the silence - semi-automatic savior.

Space Sailor

 I circle planets

swim nebula seas

navigate plasma cloud storms.

 

A tethered crew member,

I collect extraterrestrial samples

repair ship hulls, inspect satellite stations,

 

play cards, weightless, in the cabin.

Drink instant coffee and worry

life won’t be different upon reentry.

 

Debris left behind –

school shootings, skewed voting laws,

lost reproductive rights –

 

most likely still the shrapnel

of our own making.

The gravity of self-seeking

 

blinds us.

Blue stars tear up

because they can see

 

we are in the crosshairs

of an AR-15’s rifle scope

and may not even make it

 

across the street safely.

(first appeared in IceFloe Press' Geographies 2022)

Terry McCarty

CLASH OF THE MASTODONS 

get ready once more

two mastodons enter the stadium

for more roars and butting of tusks

 

the media loves rematches

even if most of the public doesn’t 

 

watch Donald dance away 

from what he stirred up on 1/6/21

heh heh, nothing to do with me

they got overexcited on their own

you don’t mind if I squash civil liberties next time

see Joe bark at those who

dare to criticize his stance on Israel and Gaza

and his failure to distance from Bibi’s slaughter 

he says look, I cut insulin prices, 

gave some people student loan debt relief

and got both parties to agree on infrastructure 

so suck it up or you get Dictator Trump

this is what we get

when we don’t have big donor money

or super PAC clout

to push for real change

to keep old men with outmoded ideas

away from oval offices and nuclear footballs 

NIKKI HALEY HAIKU

I move with the wind

The wind comes from Mar-a-Lago

Don’t blame me for this

TALKING NEW YORK TIMES BLUES

oh oh oh where did it go

talking about the Grey Lady of journalism 

once it published The Pentagon Papers 

now it hates liberals 

shuts down in-house dissent

allows Maggie Haberman to be The Trump Sycophant 

wants to view the world from the penthouse 

covers Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s campaign 

by balancing Kerry Kennedy’s anguish

with gushing over RFK Jr.’s sense of sartorial style

oh oh oh what will it stoop to

after the difficult November election comes and goes

Petrouchka Alexieva

Farewell to War

Photo Credits: file:///C:/Users/plume/Documents/

Old%20Computer/Pictures/leavingarmedforces-WP.webp

 

Wars are always created

by tribal chiefs and politicians.

So, they get rich, but their kids

stay under the diplomatic shade.

 

In case they step outside,

daddy’s daughters and sons

get pompous titles

and medals of honor of all kind.

The shamans, the priests,

the mullahs and a like

are shaking their tools in theatrical trance

hoping it will be their chance

to grab bigger slice from the pie.

 

And…the lives of the rest get cheap.

For the rest opens the door of hell,

the horror, the physical pain of wounds

and the struggles of the fractured brain.

 

Since the man grabbed a stick and a stone,

humans have one thing in common - War.

Testing weapons and developing more

is always the main goal, so…

 

With latest Astrobotic inventions

humans might end with no cave left

to start next human civilization.

It is time to say “Farewell’ to War.

 

Peace Really Exists

Credit: https://www.chessx.org/the-role-of-chess-in-global-peace-inspiring-harmony-and-unity/

With positions on both hills, two soldiers

used to fight on both sides of the river,

In the dark, with their dusty hands

both used to light few cigarettes.

 

They both used to dream peace and a home,

bunch of kids and yard with no fence.

One day, the war came to its end.

The treaty was signed. They left

the bloody land planted with mines.

 

In a foreign place, they cleaned the minds.

Their wounds healed with time. Today,

two neighbors play chess under a huge olive tree.

They admire their kids. On the place with no fence

peace really exists and the two soldiers already know this.

 What A Swamp!

  

Photo credit: https://www.state.gov/dipnote-u-s

-department-of-state-official-blog/combat_plastic_pollution

The planet is dirty, the planet is filthy.

Who do you think must feel guilty? 

The glaciers melt, and the cows are blamed.

 

The plastic bottles invade the shores,

but the golden yachts float with sealed doors.

Turtles and dolphins struggle to breath

chocked to death with plastic rings.

