Author: poetryfest

Watching Morning Joe listening to the latest news
while sipping my coffee and staring at the break-of-dawn view.
All the despair from the upcoming election boils the blood that
flows through my veins. I wonder how we got to such a place.
No one believes in the truth anymore. I grab my head and hold it tight,
close my eyes, and see the dead walking by, without any thought,
following their misguided theories of every possible conspiracy.
Hollow eyes void of truth, makes me sit here with imminent
fear. What will become of this country, which many, like me, hold so dear?
What will happen when the Walking Dead gains control? The
vitriol and lies they spread that we so much despise. The pundits
are gathered, discussing and predicting with ease, “A great
red wave,” is what we will see. I can’t believe that they know
all, or do they wish to create a panic this fall? I notice
the glee in their eyes, speaking of this with ill contempt,
perhaps relishing seeing this country’s mess. Their voices are
tense with each syllable they speak, manufacturing the notion
that anything different is perhaps too late. Their tone emits
the sense that blue voices should stay home. We can’t believe
what they say is true, a vote for freedom and democracy is needed from
me and you. Discard all you hear and throw away the voices that
speak of such doom and gloom. If we should fail, the horizon looks
bleak, at least two years of perpetual impeachments they will seek.
Their platform is all about blood, feeding, and eating our raw meat.
Could it just be me with such a fearful view, from what I’ve seen,
I think I am speaking the truth. I am sure I’m right when I say
more tax cuts for the rich and shit for the poor, is what those fear-mongering
zombies have in store. Forget Social Security, if their wish comes true, will
rest on the horizon for all to view. They must stop luring the unknowing
into their mischievous band, we must believe that we can win the fight
for this great land. So now, my friends, our end of time is near,
Should we give up and succumb to the worst fear?
It’s up to us to turn the tide, no longer can we sit idly by.
With each dawn that rises, the autocracy could soon be here. The
democracy we have treasured for over two hundred years is the most
important item on the ballot this year. Inflation will be no cause to worry
when you wake up and see that the Autocratic Zombies have won this final
year.

We are best among our own
Where our very voice is known amid
The scatter and swirl of
So many veiled faces and
Ugly opinions

The options are too much with us
Perhaps a bit too
Perilous and slippery as are now
The stream-stones of our once
Sure-footed youth
When our mothers switched the porch lights
Off and on
Off and on

They
Peering from the pained
Windows in the fading winter blue
as if wishing well to play likewise
among the perilous youthful stones
Unsure of their slicked-souled and
Outdated shoes.

Our options divide us among our own
Like so many scattered and swirling
Tongues
Babbling with our veiled faces and
Ugly opinions

I wanted to make him happy, so I told him I’d barbecue. While he was at school, I went and bought pig meat forced into tubes and a bag of charcoal and I bought four patties of beef flesh ground and patted down into discs. I lit a fire and laid these things on it until the discs of beef flesh darkened and contracted, until the entubed pig meat blistered and began to blacken

and then I took all this off the fire and called my son down from where he was holding his eyes on a screen watching videos conceived and directed by a man whose voice pipes in at the end to hammer home his morals, to heavy hand them in case anyone’s missed the message. He says, “So you see…” and you wait for it, it’s in that sentence, the whole point of what you’ve just seen. The universal takeaway. They run one after the next, these videos, and my son sits and watches them, docile and mostly accepting of the reel, whatever comes next, whatever the message the voice at the end will ask him to accept.

We ate everything: he did, and I did, too. I was hungry, and the bread was soft, and I remembered times I’ve eaten those things, looked forward to eating things like those. We finished quickly. He ate fast, in huge, uncomfortable looking bites, he’d been hungry, and while we ate I ignored my phone pinging texts at me I knew was text thread of our neighbors’ grievances about how the playground on our corner is out of control now, preteens unsupervised and cursing, with nowhere to go now that school’s out. I’ve heard

that when a pig is afraid it screams like a human. I’ve heard cows have distinct adolescences, moody and prone to actions which might seem rash, nonsensical. My son sat and chewed, his back facing me, looking out into our yard, up into the trees beyond it. He was quiet and I was quiet, too. I wanted to make him happy.

The howls of wolves resound
where the recessed shadows lay,
a mass grave of darkness bound
between steeples and bomb bays.
Her world was old and silence
before the beasts descended
humming lies like violence
that she never comprehended.
Still, door to door she ran,
warning, yelling of the dangers
to every home the clergyman
had preached to love these strangers.
And ho–the monsters flocked,
each whistling in the sky,
while all the politicians talked
of peace raining from on high.
Everywhere the monsters spoke
made martyrs of the mute
while priests and politicians sold the smoke
that she led them down this route.

By the time you read this poem, the election will be decided,
the ballots counted, balloons dropped, our country still divided.
Commercial fishers lift their unwilling catch from the sea;
like cruel pendants, plastic nets choke cool night’s neck, but we
ignore the gore on deck. What can’t be stopped is conceded.

To StarKist, bycatch, Filet-O- and over-fishing, we are blinded;
the stink of slaughter eludes us. What can we do but abide it?
Perhaps the good candidate won; perhaps he did again. Either way,
when you read this poem, the election will have been decided.

