2 POEMS – DAVID S. POINTER

Night Vision Revisited

I’d clean the killing lens night vision
goggles
with submarine seawater, but, the
eviscerated blindness is lodged off
in the long term
low intensity conflict
brain wirings
never fully sanitized
as the world pulls warm winter covers
up over the collective mindless head
waiting for a new delicate darkness
without carnage,
without calendars,
without fair trials touching down inside
unjust economic system cyber-tent sales

~

Dreamscape Crime


Detectives
relish
pursuit,
but, if anyone
dynamites
or poisons sinkholes
as a cold case walks by,
arrest
the former
not quite forgiven
when the state needs money
after receiving individuals
incensed by mouthpieces
for the vampiric economy
needing
tailbones
for the acquisitions-avoidance
culture receiving so many
mega-judgements lacking
menace-conviction corps

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TERRY HERTZLER – NAPALM

NAPALM

The boy wears only a pale green shirt,
no pants or shorts or shoes–a six-year-old,
fat stick in hand, squatting in the dirt.

He glances up as our convoy passes,
eyes dark and blank, and shifts his weight
to favor his left leg, ridges of scar
from ankle to hip twisted and shiny as plastic.

Yellow dust, kicked up by our truck
hangs in the air, thick and choking.
But the boy, face calm as a cat, just stares,
only his eyelids moving, up and down
up and down. Finally, he looks away and
raising his club, resumes his task,
pounding ants.

~

This poem was originally published in Second Skin by Terry Hertzler (Caernarvon Press, 2003)

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poetry: catherine wolf -hack attack

Hack Attack
Finally! Obama shot back at the Russian hackers
who attacked our computers, the Democratic National Committee,
Hillary’s email, and just fun Vermont’s power grid.

But shot with a BB gun, it could shoot someone’s eye out,
leaving him dazed and bloody, not like a nuke
which could destroy a country or a world,
leaving the scent of smoke no creature could smell.
Obama, did you smell the flaming planet?

Trumpeter tweeted Putin putting off his own retaliation,
shining “very smart.” Treason is giving aid and comfort
to an enemy. Is the president-elect dipping
into treason like chocolate mousse?

Trumpeter sided with WikiLeaks founder
who said “Nyet, not a Russian hack.”
Does dumpy Trumpy want to build a golf course
in Siberia? It’s all about money.

With his glowing bare muscular chest,
Putin must have a dozen women
Trumpet can grope.

~

Bio
Catherine G. Wolf studied language development in graduate school, and was fascinated by this unique human ability. In 1997, when she was stricken with ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, her ability to speak was taken away by this disease. She found poetry had a special capability to express her innermost feelings. By losing her physical voice, Catherine found her poetic voice. Catherine has published in the 2016 Rat’s Ass Review edition of Love & Ensuing Madness, Rat’s Ass Review, Front Porch Review, Verse-Virtual, Cacti Fur, and Bellevue Literary Review. She uses assistive technology to communicate, and raises her right eyebrow to type.

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poetry: catherine wolf – the faithful faithless

The Faithful Faithless
After signing 37 petitions, I dreamed
Sunday night 37 faithless members
of the electoral college, but faithful
to the national popular vote,
defected from the orange Rump
and voted for Hillary.
Russian hacking couldn’t turn
our election upside down.
America was great again!
But when I turned on the TV Monday night,
America was raped again.
Two electors dressed in camouflage
fatigues snuck away from the orange Slime
and voted for Kasich and Ron Paul.
On the blue Pantsuit side,
three deranged defectors voted Colin Powell,
one voted for Bernie to keep our revolution alive,
one flew to Native American
Faith Spotted Eagle’s perch.
Hillary won 2,800,000 more than Tiny Fingers,
why isn’t she the President-elect?
Because the electoral college uses
nonsensical rules of assigning electors to states.
It tilts power to small population states.
It’s hardly a college, more like doggy daycare.
Now we’re stuck with climate contrarian,
women-groping, Muslim-hating, Putin-loving,
nuke-hawking, lying-tweeting, cancerous Lump.
Time for a Lumpectomy!

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poetry: catherine wolf – magic spell against trump

Magic Spell Against Trump
Orange Trump,
You rump!
You love Putin,
here’s my sputum.
You brag about women groping.
You’ll end up in jail I’m hoping.
You orange vampire,
you suck blood from those you hire.
You lie about everything, the height of Trump Tower, the popular vote.
Don’t gloat!
You want to deprive us of civil rights.
Hell no! We’ll fight!
You say climate change is a “Chinese hoax.”
Save that for your Florida grandchild when she croaks .

Pugnacious pug!
You’re asking for a slug.
Your businesses, we’ll investigate.
You’ll drown in corrupt-gate.
This country won’t tolerate you.
We’ll impeach, get rid of you.
No sociopath fascist will be president.
In the White House, you’ll no longer be resident.
We will put you in jail.
The end of “Hail
Trump!”