 

The sands are mined with syringes and needles;

broken glasses. Standing right in the middle,

politicians talk to earn elections,

pretending they make their great affections.

What a swamp! The Earth needs protection!

Rob Tannahill

Never Do It In An Alley

primordial

muck                                                         fifteen buck

point

my arms                                                    here she comes again

a public pool

adult swim to evolution

in mind, in heart, in psalm                        the sexiest among them

got the makings                                         a curse

for prime material

what we got

on the menu is the                                     I can’t take it today

bubble up. double Up.                              what’s more

rest your neck                                 

you don’t have to                                      wait for me to come

My Head Is Not the Kentucky Derby

get out of my library boy get out of my word-thought get out I can’t say it no more go far from here get out this isn’t me anymore so get out of myself you no one on a string you can’t always express your mono-personality you myopic free range chicken quit cooking dope in verse we don’t shoot no more for the stars for the goals and we don’t follow mechanized white rabbits into the supernova of robot voice under sweating rock and too-loud traffic in nowhere land where fentanyl is called boy quit making me stitch you back to the side of my neck leave my vagus nerve be say I’ll stop talking about you say that’s a promise I tell you a bloody solemn vow binding like a sad bet during the two most exciting minutes in track betting better than a caucus race so they

don’t chase the odds no more 

Doin’ the Jim Carroll Jitterbug

I get it bad in the ankles

a ten day shock from analgesia

and tearing down of the love womb

I get it bad in the thighs.

 

I get it bad in the belly

if the powers that be

ever knew what glue dope makes of your guts

it could’ve saved a lot of horses.

I get it bad in the spine.

 

I get it bad in the noggin

when you stumble like this

it’s called the brain fluid bounce

I get it bad behind the eyes.

 

there’s a tight spot

in the bridge of my nose

where when I breathe, I get it bad

so bad, man, you can’t cry.

I get it bad

and no matter how long I lay here

I just don’t die

S.A. Gerber

Certifiable

 

It has come to pass.

I have renewed my

credentials from years

ago with the Universal

Life Church and they

have arrived!

They had no record of

me, but still, you have

heard of the “Right

Reverend Wright?” …

Well, I am now…

“The Wrong Reverend Gerb!”

(For an additional fee I

could have been a Rabbi,

but then I would move up to

a higher tax bracket.)

As of the sixteenth day

of July, 2021, I have

again, been certified!

(Some say I was certifiable

years before that, but…).

I am a “man of the cloth” …

wholesale, of course.

I am available for:

Weddings—

Divorces—

Funerals—

and Bar Mitzvas!

(Not to mention Bris, but

that of course is extra).

I also think in some cases,

I can hear confessions, but

I will refrain. I have my own

problems and mish-a-goss.*

Anyway, I will be easily

accessible once I get my T.V.

ministry underway. Stay tuned.

Goodbye and shalom until then.

 

*Mish-a-Goss, Yiddish= Silly nonsense.

  

On Every Street 

Don’t feel like living

in this world anymore.

Too nervous for suicide,

too frightened to die alone.

 

Passing people with dead

eyes on every street.

Each and every day.

they live in spite for spite.

 

The merchants come and go

with the changing of lights.

Vehicles sit not getting sold,

and murder is in the breeze.

 

The sun burns hotter in traffic.

No cold comes by night.

The wind song blows its lyric,

the rain withholds its relief.

 

Argue over the point of it,

or the ultimate meaning.

Someone or the other, or both,

will be fatally wrong.

 

Port 

Feel free to

smoke and write

in my garden,

wafting your words

to my window.

The clouds hang

low in my

room, as if

a hovering shroud.

Your warm body

is tauntingly infectious…

heat radiates off.

I wish to

hold it near,

and softly caress.

Two candles glow

and there is

yet another bottle

of port close.

Like any port

in a storm,

if you will.

We all take

comfort wherever we

can find it.

 

Dean Okamura

That helping hand

Black affluence ... Black homeowners ...
Black-owned banks ... Black Wall Street —
A 19-year-old Black man stumbles,
Reaches for the hand of a White woman.

