Michelle Y Smith

Fireball Whiskey

Feeling the Red-Hot Wrigley's

chewing gum in my mouth

Is the flame that won't burn out 

because my too hot cinnamon flavored temper will

Raise sand with words. The kind that cannot be buried in the sand like an ostrich does its head.

Endangered species to me he is and eagerly I speak with no regret. Enough to have the last word until their eyes blur with grit and suffocation.

Black Male Autistic quiet! You big bear weighty man hands down!

Ask questions later and shoot first. Another stereotype statistic: athletic criminal drug dealer and not a creative diligent artist.

Look at him there's no cane, wheelchair,  nor almond shaped eyes to prove he is differently abled; but he's behaviorally perceived to become ballistic.

Law enforcement racist cowards behind the uniform wearing badge, when will you realize 

my son is not cowering prey to be hunted?

Water fueling may not cool or calm me 

the red dragon of Fireball Whiskey 

utterances spiced, flame breathing 

He is my only child, my Creative, Happy, Righteous, Intriguing, Social Soul.

"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere", said MLK Jr .

 I love you to the moon and back 

Son, it's 2025.

Keep us as family Lord, him, us, & me.

Yearning, I wish we could be together infinitely.

Too Hot Is.....

Too Hot is the political topic of America today

SNAP EBT benefits in November will be parlayed.

Food insecurity knows no color or race, stomachs

have the same rumbling from hunger pangs

that shouldn't be felt by anyone. 

The Too Hot words from  politicians. 

The House vs the Senate bickering their ILL will debates.

They can afford a pastrami sandwich  from  Langers, 

Canters, or Coles.

Without a budget to think about determining if 

I should give one

of these historical restaurants. Giving it a Good Ol' Boy try.

I'll buy the sandwich fixings  at Vons or Ralph's, 

Or better yet The Hat where a tip is not required.

And following  a waiter or waitress isn't needed

to an assigned vintage plastic booth sittings

from standing room only line.

Too Hot is the summer  weather of October in LA

where  the freeways underpass is covered  with tarps the 

same color as Dodger blue. The unhoused population

 have a concrete bed. Their scanty possessions 

survivability at  their best, I hope  they

somehow eat a bite of food.

Too Hot is the third week of the government shut down.

Trump's  bulldozing of the 300+ year White House. Remodeling while 

millions of GA, SSA, SSDI, and SSI will recipients from 

infancy to the elderly may await for a regional  Food Bank 

cardboard box in line in November. Homeless shelters bursting 

at the  seams. 45 & 47 you are a buffoon! The veterans who fought 

for America's freedom from WW1, WW2, Vietnam 

and currently serving should  be prioritized.

Too Hot is the Trump dismantling of IDEA created by Bush the son 

He had creativity and fortitude of federal funds for special education 

Without discrimination of American or illegal students from  Pre-K to

high school. Diversity existed and services for everyone. MAGA shame

on you! Your wrath is the tidal wave that  never  should have begun.

Mary Langer Thompson

The Right Stuff

Some say I taste too brainy,

Not salty enough

Shirking from the scent

of earthiness.

Honey is too sweet for me—

leave it to the bees.

I itch to embrace deadlines:

Submit! Submit! Submit!

I race toward the future,

time melting like Dali’s clock

not sucking up the now.

I need to eat more chips with hot salsa,

to make me thirst for the right manna.

R A Ruadh

I thought too was my nickname

Everyone said I was

too talkative

too silent

too short

too slow

too fast

too fidgety

too eager

too distracted

too focused

too independent

too outside the lines

too loud

too shy

too friendly

too physically awkward

too smart (for my own good)

too dumb

too socially backward

too weird

too different

too talented

too poor

too lazy

too political

too caring

too naive

too disorganized

too emotional

too introverted

too much

too little

too honest

too outspoken

too curious

too outrageous

too boring

too myself

too not like others

It took me years to realize

too was not my nickname

it was an excuse to be mean

because I was

too kind

too accepting

too nice

too gentle

too afraid

too non-violent

to fight back

until I did

Edward S Gault

THE PENDANT

During our courtship,

We found it at Leavitt and Pierce,

Back in the nook where the jewelry was kept.

You fell in love with it,

So we got it

           A small amber heart, with a leaf at the top where the chain link was, 

                                        And a hot crimson, like an apple.

When we said “I do,”

I put the ring on your finger,

And it joined the heart around your neck.

For years we were happy, we were part of each other,

And you wore the pendant as it was part of you.

Then we began to grow apart.