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POETRY: JIM ZOLA – EUGENE

Eugene

I wrote about his death until he died.
Then I became my father. The shift
was gradual, the way a house might inch,
year by year, down an incline towards the street.
Bushes feel the nudge. Sidewalk cracks
could tell a tale, but who would listen?
Eventually the house will tumble

beam to basement. Unless contractors
come in to bolster floor joists, add girders.
When my mother visits for Christmas,
his name isn’t spoken. But in photographs,
I feel his eyes follow my movements.
My oldest son lumbers into the kitchen,
comes to lean against me. I pull away,
afraid of what is already happening.

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poetry: r.t. castleberry – a transfer of affection

A TRANSFER OF AFFECTION

Watching her movie look-alike,
I went to bed remembering
an Alabama ex-girlfriend.
I woke later, hard at the memory.
Younger than me,
she gave head, loved light jazz,
told me stories of her babies lost in divorce.
Engaged twice,
we drove ourselves to distraction
and transfers out of state.
She married in Birmingham, moved home
to monitor her mother’s health,
fell in with a fishing crowd.
She sends holiday emails.
I check photos on Facebook.
Her mother passed.

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POETRY: ERREN GURAUD KELLY – YOU BRING THE JAZZ OUT IN ME…

You Bring Out The Jazz In Me…
 
You bring out the jazz in me
The Art Blakey, Max Roach the Roy Hanes in me
Seeing you  shake your hips like
Congas…the way you move your hips to a mamba
My heart pounding like drums inside my head
But this fever wont put me in bed
Instead I get out on the dance floor
Your body like a treble clef note
Makes me  want  to dance more
It’s true,  you do…
You bring out the jazz in me
The Fats Navarro , Terrence Blanchard  and  Dave Douglas in me
I want to mimic the trumpets shout…cure war and recession
Act a clown like Dizzy, fix this country of racism and oppression
Make this country great again, even better than trump
You make me sing sweet freedom, every time I see your rump
Make me want to take king’s place on  that balcony
Be a human shield for J.F.K.,  oh for the life of me
Maybe anarchy will prevail with the sound of a horn
Though my rage and fury causes flags to be torn
Maybe like Chet, I’ll walk both worlds between a boy
And a girl, I’ll help the alphabet army rock the world
This is my love letter,  from me it’s true
You bring out the song of revolution in me
Yes, you do…yes, you do.
You bring out the jazz in me
The Jaco Pastorious Charlie Mingus
And Paul Chambers in me,
See your body mimic the the shape of a double bass,
Grab your wide hips
Cos I’m all about that bass, could never be a gigolo
Though I’ve been a heartbreaker…I’ll play you like
A brass band, be a real love maker, as every note
Comes out of me rings true
Together,  were a symphony and i want to play you
Play you, play…you….
You bring out the jazz in me
The high hat and the double time in me
Feel the downbeat of you and
And the backbeat, that’s true
Watch my blood pressure rise and
Fall like arpeggios
Want to take five after swinging with you
But oh no, a rim shot salutes your
Brilliance
And I want to multi track your excellence
I want to solo with you for ever and
Ever
You bring out the jazz in me…the piano playing
Keyboard slaying shaman in me…I want to make
Robots rise like Herbie…and turn l.a.
Into a psychedelic sci fi  roller derby
Like Wynton Kelly, I’ll seduce you into a trance
And  we’ll wake up in a speakeasy, and I’ll watch you dance
Like Bill Evans, the song of the mademoiselle suits you
We’ll dive into hysteria like monk
Craziness suits you
I can lose myself in any dream I please
Be a warrior or a healer, by way of 88 keys
I’m an errand boy for rhythm it’s true
A masochist for aural pleasure, it’s all because of you
It’s  true, you do, bring  it out of me…
-for Lisa
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poetry: jd dehart – world goes

World Goes

Tomorrow, the world goes on,
they have no idea what has
transpired. It is as if everyone
lives in a vacuum.

Everyone continues to the road
to finding personal happiness
through grand spending. We must
be there at 7:30 AM, we must be
here by noon.
The memo is so important.

They have no idea what I have
lost in the process, and could barely
be bothered to slow down enough
to take note.

~

DeHart blogs here.

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poetry: andrew hubbard – the five year plan

The Five Year Plan

I’m in the full church
For Cathy’s wedding.
Groom’s side, third row, aisle seat.

She walks past me
With the poise of a princess
Looking every inch the swimsuit model
She was until she became pregnant.
And whether that was an accident
Only one person will ever really know.

But I’m pretty sure how I’d place my bet.

Eyes that once spoke of love,
Lips that once loved
Now speak a silent warning
So clear my testicles contract:

“Don’t say anything.
Don’t mess up my day.
Why are you even here?”

The maid of honor
Told me last week
She said to Cathy,
“Do you love him?”
And Cathy replied, “I don’t know.
Sometimes maybe. It doesn’t really matter.”

Ten’ll get you twenty
I have her on the rebound
Within five years.
You just have to wait
For things to come around.

But Oh-Sweet-Jesus
Not for a shovel full of diamonds
Would I even try to survive
What they’re going to put each other through
In those five years.
It would make hell seem like
A week in Maui.

So: man up—
Do you want the bet or not?

~

Here’s where to find Andrew Hubbard

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