 

It's March 1921 — touching her hand
Was enough for leaders to call for
A lynching. It unleashed angry White mobs.

 

The next day, the sun rises over Greenwood,
All rubble, devastation where dreams stood.
Touching one hand justifies killing,
Bombing, destroying the American Dream.

 

Prosperity turned into the faintest of hope
For Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness,
That helping hand is a myth.

 

Thinly dipped dark chocolate superheroes

Sometimes, I wish I had this superhero ability to read a poem in a meeting
That has a positive effect on other attendees, but …
That means I wish I had this superhero ability to write a poem for others, but …
Did I experience life to groom the superhero in me?

 

I got up out of my chair, stretched out my arms,
and spun three times,
then sat and wrote in a notebook.

 

Right now, I read you that poem.
It’s true, I have no superhero ability.
At least no one reacted to what I read.

 

Society is waiting for a superhero.
Regular people can only change little things.
We want someone to save our society.

 

But can a superhero end the war in Ukraine (2022)?
Can a superhero stop global warming?
Is there a superhero who dispels hate?

 

I’ve never seen a superhero, a world savior,
an environmental magician,
a poverty/hunger philanthropist/humanitarian.

 

Maybe

we don’t need a historic superhero?

Or maybe

life never depended on super special folks?

And maybe

the human spirit needs to rise on its own?

 

 

 

What do you think?

 

Ale Roggero

the stranger

my mother dislikes me because I’m strange

because I have this pen and it’s breaking my skin

its ink comes from my ears and pores

and I just can’t stop running my mouth

and even when I’m tired, my veins and

the tremor in my hand do it for me

I was my mother’s “easier birth”, 

her last birth 

I was her birthday gift, 

born on the 2nd of March and her on the 8th

she used to tell me I came out of her 

with a bow on my head,

that she always wanted a daughter 

my mother thinks I’m strange because I can

name all the capitals and states, 

every love story in contemporary American fiction

can tell you in 10 words or less why God

put me here on this Earth 

and I can tell you right now that it wasn’t 

to be a daughter

it was to be a shapeshifter, 

a chameleon 

my mother thinks I’m strange because 

I can be whatever I want to be

because my words sting like my father’s and 

I can’t keep things to myself 

because I’m not afraid to roll the dice or be honest

I’m not afraid of you–people knowing 

exactly who I am,

reveling in my vulnerability

my mother thinks I’m strange because 

there is someone out there at least one

that sees perfection in me despite her opinions

my mother thinks I’m strange because I don’t care

don’t care if my partner is a trash man or a doctor

love is enough 

she thinks I’m strange because

I love people I’ve never even met before 

because being a daughter is not my calling

I was not raised to obey to sit

with my legs crossed and cry only alone in my room

in the shower or in bed

I was not raised to serve you just because

I raised myself to be a woman larger than life

with a gentle heart, a childless matriarch

a woman with choice

wise, careful, courageous 

my mother thinks I’m strange because though

I am a daughter of a wonderful daughter,

I am also so many other things

she thinks I’m strange because I’m willing

to let my name die with all the others

to love who’s right here in front of me

and not create love or a child from nothing 

everything I am is because my mother

thinks I’m strange

because after 27 years,

after sharing blood and a womb,

after your divorce, your new life and marriage,

therapy,

many addresses,

my scholarships and my degree,

finding Jesus,  

forgiving you and keeping your name 

in my prayers,

you’re still not so sure about me

everything I am is because after all of this,

I am still your bad daughter, 

a stain on our family’s reputation, 

our lineage of good women

a stranger in your home

after all of this,

my mother still can’t bear to see me,

understand me

even though she made my brain

and my heart with her body 

Jackie Chou

"Off Chin"

There's fresh graffiti 

spray painted on my door.

"Off Chin," it says,

straight white letters

against the sky-blue motif

of the hotel-turned care home.  

"Off" means get lost;

"Chin" has something to do

with my ethnicity.

The culprit down the hall,

once a man in a clean suit,

now has soot on his cheeks,

reeks of rot,

urine, and feces,

now hurling 

this cryptic insult

for me to decipher.