After that, I didn’t see the heart.

It must have disappeared in a drawer,

With the wedding band soon after.

I never understood, 

you never said why.

I grieved, then after awhile,

I could no longer cry.

I just watched as you drifted away.

THE 506

The 506 pulled out of South Station at 6:05

They usually have you walk to the furthest car.

I usually ran, not for fitness,

Just not to miss it.

I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes

                                              I couldn’t read the paper right then.

                                                              Eyes too heavy

I thought back to my day at the museum.

This lady was explaining Compton’s painting to her son

A horse’s head is in the doorway,

The mother is feeding it,

The children are at the table eating,

As if everything is normal.

Maybe it is.

The father is absent.

“Just like in our family”, the woman had said

“We are not the first”.

It brought me back to the hospital, the night my daughter was born.

Holding her close, nestled in a blanket in my arm,

I would never not be there for her.

I got out the Boston Globe, 

Thumbing through the pages for the editorial

The columnist was discussing why the Democrats deserved to lose

                                                                     ~  they couldn’t communicate, he said.

I noticed we weren’t moving.

An announcement said there would be a delay,

They would be moving shortly.

Whatever that meant.

They never gave real info.

People in the next seat were talking to the conductor.

Something about sabotage

                                         Gasoline cans placed on the tracks.

I texted Marcy, told her of the delay

And why.

45 minutes later, the announcer said

Lincoln would be the last stop.

I texted the news to Marcy,

When I stepped off at Lincoln,

She was there with Piper

We chatted about the day

On the drive home.

The next day,

Piper came to me and said,

(She did not call me Dad),

“Last night I was hoping you would die in the explosion

from the gas on the tracks.”

*Painting is Frederick George Compton’s "ONE OF THE FAMILY”.

Shih-Fang Wang

A Hot Day

The days drag on 

the sun with its dragon’s breath

threatens to consume the land

The sky becomes a withered blue

the clouds are frozen galleons

waiting for the wind

to sail across the mountains

to the sea

Trees and flowers are withering

all the animals retreat into the shade

await the end of Indian Summer

and the cooling winds 

of autumn to return 

to the desert lands

The Seasons

I cannot indulge myself

in the lovely flamboyance of spring

when flowers burst forth with sudden blooms

and the trees are in their prime,

because the beauty cannot last

I cannot abhor sultry summer

when the sun burns fiercely 

and humidity weighs me down

for it cannot last                 

I fear to favor the autumn 

when trees flame crimson 

and the sky is wind-swept blue         

for such dream-like scenes are fleeting 

But I accept the ruthlessness of winter  

when it buries the world in trembling white 

and the wind turns knife-sharp cold

for I know that it too will pass      

Mark A. Fisher

(untitled)

too hot

desert summer

sun burns the foothills brown

below the mountains’ cooling breeze

high up

too tired

to try to write

beneath clear azure skies

dozing away warm afternoons

waiting

my muse

barely awake

she mumbles sleepily

of forgotten clouds and cool rains

of spring

passing

time never slows

we long to remember

all the words we forgot to say

before

waiting

autumn’s cooling

and another season

to build memories before it’s

too late

too hot

to try to write

she mumbles sleepily

all the words we forgot to say

too late

PJ Swift

Banished 

She had been banished to the future far too soon. Now she would be alone for a very long time. Some friends were also present, but they dropped off, one by one. At times suddenly, unexpectedly. Those that she really knew were a distant echo. Unreachable, irretrievable. Their artifacts became anachronous curiosities to the majority of inhabitants, devoid of emotional worth. And everything was loud, fast and confusing. Unsatisfying. And pointlessly repetitive. She had already seen, and lived and loved it all. In the past.

Saving Time

For the sake of efficiency and savings, they decided to eliminate seconds from timekeeping, to only have the expense of minutes and hours which were numerically far less.  But without the support of 60 seconds each, minutes collapsed and elapsed much more quickly, basically becoming the new seconds.  Hours, thus, collapsed too, sailing by with the new shortened minutes, taking only about 60 seconds, and in fact, collapsing even further since they were not built for such speed.  Days, too, collapsed, and flew by, further collapsing the weeks and months, which were now improperly aligned with celestial time.  Everyone was in a whirlwind of confusion, losing so much precious time that continued to flow in rapid tumults, until finally drying up.  And then time was no more.