North of Sicily, a sperm whale and illegal drift nets collided;
divers failed, couldn’t cut her free. Further into the deep she glided.
Maybe voter suppression was thwarted; the winner, Democracy—
maybe not. Chances are, we remain cowards unmoved by cruelty.
Whether drowning and defeated, or released into the sea united:
Dear Reader of this poem, the next election is not yet decided.

soften. take pull drag kick and scream yourself to the edge hesitate hold your breath draw up plans and walk away. end things when you’re unhappy self-medicate stop selling ideologies you don’t believe in disavow your leaders and refuse to find new ones. no more newspapers no more Menshevism no more compromises never negotiate your existence take unreasonable stances when necessary. state your intentions. lie. tear open the ground below yellow teeth bared will fall falling fallen land on hard stone break Adam’s other ribs kick him and cry. shave apples cut faces wash yourself put on sacred clothes hole ridden hoodie beer crusted jeans obscure punk band shirt more fag stain than cloth. roll lavender tea rose chamomile lemon balm crushed up hold it to your lips but never light never feel on tongue never breathe never taste sour bitter woody ashysweet pungent grey brown dark and purple. write deep heartfelt letters to dead poets burn them and dance deep in the forest only smoke in special places with people you love. curl your hair feel beautiful hate beauty cut it off: regrow until waist length. the revolution will not be is not being was never televised. suffering is silent. learn to despise your heroes this is an era of collapse begin to unravel. reject accelerationism. hoard stolen flowers rings and tablets submerge stems vases litter mantles. open up sunlight streams in empty room full of fragments broken windows pieced together collect reuse and resell. unbecome. never be useful if you can help it. make notes for a poem. never write a word. the ritual is now complete.

In the City Hall, after the dog show, they started a fight. Strangers in ripped jeans and cactus squeezed into the aisles egging them on. They seemed like old friends dressed like gladiators, locked in wraps of leather, old iron. You are a radical fart said the one with oval glasses. You’re a square turd said the one in brow lines. Waving their walking sticks like sabers they repeated ancient slurs over and over: you blood-sucking pumpkin; you louse infested poppycock; you stinky manure heap; you blathering balloon of burps; you low-life sea snail; you filthy fiddlestick. Soon they were shaking each other by the throat, belching anguished gasps into each other’s eyes flush with tears to make up for the loss for words from half Nelsons. The crowd stood on the edge of time waiting for the turning point; something more extreme. They were already bored. They had seen a million gladiators before. So, the wigs came off, then the glasses. After a short headlock they were crawling the length of the hall’s cracked floor looking for their teeth. Help me find my eyes you scumbags one said, head cocked towards the raucous mob. Help me find my clothes you bastards the other repeated. No one in the pews moved. No one knew if they were real gladiators or ghosts from history dressed up for the evening news

Bright blue pistol
See through plastic
White tubes inside
Bright orange tip, for safety.
There he is, six years
Of ear to ear enthusiasm
With every squeeze
Of the trigger,
Painting the sidewalks
A darker shade of grey
As we walked, him ahead
And me behind,
Searching for arid bad guys
And making little rivers
Of water or lava
As he hopscotches
Over the cracks in the sidewalk.
I scan the doorways
And every car that drove by
Waiting for the Crazy neighbor
Or over zealous homeowner
Protecting their property
From a six year old tresspasser.
I keep my eyes peeled
And hold my breath
When the cop car drives by.

they call my heartbeat

irregular

and i smile

know too well that little boy

on a swing set fluttering in my chest

mouth crammed with sweets during ramadan.

hiding from shadows in the grass

it’s just his head tilting whenever it skips

admiring the clouds

pretending he could be one.

what no one ever teaches children

is that sometimes simply wishing

becomes a dangerous act.

one afternoon you’re dragged to the first row

to pray at the mosque

where there is never really room for you

so you disrobe your fears

become a place of worship

where only birds visit daily

to show disrespect

finally you decide to join them

falling behind

in migration

until no one remembers.

soon enough

you are returning

deep

into the folds of the earth as a fruit tree

cursing legions of ungrateful visitors

who carry your fruit away

years of this

hoarding

as they dismember

the shade

and memory of your body for warmth

part of you escapes as smoke

others shipped and sold

steeped and floating

survive

in tea cups and conversations

now you are the courage

coating the throats of a population

in villages and cities you can’t pronounce

disguised as the water of tears

you are that

invisible/dampness/trapped

in corridors

weaving shrouds at a loom

for every last drop

of shamelessness.

i am there with you

watching the exodus of children

queuing at sunset

to become

the clouds

that will always take

our breath away.

First the pop and pour
CO2 rushing to the surface
then scoreggia a sound
that makes Italian schoolboys laugh.

Some plosives streak upward
disguised as vowels, some
stop on the surface
consonants falling flat.

The VIPs gather, one suggests
bigger flutes, another records
how each bubble contains
a rainbow even while clouds
threaten, a surrogate notes
how a good number cling,
shimmy, rise up, implode.

And really now what choice
do we have but to lift
the tempest to our lips
and wait for polite acceptance
(with reciprocity, of course).

Finally, the empty chalice
Is hurled in a measured arch
of celebration of discontent,
a real Fox News scoreggia.