Agriculture by Ed Markowski

Mango trees lined the road at the Northern edge of the village
Not a lick of wind yet mango leaves shimmied thirty ­ five feet
above our top hats on our left flank Wicked Willie from Saint
Augustine looked up and whistled a carbine kiss into a cluster
of leaves not one thread of black pajama floated down in the
village proper a few chickens scrambled four goats roamed six
pigs waddled monkeys ranted from a bamboo grove an amplified
crack one shot took the Beach Bum’s head off in the center
of the village in dust we dove and ducked then worked our
way over to the bamboo grove took a look nothing there
on our way out we did our Zippo & The Magicians routine
old men watched women wailed children aged thirty years
in ten seconds we took a bow we tipped our hats at the
South end of the village more mango trees fly covered ant
covered mangos mashed in the road oozing juice looking
back I saw a streak of flaming feathers pinball off the
Beach Bum and through the legs of a smoldering goat
and with the exception of the Beach Bum I watched
myself and every other guy in our squad turn to ash.

MARRIAGE POEM #1723 by LYNNE SAVITT

she hasn’t kissed anyone
on the mouth on new year’s
eve in fifteen years though
she’s fucked a dozen or
more total strangers

who said marriage was
a partnership?

MARRIAGE POEM #1723 by LYNNE SAVITT

she hasn’t kissed anyone
on the mouth on new year’s
eve in fifteen years though
she’s fucked a dozen or
more total strangers

who said marriage was
a partnership?

When Two Stars Die by A. J. Huffman

We built our moon by hand, out of paper
napkins and twisted match sticks, the cheapest
kindling we could scrape from kitchen drawers.
Then we hung it from a string, from a low-hanging branch,
from a dying tree beyond the barn, and watched
night after night, comparing it to God’s.
Something of ours just never seemed right.  The light or the angle
of our eyes, and that last night, I was tired, and
you were angry, and we were both insignificant as always,
staring at our failure swinging in the wind.  You swung
out with your fist, and I watched your fire connect,
a spark you later swore came from your watch,
the metal acting like flint.  Something caught, grew,
and we sat back, put our feet up, and finally got to see
our tiny world evaporate in a brilliant ball of smoke and flame.

White Friday by Bradley Mason Hamlin

I
can’t wait
for
White Friday
that’s
where
I
stay
at home
drink
beer
watch TV
and
don’t
give a damn
about
Black Friday.

At Bus Stops on Thanksgiving Day by Donal Mahoney

Before dawn, people
who work on Thanksgiving Day
wait in the wind for a bus
to arrive or maybe not.
It’s too cold to talk
so the people stand
like minutemen and plan
a revolution that would shock
nice families who drive by later,
children tucked in scarves
and mittens, laughing
all the way to Nana’s house
for turkey, gravy, stuffing
and later in the day
a ballerina of whipped cream
twirling on pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving is the day
America asks for seconds
and sorts its servers
from the served.

At Bus Stops on Thanksgiving Day by Donal Mahoney

Before dawn, people
who work on Thanksgiving Day
wait in the wind for a bus
to arrive or maybe not.
It’s too cold to talk
so the people stand
like minutemen and plan
a revolution that would shock
nice families who drive by later,
children tucked in scarves
and mittens, laughing
all the way to Nana’s house
for turkey, gravy, stuffing
and later in the day
a ballerina of whipped cream
twirling on pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving is the day
America asks for seconds
and sorts its servers
from the served.

Veterans Day (2013) by Bradley Mason Hamlin

working
in the “cold war”
days
I only realize now
Reagan was
too damn good
to us

even though
we drilled for battle
out to sea
on a constant
combat level readiness
almost never sleeping
and a few good sailors
died
battling
the raging ocean …

most of us
were pretty sure
the Russians
weren’t going to do
jack shit
because
we were so goddamned
badass
and more importantly
too youthful
to give a damn

but looking
back on all those
amphibious operations
hitting the beach
with the LCM-8 “mike boat”
as the machine guns
blasted hell out of the shore
and retracting back
through the surf …

I only wish
I had greater appreciation
for our actions
and all the endless
summers of hard work
my shipmates endured
right then
while I was in the mix

instead of
always waiting
for my next rum drink
or dreaming
of the perfect blonde
in my future …

well,
that was necessary
for survival, too
but as you get older

you
learn quickly
how time floats away
on an ever-quickening tide

and
you will ultimately
be judged

mostly by your self

for
everything
you’ve ever done

so
maybe you could have
worked harder
out in the salt
or in college
or even
in your
80’s punk band

spent
more quality time
with your kids
or let your wife
really know
she is the heartbeat
in all the best
moments combined

you
could/can always
do more
be more
work harder
pray to gods unknown
for all the answers
and work even harder
when you don’t
hear back from Heaven

but
there was a time
when you were young
immortal
took the punches
kept swinging
got back up again

and
somehow
traveled
thousands of leagues
into
the mysterious
future

where
children laugh
because
they are time machines
taking your dna
into

the
next good adventure

all
made possible
by those brave
Americans
who fought
all the wars before me
and everything
after

we
tore down
that wall.

Paleface by Pris Campbell

Always the Indian, never
the cowboy in childhood,
he painted his face with
purloined lipstick
and day-glow magic markers.
His mission….to save the world
from the paleface, spreading
like hungry ants in their search
for gold and buffalo hides.
If he had his way, the plains
would be covered again with tepees
and crackling campfires sending smoke
high into jet free air.

Had he been Tonto, the Lone
Ranger would’ve been on the next
ship back to England.

He still paints his face when the moon
is full, dances the secret dance,
aims smoke from his peace pipe
towards Washington, ever hopeful
the politicians will strip
to loin cloth and begin dancing
the peace dance, too.

FRACK JACK I DON’T CARE O’WHACK by Paul Corman Roberts

The desolation to Damascus
paved with do-gooder campaigning
begins at compacted concrete
evidence & public opinion
historical foundations laid down

over
proven demograscapes
over
the past ten years
& promising
to never indulge
our vices again
except
in the cold
cold rain.

Whatever you stand for God’s sake
please make sure the hipsters
can’t use that shit against you
should keep plenty preoccupied
with unoccupation & headstrong fumes of consumer ether.

Let them frack
your soul
your conscience
for the price of a map
which leads
to another map
which leads
to another map
ad infinitum
cause believe me:

In America nothing commodifies faster
than the journey nothing more undesirable
than the destination
a can to keep kicking down
the good-intention super highway.