Play the Game

Too many reminders

of all that is precious

and must be cherished

is also blinding, preventing access

to the moment --  you cannot win

you can only play the game

Jeffry Jensen

75 YEARS HOT

somebody must be listening to the voice of reason

excess seems to be the new balance on the road to ruin

believe it or not, but I was issued wings

during my tenure as a novice poet

I would make even Icarus jealous

pride can put me behind the eight ball

I keep my swelling genius under wraps

my wings have no wax or feathers

there is an AI composite that has sent me

on my way to the top of an interior universe

I traded in Covina for a sparkling Pasadena

I traded in literary research for public library resolve

it is time to plow up padlocked chapters on creation

I believe in my shaky steps toward more hot years ahead

gia civerolo

fluttering

Her soul floating

Somewhere in the

Fog of mediocracy

Jumping across fire

Escapes always

5 alarm fires

Racing hot

Roaring

Sensory overload

Swaddle in sheets of

White cocooned

Don’t turn on the

News

No news

She/I can’t hear 

News like glass

Shower doors

Exploding

Glittering

All the while

Cutting little

Pieces fluttering

Against the candle

Warm lite 

Hope in the shape

Hummingbird shadow

Quietly at rest

There are ghosts 

There are ghosts 

On these pages

Rattling my bones white

Exposing Tell Tell hearts

There are ghosts 

On these pages

Dodging & Spiking

Black ink nails

Picking seeds between

My teeth on railroad tracks

There are ghosts 

On these pages

Too hot smoldering

Broken hearts

There are ghosts 

On these pages

I can’t keep my

Balance anymore

what were you dreaming?

Dawn drains deeply 

night darkness 

Pink light 

paints picture 

perfect pursed 

lips lying 

softly next to me 

White cloud sheets 

Sculpt curves 

of your bones 

Barely visible 

Beneath 

My

Hot

Longing 

Lingering 

Gaze 

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

6th & Maple

The Overdose Response Team

on Skid Row is out near 6th and 

Maple on one of the hottest days

of the month. If the heat, hunger,

or stray bullets do not kill you,

the drugs will. Somewhere far

away from Skid Row are the ones

who make the most profit from

these mind, soul, heart killing

drugs. Soon the paramedics 

come, police cars, and an

ambulance bagging up another

mother’s son or daughter, victims 

of poverty, drugs, and life’s choices.

All My Days

In the dark streets I feel the wind

following me. In a rush, the wind

feels cold. It is never calm when

it is what you hope for. Flying debris 

and howling dogs can be seen and

heard. My eyes tear up and I am

waiting for morning and the sun

to warm my bones. Happiness is

not something I expect in this land.

The stars in the sky watch over me.

In the morning it is the sun and

the clouds that take their turn. I am

always looking up to acknowledge 

them. The bright sun is my favorite 

when it’s not too hot. All my days

are spent looking for warmth. I do

not give up, but it’s not up to me.

(Previously appeared in Venus Vs Scorpio Poetry E-Zine)

Fire Angel 

In the flame a moth bathed

until it was out of breath.

I gave it a name in a funeral

I held for it in my mind, not

honeysuckle but fire angel.

It was the hottest night of the 

month. I thank climate change 

sarcastically. I think tomorrow 

the fury of heat and humidity 

will be too great to bear. In 

the light another moth will meet

its end on November 2, All

Souls’ Day, 5 hours after sunset.

Steven Cohen

In the beginning god didnt believe in himself

so he created the universe

That didnt do anything so he created light so

he could see the universe. This didnt do

anything either so he created time. He waited and 

waited and looked and looked and counted 

the time but still nothing happened so god 

created the earth. He sat and watched the earth 

spin and spin for a while and he got dizzy so

god created animals on the earth but they were dumb

and still nothing happened. So god created air and water 

and a garden so beautiful he cried and his tears

became tornados and hurricanes but still nothing happened. 

So god created man and he told man that he was

eternally damned and man got down on his knees

and he was afraid of god and suddenly,

god was happy.

Heather Romero-Kornblum

Burn

I forced myself to burn

I was beyond protest

Betrayed, derided – 

whatever being the subject of that is called – 

it ignited everything

I could not handle the scorn

My motherboard shortcircuited

Blew all fuses

I imagined the flames would reach the heavens

I was that powerful

I insisted

As my heat melded with vapor

Hiss, my essence said,

as it was swallowed by the elements

Radical Acceptance (haiku)

Today, I am jerk-

ing off to radical ac-

ceptance. Fuck yeaaaah

When

When the person you don’t want to see anymore

comes down on a bus

Really, you don’t have to wake up to get me,

he says,

I’m ok waiting

I appreciate, I say

I almost asked him not to come

I would rather figure it out myself

then play into this conditional

But I have no spine, I remind myself

Just accept it

Rather -- fractured spine

But also, no spine, backbone, whatever

I’m so tired

I wanted this over months ago

and also, I didn’t want it to end

Now, it’s a drag

You almost killed me when I was sick!