"Off Chin, Off Chin,"

echoing like a mantra

through the corridors.

"Not"

They say we're "not very smart"

Using a negative modifier 

Instead of the actual word

They could've said we were dumb

Doltish or dull

But not "not very astute!"

They say we're bimbos

Or dim bulbs 

The two terms almost sound alike

And have similar meanings

Maybe they're the ones

Not very bright 

The Unlove Poem

I try to write a poem of love

but I just shut the door

against someone's face

to have the elevator to myself

like a pigeon hogging bread

I try to weave words of caring

but I just hid the gelato 

from my roommates 

then relished its swirls of caramel 

when nobody was watching 

I'm like the stage actress

secretly wishing

her nemesis would break a leg

so she could play the lead

I'm the heart

untroubled

benefiting

pretending to mourn 

the plight of others 

unqualified 

to write a love poem 

Mr. Chai Tea

A Love Letter to my Best Friend Camille

You never forget your first.

Every morning I look forward to getting in you, turning you on ‘til you exhaust.

Your body, sleek, slender, vanilla skin, 

a little rough around the edges,

with your rear end beholding a large crack,

but a nice rack, my opinion.

You carry a dump trunk to hold my load

the way you squeak when I turn you.

They don't make you like you anymore.

I know you are used goods,

the way you reliably fit me and 4 guys.

My grandpa may have taught me how to ride you,

but when my auntie first bought you at

a Toyota dealership in ‘99,

named you after Claude Monet’s wife,

Camille the Camry,

a model and an inspiration,

you always supported my butt,

shaking me in my seat,

and came in clutch.

A bit high maintenance, but lovin’ it when I gave you gas.

You are a classy chassis,

a power house steering me in the right direction.

You help me run errands, fulfilling my trans mission.

Your eyes, beaming, 

I appreciate your head, lighting up the road.

You are four wheel.

Driving you was no drag, on free ways, 

always on the dash, never board, put the pedal to the metal, no spoilers, but

you are worth the DMV lines.

I don’t care what others say about you.

You’ve taken a lot of shit… from birds.

You absorbed my shock, 

the catalyst to convert my mixed emotions when I needed to vent.

You are my caraoke when I needed to be ok,

my escape when I need to find my bearings.

You are a vessel of memories as I’m looking in the rearview 

so I can reflect on my first road trips, my first kiss.

Charged with assault on your battery as my safety neutral when I’d break down 

that it killed me when you finally broke down.

I hoped car years would last as long as human years. 

You carried 3 of my generations,

held my hand from elementary to university.

We traveled more miles than from here to the moon.

Beyond the pavement you spilled oil,

the uphill battles of LA soil,

I thank you for our journey, together, my ride and die, 

I wouldn’t have survived

for you have always been, my drive.

Jack G Bowman

Programming 

Simple thought patterns pass left to right 

Across his consciousness 

A teletype that provides reflective memory 

Events, people who have passed out his life

Gone far afield of his mind 

So, he returns here eyes half closed 

Ears half open 

The machine sends him these message memories 

He remains unsure if they exist outside his awareness 

Or if they are implanted concepts that the overlords 

Want him to believe he has lived before.

Goals as secret as the meaning of the thoughts

Before the words.

Simone Wilson

DON’T RUN

 

Can’t you hear me screaming,

Don’t run!

Above the deafening sounds of screeching sirens

Don’t run!

All they want is an excuse

So they won’t have to turn you loose.

Don’t run!

 

Drop the phone; they’ll swear it’s a gun.

When you’re dead it can’t be undone.

You’re not on the lamb

Show them your hands.

Who’s gonna raise your son, the child that carries your name?

His mom will do the best she can but

She can’t teach him to be a man.

Don’t run!

 

The child support you didn’t pay

can’t be the death of you; no way.

I know that you are in arrears

but you need to tune your ears

and hear me when I plead,                                                      

Don’t run!

 

That minute bit of weed is no more than just a seed.

It’s a class C misdemeanor,

Probation and a fine.

 You don’t have any priors so you probably won’t do time.

Stop running!

Lay down on the ground.

 

I hear the sound of the Negro hounds.

