Kenosha by Ben Rasnic

A 17 year-old white
gunman crossed the Wisconsin
state line, packing
an AK-15 type .223
& sporting white privilege
opened fire on three protesters
because he disagreed
with their constitutional rights,
their politics
& which lives
actually mattered,
then
with assault rifle
slung over his shoulder
and hands in the air
calmly strolled past Police
who stood by
and did
absolutely
nothing.

Memory Gardens by Ben Rasnic

 

In 1978 my father bought me
a ‘75 Chevy Nova
when my Pontiac Lemans
succumbed to poor craftsmanship
and consequently exiled
to the local junkyard.
The first night, we checked
this icon out in my parents’ unpaved
driveway, smoking Salems,
drinking beer and listening
to Virginia Tech football
on the radio.
This moment reappeared
tonight while, alone,
checking out my new loaner,
a 2015 Nissan Frontier
parked in my freshly
paved driveway;
not oblivious to the fact
that no one listens
to football games
on the radio nor
buys Chevy Novas
anymore.

Bipolar by Ben Rasnic

 

Never knowing
if the day will drape
its black curtain
tight as a drum
over my mind’s eye
or if the light
from cerulean skies
will somehow seep
thru the crevices
& brighten my day.
It could go either way.

Racing Thru this Life by Ben Rasnic

 

in shiny metallic
steel pods
illuminating broken yellow lines
on grainy black asphalt,
screaming wheels
careening chaotic
past the silent sway
of white sailboats
in the harbor;
hurtling hell-bent
past concrete walkways
& urban greenbelts
with breakneck abandon
cutting blind bargains
with split second decisions
to arrive at what
final destination,
sometimes sadly
Death’s frayed doormat.

Letting Go by Ben Rasnic

I believe that somewhere
a Spanish sports commentator
is still shouting “GOAL!”
for a shot made in 2007

and that somewhere
in a crowded sports bar
“tastes great!” and “less filling!”
continues to echo in the din.

I believe that somewhere
a place still exists
where it is still cool to say,
“Keep on truckin”

and that somewhere
Rob Lowe is actively
morphing new personalities
who still have cable.

I believe that somewhere
in an underground dwelling
in the Phillipines a Japanese soldier
remains ever vigilant

and that somewhere
my first love is happy
and healthy and occasionally
grasps a kind memory of me

because sometimes
it’s hard
to let go.

The Hijacking of America 2016 by Ben Rasnic

 

Avaricious right wing evangelicals
and megalomaniacal pseudo-politicians,
brothers & sisters
from the same shared womb,
the same blue blood lines,
the same empty eyes
casting cattle stares
into carnival mirrors
rippling grandiose apparitions
depicting the chosen one.

Performing mass hypnosis
at circus tent revivals & paid participant rallies
they spin assorted tricks up the sleeve
pick pocketing collection plates
with sleight of hand
artistry conjuring up a carefully contrived
name & face of the enemy,
having baited weak minded congregations
into a mob mentality
with the smell of fear
and dangle of shiny promises
to fix everything
and everyone
who is broken,
all the while smiling
through wolves’ teeth,
lip syncing the prelude to America
descending into darkness.

Foreign Policy by Ben Rasnic

 

A lunatic
is spraying nuclear missiles
over the South China Sea.

Meanwhile, the leader
of the free world
spends weekends spraying
Titleist golf balls

over manicured grounds
of his private
Country Club,

crying about fake news,
cheating on his scorecard.

Three poems by Ben Rasnic

Indian Summer

Late October
by the riverbank,
campfire flames dance
with blue and yellow headdresses
amid the smoky essence

of speared fish
resurrecting the spirit silhouette
of a great Cherokee Warrior Chief
from my ancient ancestry.

He joins us in our vision quest,
cracking jokes about
Andrew Jackson’s impotence,
whispering sun secrets
and drinking firewater.

_____________

 

Saturday Night Services

I methodically suck her toes
as she deliberately clips her fingernails
one by one,
“I can’t believe that you’re doing this”
she giggles
somewhat nervously quivers
just before shuddering,
then muttering soft strange sounds
and although she is not
what I would consider
a very religious person,
petitions the deity
not once, not twice,
but three times.

____________
November 9, 2016
I just want to hop
a Norfolk Southern
& lose myself in the blur
of rail ties
and measured strobes
of sunlight filtering
lodgepole pines;
to time travel
through the ghost image
click and shutter sanctuary
of memory archives
& transport myself
beyond the realm
of the day’s sorry events;
away
from the mind numbing duplicity
away
from the blind hatred
of mob mentality
away
from the affirmation
of blissful ignorance
ejaculating
life’s tired absurdity.

Elegy for a Summer Evening, 1972 by Ben Rasnic

It was his custom to soak in the summer evening air
reclining on the front porch sipping Old Crow & Coca-cola.
Being the only son still living at home…
and feeling sorry for him as I always did,
I felt obligated to pull up a chair and join him,
privately slipping a thin sliver
of windowpane acid beneath my tongue .

Though strangers, the two of us bonded
through the slow passage of time
with the steady flow of rot gut whiskey
steadily eclipsing a steel perception
like a black cloud
and the windowpane opening and closing
in my mind like the wink of a blind horse
just in time to notice his features meld
into the iconic image that graced the label
of his prized amber glass vessel
now shattered
across the concrete porch floor
like a carnival mirror.

I lovingly gathered up the pieces
and placed them on the mantel
above the fireplace.

The Latest Edition by Ben Rasnic

arrives
before dawn,
is already old news
before it even hits
the fresh black print
of our driveway;

comes in handy
to swat the puppy
whenever he pees
on the new carpet.