I hear my anthem in my head –

though it is serious

I was bummed last week because you resorted to threats again

Seriously, don’t, I said

I did not come all this way to be afraid of another

angry and punitive man

You knew I was really depressed, you said

I don’t want to tear you down

And also,

I was like, dude

I was sleeping peacefully (finally!)

until you texted with unsubtle coercion 

I’m over it

But I’m not

I’m too sad for words

Ruan-Xiang-Yang (Nikolai Nguyen Nikitin) 阮 向 陽

April, Wuhan Metro to Berlin (柏林)？

I have been wandering around.

Why are there no aliens?

I am back from abroad

and look for my father's grave.

Oh! Look at his tour after death–

from Tycoon Hill to Shoulder-pole Hill–

the MECCA of Wuhan in April.

Metro Line 4 to there!

The terminal station is Berlin?

Yeah, 柏林 (Bailin / Berlin).

Train is speeding.

Immortal Music seems to ring

(Valter Brani Sarajevo Theme).

Father is Modern Battle Angel?

The Last Fight?

Padeniye Berlina!

Padeniye Berlina!

He was murdered in 1984.

He was born at Hankow, 1937.

Russian, Deutsch and Mandarin

are his languages.

I don't know

why I still miss

the May Day Parade

after the Berlin Wall fell.

Oktoberfest, I enjoy Beer and Wurst.

I also like Vodka and Kebab.

I know the difference

between Prussia and Russia,

only one "P"!

When I was a high school student

I had to translate "Berin"

into 白靈 / 白陵 (Bailing / Mausoleum of White People).

At this moment,

several city names come to my mind

Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl...

I seem to see

mushroom clouds

floating in the sky over Berlin.

Patrick Thomas Jeffries

HOT CHOCOLATE

On Martin Luther King Jr.’s Birthday Holiday

I suppose it’s important for White America

To realize that We the People

Got something without having to pay:

This year, 2024, on MLK’s Day

I went into Pavilions in S. Pasadena with Padre

To get some Protein shakes

Bolthouse Smoothies had varieties with 30 grams

So, got one for Pops and 2 for my 261LB ass

Now, we are all accustomed to the new inflation

Right?  Nah, not really, still getting used to it

One would figure 3 protein shakes, even smoothie style

Premade from a well known Supermarket

At 18 ounces would be covered by an Andrew Jackson, right

Intuitively, no matter what, 40 bucks was gonna get us

What we went in for

Of course,

Of course,

Whitman’s Valentines Hearts were calling our name

In their shiny scarlet red cellophane wrapping

Figured I would get 3 of ‘ em early

For my 2 daughters and Wifey

Now, 3 protein shakes and 3 small boxes of chocolate

In the Old World, one wouldn’t be crazy to think that would come to 26

Dollars and change, especially with a member code discount right?

Well, I was moving fast

Pops had a conference call with Moms and we were already late

We rush to self-checkout because we only have 6 items

And the lines are long

We know ain’t nobody want to pay anybody to work in America

And if you want to buy something you are going to spend

Money for

The middle man’s fee, store overhead, tax

And charge of immediate convenience

So I scan the items like a self-reliant champ

But here’s the catch

We scared of so much shit in America

I mean that is the beauty of our division our states

We fear each other’s race, mental state

And now the new one on our plate

The VID

Now, dude that went ahead of me had left his shiny black plastic basket

Right on the small spot where we supposed to put items to purchase

And my OCD ass was like

I don’t know why dude was so thoughtless to leave his basket where folks supposed to put they shit

But I am certainly not putting my precious brand new Valentine Whitman’s hearts in it

So unthinkingly I fast laid them to lie on the right side with the intention to buy

But my father gotta massive back and he right by my side and I lose sight of ‘em

And out of sight, out of mind

Right?  And we running out of time

Like I said Pops had to get home to Moms

And especially in America ain’t nobody want Mama Mad

I mean if you real about your shit then you know what really runs countries

But I will allude to it in the nice way and just say

Everybody turns slave on Mother’s Day

Let’s not even talk about the chumps out there hustling for they soul on Valentine’s Day

Because I’m one of ‘em; feel what I say?

I mean how many of us go bankrupt morally or otherwise to avoid the female tongue lashing that done constricts our hearts?