The rhythmic patting of paws to pavement

Pat, pat, pat a pat pat

No Harrett Tubman in this space to lead you to a safer place. 

They’re listening for that one command

To rip your legs, your feet, your hands

Get him, tear him limb from limb!

Their teeth are bared, the outlook’s grim

So,

Don’t run!

 

Your mother stands there shedding tears,

For what? One failure to appear?

X marks the spot on the evening news,

All you see is a pair of shoes.

They’ll tell us justice was being served

“Another black man got what he deserved”

“Don’t run!”

 

There’ll be a mock investigation, maybe a march in the street.

They’ll sing “we shall overcome”, but we won’t.

So don’t run!

 

Bullet holes in the back.

The police shot him twice

Don’t ever forget that’s how we pay the price.

The punishment doesn’t fit the crime so I’m begging you

Stop in time!

Stop, drop, even roll if you must,

But whatever you do,

Don’t run!

 

Running will not save your life.

Running will make you lose it.

And I don’t want to see you go out like that.                                                                                  

 

Ellyn Maybe

SCREWED RULES (HAIKU) 

 

Landmark decisions.

Democracy stay or go.

Our lifetimes are fraught.

Someday Our Peace Will Come

 

one day poetry dropped from the sky

and the animals grew iambic pentameter tails

and the people breathed in stars

 

one day music dropped from the sky

and the architecture turned symphonic

and the people breathed in harmony

 

one day memory dropped from the sky

and the past present and future sifted like flour

and the people breathed in wonder

 

smoke and ash

as distant as two sides of the same coin

 

                          

Originally written and published for S.A. Griffin’s project, The Poetry Bomb

2016: The Year The 20th Century Finally Died

 

The year so many musicians died and the year

Freedom seemed to be moving underground

Caskets filled the air.

We live in times of turmoil, clocks beating quicker and quicker.

Middle age seems old.

Seniors seem timeless.

 

There’s a lethargy in the way people move.

There’s a liturgy on the tip of our tongues.

There’s something in the morning cereal.

It looks like newsprint.

There’s something in the evening news.

It seems like farce.

 

As though this couldn’t be real.

This over-the-top peek into tragedy’s eyelid.

This shiver that lives in our psyche like snow.

We ski into another winter.

The world is on a ski lift.

Cocoa is leaving its face around a cup.

We stir and it’s January.

We stir and it’s the 20^th Century.

We stir and it looks like it’s black and white newsreels.

History tries to repeat itself as the people in power like sequels.

People wear the hero mask, the death mask, the face, and the heart.

People make choices.  The stores sell everything.

 

One of the strongest songs from Rodgers and Hammerstein,

You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught,

Prejudging is the name of the game so many households play.

Play rummi kub instead.

Play solitaire, don’t be influenced by peers.

One minute to midnight but people don’t know if the year

 will leave us dangling from some threshold.

History said, look at me with your eyes aflame.

Burn my pain in your memory.

Walk into the libraries and kiss all the spines.

 

The Earth is spinning whether people stay on it or not.

What if Earth falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it.

The last person on Earth will carry a pencil.

That is why Earth has survived this long.

 

jf giraffe

THE LANDING DILEMMA (HAIKU) 

Bird flying so tired. 

Fear wrong political branch.

Cannot land to rest. 

THE SMART MARTIAN (HAIKU) 

Earth is so crazy. 

Glad we did not invade it.

We are very wise. 

A TOTAL WASTE (HAIKU) 

Politics hateful.

So often mean and spiteful.

Power not used well.

Spencer Griffin

HISTORY LESSON FOR THE YOUNG AND YOUNG AT HEART

Many many years ago

Under the British rule

There was a man named George III

And what he did wasn’t cool

He taxed our tea, and then when he

Heard people cry out against it

He didn’t listen to them

And instead, he just got defensive

 

His monarchy turned to anarchy

With each growing frustration

The people had enough of his

Taxation without representation

So angrily, they threw their tea

Into the Boston Harbor

They marched away in protest

And then declared with much ardor:

“Your rule must end. O, royal ‘friend.’

Do not make us come back!”

