Archive for November, 2016

GROWING UP IN AMERICA by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags , on November 27, 2016 by Scot

As a child I thrilled
To the railroad trains
Riding out of the badlands
Not knowing they were owned
By robber barons

I watched the Calvary charge the
Indian villages like Attila the Hun
Believing Custer a hero and
Sitting Bull a savage

Not taught in school about the
Deadly smallpox plague
Diseased blankets traded Indians
For title to their land
A secret plot to murder
An entire nation

Generations of ripped-off cultures
Gather in the museum of history
Dolphins die in tuna fishermen’s nets
While pelican eggs refuse to hatch
Victim of man’s greed and waste
As the blistered hands
Of faceless migrant workers
Reach out for a token of respect
Only to find death in pesticide laded food
The tools of revolution laid aside
Rusting from affluence and false security

The dreams of thousands upon thousands
Of brave warriors lay buried
In unmarked graves
No historical monument
Will make mention of them
Their children buried in graves so small
Their parents wear them in their hearts
Like an anchor weighed
To the tip of their tongue

emperor of 26th avenue by John Grochalski

Posted in John Grochalski with tags , on November 27, 2016 by Scot

the emperor
of 26th avenue
stands baked a fine brown
wielding his cane like a sword
outside the deli
underneath the pimple dick sun
he says, we don’t rent from the chinese here
i don’t let ‘em
good italian folks, he says
you can’t be renting apartments
from those chinese
when there’s still good italian people
that got clean rooms for rent
this neighborhood
everybody back then
they were the salt of the earth
but now…
now they’re all in those muslim headbands
or speaking spanish
squawkin’ that gook talk
the emperor
of 26th avenue
has his two dollars at the ready
for a cup of coffee and the post
the trick is, he says
i don’t let ‘em rip me off
i know what coffee
and the news are worth
but do they?
back before when this deli was run by italians
sometimes you didn’t even have to pay
or they’d let you slide a quarter here and there
folks helping each other out, ya’see?
but not them running the show now
they want to take over america
and turn us into something different
all those buildings
with all those different languages on them
muslim and chinese and spanish
chicken scratch
that’s why i stand here
most mornings and most afternoons
hell, i’ll stand here all day if that’s what it takes
to get things back
the emperor
of 26th avenue
puts his coffee cup on a stoop
and hobbles to the corner
he stands there by the stinking garbage
and the blowing leaves
like a bird shit statue
then he shakes his head
and comes hobbling back
looking like the statue of liberty in bermuda shorts
nursing a bad back
and a bum right knee.

Epilogue for an Election by Donal Mahoney

Posted in Donal Mahoney with tags , on November 27, 2016 by Scot

 

After the TV mavens had their say
the gnomes crept out of their caves
spoke and returned to their caves.

Thunder struck, hell broke loose
and the mavens came back on TV
predicting Armageddon.

In cities all over the nation
pimples popped and broke.
Pus flows in the streets.

The Wind Carried Away The Cotton Wool by Charles Joseph

Posted in Charles Joseph with tags , on November 26, 2016 by Scot

For Federico Garcia Lorca

When in Spain I touched a cobblestone
touched by the blood of martyrs
and never did I imagine
that the work of a bevy of bullets
could strike my soul with so much force
traveling all the way to me from the past
but it did, and it still does.

So since I can easily be erased
and you can easily be erased
I’m sure we can all agree
that a poetic death doesn’t really exist
regardless of how much a country
tries to whitewash their history.

Because sooner or later
a beautiful museum will be erected
and it will be filled with all of
the bones they’ve collected
and tickets will be sold by the pound
because a good old fashioned
death is a joy forever —
until you are the one who’s been
blindfolded and murdered.

Movement by Cassandra Dallett

Posted in Cassandra Dallett with tags , on November 26, 2016 by Scot
It’s more than love
ours,
some kind of worship.In bed we are safe
from bullets
splintering the wood fence outside.

In bed they cannot touch us.
Till we reach for devices
and information
when death seeps in.

The ugly roils our stomachs
we rock each other.

I scratch your afro
you scratch my bleach blonde
the dogs are tangled up with us too.

Out there it is all
heart breaking, breath taking news.

The all-lives-matter folks
consumed with fear of Sharia law
we hand them mirror
say look at this terrorist.

The good food in our belly sours
when we see children comforting parents
more parents mourning children.

Over and over they say
we should all have guns.

I don’t want a gun I’ll take my chances
with the sagging fences and wagging dogs.

When we go down
we can go down together
I’ll go down on you and you’ll go down on me
the place can burn while we’re drowning.

Somebody will post live video
while following Pokemon around
why track you
when you can do it for them.

Drones the size of bumble bees, honey
missiles aimed at our heads.

We have a well armed police force
who miss the smell of Bagdad
the power of boot on flesh
crush of bone under wheel.

Every day I buy time between you and jail cell
every night we spend what is bought together.

We can’t join marchers on freeway ramps
We are chained together in our own movement.

Scratching poem
and song from one another’s scalp
with a love more like worship.

A Message To Donald Trump #3 by Michael Grover

Posted in Michael Grover with tags , on November 26, 2016 by Scot

 

The neighbors across the street
Two men, I assume they’re together
Never really asked
Haven’t talked to them much,
But they’re always pleasant
Early evening they are usually
Drinking on the front porch
I haven’t seen them since the election
Only an american flag flying upside down
Next to Buddhist prayer flags

The Years We Remained Anonymous by John Dorsey

Posted in John Dorsey with tags , on November 25, 2016 by Scot

 

waiting for history to moan our names
to carve our initials into a tree
that we can no longer find

the moonlight is no longer happy
just touching the skin of generations
& the road back home
is muddy with blood

there is very little peace

in any of it.