Anyway

We don’t even deal with humans anymore

So I had left my beautiful 3 hearts of chocolate wrapped in shiny red on the already bought and bagged side 

And charged the Bolthouse shakes furious and fast so Papa and I could avoid the shed and be down to ride and evade Mama’s wrath

But I fail with the necessary poise and patience to do the proper math

Feel me?

Now, with computers price racks up fast

Dadadadada, discount registered, total 26,59

I am like

That looks good to me, discount today must be real

Nah, discount ain’t never real

Discount might as well mean

You desperate and missed or dissed the count

Cause we being crushed economically and have to wait too long for bullshit

And we bred to need things fast like instant gratification and lightning text

From our fiend friends

Everybody on a dog leash with they I phone

Everybody scared to get lost, alone, late or too far from home

So me and Padre, frantic to get back to Mama.

Women got the whip and they ain’t no interlaced resentment in that drama!

Or is they?  Hey, Like MJ said don’t think twice, think twice

Now, man gots to get some bread and stay nice

And that keep his head level and we expected to be simple, robotic, about-they-business, creatures

But back to them shakes and hearts

I thought Pops and I was good at around 27 bucks for 6 modest items

But the reality was I got a steal of a deal

It ends up, in retrospect, after the math, that a Grant wouldn’t have covered what We had

Imagine that for 3 shakes and 3 boxes of 3rd Tier Supermarket chocolates that one will get for 50 cents each if some poor bastard clerk has the nerve to keep them on the shelves by St. Patrick’s Day

But I am feeling lucky thinking of my 40 and 26.59

And I am also hypnotized by the 35 cents left behind

In the change bowl (What’s the word for that?) remember when humans used to hand change back

Nah, they ain’t enough sanitizer for all that

Nah, I don’t suppose Millennials would know that anyway; they don’t know it, cuz they pay for everything on that phone

Hustling they ass off and most will never earn enough to buy a Baby Boomer’s home

Keeping up such a fast pace

They don’t have incentive to value the past and don’t even own the land of the square foot of space where they stand

Yo, back to supply and demand

So, gonna get me 14.41 dollars, and I am an Idiot so I love the Numerology of it right?

I look at the shade of Pops and he got the gravity of Kryptonite

He so sweet though

I am distracted by his massive majesty like a muthafucka

And he like look how fast that machine spits out yo’ money

And I am like yeah Dad we got this one in the bag let’s get home to “Match”

(That’s my nickname for Mama)

So, my Daddy got integrity, he most likely oblivious or so compassionately genius he don’t say shit about the error I am about to realize, he takes our shakes and holds ‘Em so I can grab my 3 hearts of what are now officially

Hot chocolate

Joe Grieco

SAFE AND SANE

I pretty much hate the Fourth of July.

For starters, it’s just too hot to eat.

But you go to the table and ask for a hot dog,

Your third, an abundance of mustard and Souza.

I am who I was as a child of seven,

Who can’t wait for the fireworks, wait for the night.

But there’s always some joker who thinks it’s a crack-up

To set-off a rocket and launch it at kids.

I wish people would stop with their stupid ideas.

The time that my father made me grab hold a sparkler,

The prettiest part burned my skin, on my lifeline.

Those who are close to us do the most damage.

I can hear the screen door. I can hear it spring shut.

She walks out in tank top and Star Spangled short shorts.

(I’m a Yankee doodle dandy, I can see your underpanties.)

I wish people would stop with their stupid ideas.

Our bodies hide secrets that show up each summer.

I have a scar on the fat of my palm

That glows when the fireworks blow up the sky.

It’s hot. It’s stupid. It scares the dog.

I pretty much hate the Fourth of July.

Dean Okamura

Credit: U.S. War Department, Pocket Guide to China (1942)

A national threat

by Dean Okamura, born June 17, 1953, Los Angeles, California, United States of America 

I feel less American 

than 

when 

I was born. 

I thought I was 

one 

of 

"Our Gang", 

another kid like 

"Leave 

it 

to Beaver". 

I still hear stories where 

people who look like me are told 

to go back to where 

we came from. 

I came from Los Angeles, but 

they tell me to go back to where 

I "really" came from: "China!" 

Then someone says, that 

I am Japanese, he says, 

"Japs have more slanty eyes." 

The ICE agent says a lot of 

Mexican Indians look like me. 

Next time, I need to carry 

my American passport, too. 

 

Donald Trump, recipient of the Krampus Prize

PALM BEACH / MOSCOW (RT) — Two hot hours old 

 

Trump claims the Nobel Peace Prize was stolen, 

but he didn't say which year. 