He listened clear, for he had feared

He was under attack

And so, the time had come at last

For us to build a new nation

We called it the United States,

A land of innovation

 

With the birth of this new country

Came a new way to take charge

A way that we called “voting,”

Where the nation, by and large

Decided between presidents,

Instead of kings and queens,

Of who would win and who would lose

In our land of hopes and dreams

 

Here’s some more facts: at the max

They could serve for 8 years

That way, we could put aside

Any uneasy fears

Of what would happen if anyone

Took charge for too long

For in our great United States,

We tried hard to do no wrong

 

Now, no nation is perfect

We still have much to work out

But in the meantime,

At least we can know without a doubt

That our system of voting freed us

From a once oppressive reign

So maybe we can learn from this

How to live in peace again

Alex S Johnson

White on White Translucent Black Capes

 I

Acid melts on her tongue

pink wriggling curl of alive

the very young instinctive pulse

that rushes through galactic ports on air

to Stone Age lust

firm her spine, straight in perfect trust

She flips long fingers

through her hair

the squalling brain 

      splitting into fractal fantasy

words spill with distorted sustain

cut free from her lunacy

Ducking beneath 

a suddenly grown oppressive

doorway--she is Alice, and swelling with each

footstep--Ravyn sees the scene of the

Crime framed through a looping 

crack in nature

She pauses, freeze frame on the bachelors

the brides, eternal ornaments of time, summoning hot erasure

She mimes her lines in telepathic

seizure salad

but no one sees her

as she drifts soft down

her body 

a wet wrinkle 

like a cast-off surgeon's glove

The director summons the cast

for one final climb

above the watery expanse

of a bad romance

to sit atop the fiery rigging

and begin from the beginning

II

There will be hell to pay

There will be a reckoning

There is no other way

to crest the burning 

slope of the breast of days

Then she stands inside

the gallery exponential

her lungs expand as she

breathes with aching golden luxury

Of the body map, she's finally free

Dramatis personae: Ravyn Blackwood

her lover, Duke of Dread, Gregor the Demented

and the fox in the thicket

Merciless Moralia

III

Starring in the

coffee bar

with the crackling squiggle of

neon blue

Wasting away

at the Surreal Beauty Cafe 

IV

The theatrical curtain, black 

shower of tragedy,

drops like the chill of 

early winter rain

and the blood's so thick and hot, it pops in her

veins

Another performance of wonder and pain

concluded:

fortunately, this time

nobody got murdered.

