Sex & Dignity by LYNNE SAVITT

 

a white hospital blanket covered your feeding
tube yr eyes closed peaceful as a corpse yr
glasses resting on yr flat broken nose pale
as i’ve ever seen you in over forty years loving
you i kissed yr forehead warm & wrinkled smile
came to yr face opening yr eyes “my princess”
you said to my daughter who left the room to
give us privacy “touch my cock,” you asked &
as if we were in the prison visiting room i reached
under the starched sheet searching for yr penis
but I couldn’t find a quarter inch of of the almost
eight i remembered ‘’where is it?’’ i asked ‘’it’s gone’’
‘’under the diaper i’m wearing, ‘’ you answered
SEX AFTER SIXTY was a book i used to shelve
while working at b. dalton’s when i was in my
twenties never looking ahead to the rules it
listed put away yr medications & photos of yr
grandkids no where was a chapter on diapers
or arthritic hands that could freeze in permanent
grip if i tried a hospital hand job to take care
of you need more than i could ever give i’m
remarried now living hundreds of miles
away i am still yr healthcare proxy & to you
still responsible for yr shy cock swaddled
in a paper diaper yearning to be a warrior again

Two Poems by Matt Borczon

Harry Houdini

once escaped
from the
belly of
an octopus
he was
the first
to fly
a plane
over Australia
and would
escape from
any box
or strait jacket
hand cuffs
or cage
sight unseen

so when
I was
sixteen
shy and
unable to
fit in
too small
for football
and bullied
for my
long hair
and unpopular
taste in music
I carried
his biography
with me
daily like
a bible

proof you
could escape
anything
if you
really really
tried.

____________

Band reunion

I will
bring the
ghosts from
the last
war you guys
bring the
divorces
and grown
children
the lesbian
affairs and
Brent can
bring the
ashes of
his dead
ex wife
and we
can all
plug in
and play
knocking
on heavens
door and
mean it
like we
never could
at nineteen

why do you punch cops? by Justin Hyde

 

i ask
at his parole sign-on

the file
showing assaults
on nine cops
in three states

that stack of paper
don’t say shit
i punch everyone

i punched the teacher
the bully
the bus-driver

i punched the city worker
who tried turning mom’s water off

the dhs worker
who tried taking me away

i punched my uncle
in the back of the head
when he hit mom with a hammer

i punched a dog’s teeth out
when it bit mom on the leg

i punched a whole nativity scene
into dust
in front of a church
when they told mom
quit begging
go get a job

i punched
every single mother-fucker
i had to call dad

all twelve of them

see these hands?

Death’s Door by Alan Catlin

 

He is as gaunt as a Camp survivor,
one of Death’s on-the-job recruiters
working the bars for new recruits.
Runs his hand over three months of
chemo hair style, rubs his bloodshot,
watering eyes, says,
“I must look like an Irish trashcan.
That’s how I feel these days.”
Is trying to drink a depth charged
pint of stout, says,
“For the Iron.” But is having
trouble keeping it down.
“Used to be I was a real dresser.
Chaser of ladies both large and small.
Look at me now.” Wears pants
the fit him like a sick elephant’s
skin even with a belt pulled as tight
as it will go and a shirt made for
a man two or three times his size,
says, “What’s the point of buying
new clothes now?”
“Have one on the house.
For the road.”
Kind of smiles, “Sure, why not.
What the hell?

MLK Day Poem 2018 by Michael Grover

 

(Every Poem is Illegal)

Did you ever think
It would be 2018
& we’d experience whitelash
From our first black president
& everything that went wrong
Would be blamed on him

Did you ever think
It would be 2018
& people would be from
Shithole countries that should be
On the other side of the wall
Yet to be built

It is two thousand eighteen
& people are beaten down
By the flagrant racism coming from the whitehouse
By the economic polices coming from the whitehouse
By the tweets coming from the whitehouse
By the endless perpetual Orwellian war coming from the whitehouse
By environmental polices coming from the whitehouse
By capitalism on crack coming from the whitehouse

Yet here we are
The times they are a changin’
Doin’ a backward goosestep
Doin’ a backward slow dance off a cliff
& we’re never gonna be the same again
We might not recognize ourselves tomorrow
Perfect for a Hollywood screen
Save the dramatic happy ending
Martin it’s been fifty years since you’ve gone
I know it like the year I was born
You and d.a. levy
Who just wanted a just World
It feels like the truth is illegal
That makes Poetry illegal
Some still do the dance
Talk real loud & say nothing
It’s all just talk these days
& those of us that do walk the walk
Walk slowly to our grave
I have cancer Martin
I’m not much of a fighter anymore
Too busy fighting to stay alive
I don’t even write that much anymore
You probably wouldn’t think we’ve made much progress
People are still people
All the racist people
All the anti-racist people
It’s still divide & conquer
It’s still law & order
It’s still real

the children of today by J.J. Campbell

i think of
the world
the children
of today are
going to take
over

i sleep
comfortable
knowing

i didn’t bring
any future
disappointed
souls into
this world

Poem by Mike Meraz

Staring into
Your
Iphone

Like there are
Answers
To the
Universe

But all you
Want
Is a
Text

From your
Significant
Other

Saying
It’s
Ok

It’s not
Over

I’m
Bringing
Thai
Food.

Residual Atmosphere by Jonathan Hine

i walked past strange
shadowded yards
down city lanes
up the stairs to
obtain my hidden bag
a smoldering blaze of
orange & red spread
across the horizon
unearthly tints shone
through the window
with long purple curtains
to the side
the faint glow
illuminating & radiating from
the permutations & combinations
of variously enumerated configurations
flickered, then
slowly faded out
and there you were
orbs of mingled light climbed the wall
you smiled
a repose from varying
blasts
you were glad to see me
had missed me
now you were leaving town
you leaned in
& whispered in my ear
i think someone
set those curtains
on fire

Three Poems by Kevin Peery

LONESOME LUKE

The
Oak Hill
police
found some
empty
Falstaff cans
and handwritten
lyrics
to the
last song
ever penned by
Luke the Drifter

They
were
scattered
in the
backseat
of that
baby blue
Fifty-Two
Cadillac
convertible…
as
Jambalaya
rattled
softly
on the
radio

____________

 

ROCKIN’ RANDALL

When
the
snow
collapsed
on
Ajax
Peek…
Rockin’
Randall
fell
five
hundred
feet…

And
it
took
him
almost
two
years
to
learn
how
to
talk
and
sing
again

____________

ELEVEN YEARS

They
say
ole
Lefty
drank
himself
to
death
in
July
of
75…

But
all
evidence
suggests
he’d
been
walkin’
toward
the
spirit
realm
for
at
least
eleven
years

to understand the emptiness by DB Cox

—Every day, more than 90 Americans die after overdosing on opioids… why?

the needle knows the way
once more, i lean over “the hole”
& let myself go

for a second
i feel as if i am hovering
but i know that i am falling

time is lost
with no references
i have no perception of body position
i have become the dark

at times
i seem to be on the verge of some vital discovery
when i try to verbalize scattered thoughts
the words die-swallowed by the vacuum

the old force pulls at me constantly
i am being eaten away
soon i will vanish
this arcane “machine of want”
will crave no more

my only hope for salvation
was to understand
& accept the emptiness
of a 24-hour day

i have lost all faith
in the notion of an “ending”
to get to the bottom of “the hole”
was my only goal

now I’m certain
that I will never see
if i’m inside “the hole”
or “the hole” is inside of me