Now he wants the 2025 winner to refuse the award. 

Amazon Prime delivered the Big Beautiful Medal 

to the White House at 5 a.m., 

offering profuse apologies 

that same-day delivery wasn't possible. 

 

| … In a related story, Amazon is gearing up for two-hour

|     deliveries of the Epstein Files. 

The White House Announced that RFK Jr. designed the award 

with the enthusiastic approval of Marco Rubio 

and Stephen Miller. They said Albert Nobel's face 

was unworthy of the greatest Nobel Peace Prize non-winner 

in all of history. 

In reality, the shadow Krampus Prize committee 

made the award to Emperor Grump, 

who embodied the full girth and spirit 

of the Krampus himself. 

| … In our next report, we cover how McDonald's, Del Taco, and 

|     Jack in the Box are switching their Halloween menus from 

|     spooks to Krampus — and Cracker Barrel will replace 

|     the old man with Krampus. 

Trish Saunders

Drinking Alone

Is bad for you according to my therapist,

but she’s one to talk, I saw her

addressing the mirror 

in the Virginia Inn 

And when I approached, 

she first pretended

not to recognize me, 

then demanded I buy

the next round, 

since I owe her so much 

money and sanity.  

I know desperation when I see it on 

a rhinestone bracelet

shaking on a bony wrist, 

so I am okay with it all.

But if I was a lonely Seattle dove,

I would stuff myself with beignets

then vomit gently over her diamond

shoes strutting down First Avenue in the sun, 

the sublimely rare, too-hot Seattle sunshine.  

 

STILL LOVED BY THE SUN

I didn’t mind a huge arm thrusting me out the door, 

he was cute, in a brutish sort of way,

but grey asphalt bowing low, murmuring 

welcome back—

that knocks the heart out of you.

(Yes, I’m still capable of shame.)  

Never mind, usually lots of legroom

here against the wall,

newspapers and bags,

the few empties I find,

make a good seat cushion

if your butt isn’t too bony

That big yellow sun shines as radiantly for you, for me,

as it does for the guards, for ICE. 

When it’s too hot for them, 

we are gently held. 

We are loved by the sun. 

We don’t feel

extreme heat, 

only cold,

which, God help me, seems to become

more unforgiving with every passing year. 

David Fewster

TFW YOUR HIGH SCHOOL 50TH REUNION

FALLS ON OUR NATION'S SEMIQUINCENTENNIAL

AND YOU'RE TOO OLD & DECREPIT

TO BE FIGHTING IN SOME DAMN REVOLUTION

Old photo from spring of 1976--

myself and three classmates in costume

for some lame Monty Python rip-off sketch

that I wrote most of.

One of us in the picture is dressed to appear

as if he is a double-amputee

so that when George Washington says

"Hoskins, hand me my musket" he can reply

"I've got no arms!"

It was that kind of skit.

I think a faculty member

actually commissioned this monstrosity as part

of a revue to celebrate the Bicentennial.

Anyhow, we were met with bemused disdain,

but no one threw things and 

no one was fired

The Class of '76

dodged its share of bullets

I remember being

a pimply 15 year-old sophomore

mingling with my peers

by our lockers between class

and there were no more college deferments

and I would not be overstating it

to say that no one was enthused

by the prospect of being drafted

and the Canadian border was only

70 miles away from Penfield High School

and we hoped our parents

would continue to send our allowances

to Toronto via Western Union

And then by our senior year

that shadow had been lifted

--hell, we didn't even have to register--

and we would sit around the table

in the school library reading

Hunter Thompson in the latest issue of

the Rolling Stone (for the curse words & the drugs)

and we were all pretty cynical

re: the Bicentennial, echoing

Frank Zappa's sentiment that it was

a commercial racket with people

trying to sell you stuff

"you hadn'ta ought'n to buy"

And it was a Golden Age in Culture

(who knew?)

what with the Ramone's first album

and the movies we all saw

and talked about most that year

were "Taxi Driver" and

"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest"

which in retrospect seems

like a heavy load to lay on

a bunch of middle class suburban kids

and what were we thinking?