Sleep Is A Symptom of Wake

Sleep is a symptom of wake

unburdened by philosophy

It's a game of give and take, mostly--

taking wake from you, restoring the day's

Best moments, clipped dendrites in a perfect

surgery of memory

For me, the symptoms are dire

They are pain

they are pain

they are pain

Pain beats me like a pinata

it takes and drains and drains and drains

You ask me what I take

For the pain

And my answer is simple: I take more pain

Now it is 2:14 am PDT

I sit, not insomniac in your normal sense

But on the rack

rear-end angel on the road to ruin

I am a monster, now that I see me

A dire wolf turned mutant

A living hunk of tundra

A fossil harshed into miniature

A crestfallen piece of creation

In my pain are verses abundant, for

It is a singer

and its songs are legion

It is a tree

that grows

Inside

Another tree

Encircled by circles of age and tremulous claims

to wisdom

Again,

merely born of pain

Pain is a genius

that erases you

As

You

It takes your soul and wears it as a cape

A carapace

Jekyll and

Denied

It is a stamp

in a robot manufacturing plant

Gregors incorporated

It tools fortunes

And is a rollercoaster in a cyclatron

It is a wounded

animal

That speaks to now, now

It is the worn

out

tumbled

down

Furniture

Playing an old blues

A scratchy jazz

Record on

Your old aunt Lillith's gramophone

And you thought I wouldn't

mention her

Again

Her age

her muted rage

We do not use

those terms

For feminine

We do not speak of

Lesbian

We keep things under heavy

composure

Manners and mannerisms

Passing for

Normal

There is a sleep also of conscience

A bitter remonstrance

From karen correctors in the marketplace of

Dreams

A bustling agora

choked with

Screams

Native

Black

Chinese

Japanese

Irish

Italian

mestizo

Ameri

Canon

Shot in an iron ball

across the sunken valley of Manahattan

Shaking in tatters and rags

Bundled in a

gypsy

Medicine

bag

These, again, are the

symptoms of

Sleep

A thin rainbow line

Guarded by the Dream Police

Cat on A Hot Tin Horror Cast

with a tip of the poet's beret to Ellyn Maybe

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake--James Joyce 

I

Skating across the tin

rooftops of the

planet

Like a lone girl performing tricks with her blades

self-conscious of her masks and masquerade 

Curious, she peers through the holes in the sky

where shattered lives abide in

ramshackle tarpaper shacks

Nobody knows where the

next

meal is at 

There are rumors

that children are being

sacrificed

There are rumors

that everything is fine

There is advice

I cannot take 

And the razor blade edge of final fatal lines 

Requiescat in Pace

II

Both sides exhale poisonous fumes

Both sides stoke the fires of propaganda

Both sides invoke a nightmare binary

Both sides cannot cause

Humanity

To side 

against itself.

Let's not make this 

difficult

Put that imp of the perverse

back on the shelf

At least

More difficult 

than the aching bellies

than the sleepless nights

than the edited bloody limbs

than the ripped backsides of hospitals

than the bodies elided, mass burial in rubble

than the provisions of armaments

than the skunk gas released at universities

than the poisoned tea of social media feeding frenzies

than the bombs

and the rape

and the horror we

cannot escape

III

Peace and war 

cannot be separate

A war for peace 

engages the sternest warrior hearts

Let's not dance

like a cat on a hot tin horror-cast

compassion-fatigued aghast

at the storm of perversities

Strength: the heart's yolk, unity in 

complexity

With show tunes, warm food and whimsical humanity

where leaders fail, the people will prevail

and forge ahead despite perplexity.

Carl Papa Palmer

Hooked

 

Kristy sent an email, said click this link

filling my screen with a YouTube video

of a fish in a fishbowl for nine seconds

before flashing to view kites crashing.

 

Watching, fascinated, fixated, besieged

by nine second clips of obvious amateur

movies, consumed, intrigued, afflicted,

addicted, conflicted on what I’ll see next.

 

Possessed, obsessed, watch water boil,

paint dry, grass grow, more fishbowls,

unable to stop or wanting to stop since

opening her email almost six hours ago.

 

Just this one last nine second segment,

then I’ll stop. Finger lingers over pause,

check clock for time to view one more

after this one, only nine seconds, right?

 

I didn’t read why Kristy sent the email,

only opened and clicked like she said.

I’ll check what she said about it in a bit,

but first I need to watch one more video.

 

                                                   

For My Protection  

    

When I try to open my email a big black bordered banner

with a flashing red X appears on my screen with the message:

 

A problem has occurred during sign in.

Please check your user name, password

and try again.

 

After another try, a larger yellow flashing banner warns:

 

For your protection -

after three failed attempts to sign in,

you will be permanently blocked from this email website.

You have already tried twice.

 

If you have forgotten your password and require a hint,

click on the security question tab:

 

For your protection -

Please enter the answers to these three secret questions

from when you initially registered for this account.

1- year your first pet died

       2- Your father's maiden name

   3- Your ATM PIN number

 

Congratulations! 2 of your 3 answers match.

You are not blocked, however

you must create a new password.

Please follow these important directions

on how to create a strong password:

 

For your protection -

It must be 8 to 32 characters long

different from your previous six passwords

containing three numbers, two special characters

no repeated numbers, letters or symbols

no dates and no times

no common names, surnames or nicknames

cannot rhyme with your user name

no spaces, case sensitive, English only

no slang or song titles

 

            After thirty minutes and with the help of my 8 year old grandson:

 

                       Success! Your password is accepted.

For your protection -  

a verification letter has been sent

to your new email inbox.

 

Finally! I go to the email website, carefully type in my name and password,

            Click to enter:

 

        A big black bordered banner with a flashing red X appears on my screen…