And we were the last class who could say

they came of age at the tail-end

of the proverbial American Century

and it's true we missed most of the good stuff

like hanging out on the Sunset Strip

and singing Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth"

to the fuzz,

but we got to be on the same street

10 years later and watch

X & the Germs start dumpster fires

and that was better than nothing

And you could live in LA

for next to nothing then--

even if you only worked 2 weeks

a month for minimum wage

you could find a place to sleep indoors

if you weren't too picky

And none of those folks have

a pot to piss in now

even though in the 90s we had

the Triumph of Punk which

collapsed in a sordid orgy of

late stage capitalism

and maybe that was the end of

The American Century

And if you even use a phrase

like "American Century"

to a kid nowadays

they'll look at you with the blank eyes 

that say "OK Boomer"

like when I try to tell my 30 year-old daughter

that there was once a time in America

when there were only 3 networks 

(I'm sorry, PBS doesn't count)

and sometimes there was a program on

that everyone wanted to see

so they had to stay home and watch it

because there were no VHS recorders

and so all of America would be sitting around

watching the first TV broadcast of "Cleopatra"

and we would, for that moment,

be all joined as one

And she just looks at me

like I'm crazy

jf giraffe 🦒

HYPOCRISY 

The religious follow the Bible when it suits them.

The politicians follow the Constitution when it suits them.

The liars tell the truth when it suits them.

The haters pretend they don't when it suits them.

The bullies act nice when it suits them.

The cheaters act honest when it suits them.

The followers won't criticize his cruelty and hot temper because it never suits them.

A world full of hypocrites. 

Ellyn Maybe

A Frightened Melody (Haiku)

There was too much fear

Hate filled the air with sirens

The music dried up

A Heart Gone Cold (Haiku)

A shiver remained

in the memory of heat

It was a slow burn

Heated Cruelty (Haiku)

Ferociousness lasts

The pain lingers forever

Toxic hot embers

Tim G. Young

DEBBIE

In one direction or another

a wicked celebration

smashed ideas against a wall

smashed until unrecognizable

almost like a hamburger

a mud puddle in the hot jungle

A profile appeared of ancient stars

discovered in Interview magazine

very late at night

twinkling

between the drink and drugs

and the volume of the music

Ideas rose again

A bunch of troublemakers came around

stealing items from the lost and found

posting the stolen images

all over the walls of a Denny’s diner

with chewing gum

somewhere in the middle of hot

New Jersey

The police never came

were never called

Only the quiet people with their coffee

bothered to twist their necks

to get a closer look

and it didn’t last long

as their hot coffee grew cold

It may have been summer

but who remembers those kinds

of details

Or what model of car

we were driving

Except it did go very fast

on the Jersey Turnpike

stopping for gas, we bought

a box of Slim Jims

The protein and pepper

fit us better than the gasoline

No, it must have been autumn

The colored leaves crunched

We parked the car and went

to sit in the shade

Conversation rolled around to the stars

we had found

memories not always getting it right

Except one for sure

hot Debbie Harry

We wanted to be her

like Andy Warhol

We lifted our shades for a better look

Roots were never showing

only the insides of her

punk internal organs

we were insanely jealous

but still didn’t know

what direction to go

Tim Tipton

We’re All Going to Die

My grandmother,

my rock-of-Gibraltar,

tells me she has lung cancer.

I asked how long do you have?

She said,

Nothing lasts forever, dear, were all going

to die.”

That doesn’t sound too good to me.

Hot sexy afternoon

vanilla burns on your

shapely tan torso

I lick it clean

before it will melt away

taking in and savoring

the thirty-one

flavors of you.

Mary Mayer Shapiro

HOT HOUSE                          

The room was 

Like a tropical 

Forest 

Hot, overheated 

Seething with plants 

Miniature trees 

Flowers 

Ivy climbing  

Up the wall 

Muggy 

Hard to breath 

Feeling like 

Boiling water 

Steam going up 

Forming vapor 

Then cooling 

Dripping from the  

Ceiling 

Raining inside 

 

 

HOT OFF THE PRESSES 

Hot off the presses 

Unsubstantiated news 

One sided story 

Truth mixed with 

Untruths 

Or just out 

And out lies 

Fairly tales 

In real life 

Do not end 

With success of 

The innocent 

Bullies and villains 

Are given sympathy 

Who said 

Crime doesn't pay 

 

TOO MUCH 

Sitting on the 

Barstool 

Too tipsy 

With tootsie 

Used the spittoon 

 

Deciding to get 

A tattoo 

Maybe a 

Cartoon character 

 

Visted the zoo 

Saw a  

Saber tooth 

Tiger, Cockatoos 

 

Used the toothbrush 

Toothpaste and 

Toothpick to  

Keep the cavities 

Or tooth aches away 

 

Misunderstood 

What you said 

Don't be a stooge 

Stoolpigeon 

Stooping to that 

Level 

 

Dine on 

Tooth fish 

Toad stools 

 

Platoon 

Company of troop 

Led by Lieutenant 

Tactical situation 

Agility and flexibility 

Twenty to fifty-five 

Specific structures 

And missions 

Reconnaissance securing 

Key positions 

 

You stood 

Stooped and jumped 

 

Too often 

You toot 

Your horn 

Time to leave 

Tootles 

Hedy Habra

When Fireflies Speak the Language of Love

After Fireflies on the Water by Yayoi Kusama

Aren't these flickering lights at dusk a magical gift of hot summer nights, 

also called lantern fly, sparkling like fallen stars on hot summer nights?

As thousands of lanterns set afloat to reach departed souls, guiding spirits

through the darkness, they speak in silent sign language on hot summer nights.

I think of candles lit inside votive lotus-shaped lanterns as I watch rows of

quivering lights desperately glued onto window panes on hot summer nights.

In an intermittent flutter, an electric shock echoing my musings, fireflies speak

the language of love, an inaudible music in the stillness of hot summer nights.

With bright names formed around light and fire, luciole, lucciole, luciérnaga, 

pygolampída, Yínghuǒchóng, zubabat el nar, they dance on hot summer nights,

echo lovers' wordless encounters with all their variations, conjuring up lost faces,

recalling all the shining promises my younger self dreamt of on hot summer nights 

 

First published in Nür Mélange a Ghazal Anthology

Or Did You Ever Wonder What It’s Like To Have Hot Flashes?

After The Souls of the Mountain by Remedios Varo

Imagine a nebulous landscape covered with budding volcanoes 

See yourself emerge from one of its peaks head heavy with slumber

Gasping in the rarefied air you enter a liminal space where unlucky few

Forever trapped past conception are condemned to parthenogenesis 

See yourself emerge from one of its peaks head heavy with slumber

Think of your skin as a primed canvas permeable to imprints

Forever trapped past conception, condemned to parthenogenesis 

See how the change of seasons leaves indelible marks all over your body

Think of your skin as a primed canvas, permeable to imprints, 

You yearn for the sight of a veil billowing on a deserted deck’s caravel 

See how the change of seasons leaves indelible marks all over your body

Like the sfumato created by the passage of a candle over moist paper or canvas 

You yearn for the sight of a veil billowing on a deserted deck’s caravel 

Suddenly a cooling current lassoes drifts unfurling into ashen flames 

Like the sfumato created by the passage of a candle over moist paper or canvas 

Or a haze hiding a palimpsest of thoughts carried by windswept fumes 

First published by Rusted Radishes

From Or Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023) 

Bricolage

Go every day a little deeper

into the woods, collect acorns,

twigs, thorns, fallen leaves,

pine needles, a fern’s curl,

a bird’s nest, a lost feather,

spring air, hot, humid air, a raindrop,

a touch of blue, a ripple,

and why not the hush

of your steps over moss,

the trembling of leaves

at dusk against black bark?

Put it all in a bag and shake it:

you will retrace your steps

within the clearing, hear frightened

flights, watch the rain darken the deck,

flatten oak leaves, answer the root’s mute prayer.

First published by Grafemas: Letras Femeninas

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)

Marieta Maglas

Screaming Marionettes

Clustered eyes; living in dread,

that immobilizing dread before

the bullets unleashed with no mercy,

deeply unleashed by the cruelty,

in a shooting scenario of those,

who must be weary

of always pouncing on their prey,

those helpless preys of hate,

that terrifying hate, which

grows weary of love

as well as

pleasure grows weary of suffering,

that profound suffering,

which calms the insanity down,

that round insanity like a frigid,

damp, rosy-red hue,

rosy-red hue in ring-like patches,

a colossal Quincke swelling

and a raucous, cooling,

clamorous breath,

snorting breath like

a lamenting melody,

a melody of love for

a dance of demise,

a painful demise for

many hot marionettes,

exquisite marionettes

metamorphosing

into frigid wax figures,

desolate figures

weeping and wailing in

their crimson downpour

of emotions,

crimson emotions refining

their days of wine and roses,

cool days with twinkling smiles

in caverns of cold darkness.

Dancing with Baron Thorsten

 

I beheld your tears

cascading down

as you gazed through your

translucent escutcheon,

epitomizing

the beauty of God: cosmic osmosis

and herald angels.

The red liquid that dripped down

bore a dense foam

to wall in our feelings.

The chalice overflowed with wine

forming a heart shape.

I yearned to retreat into our space

and to perish there.

I still yearn to return to our time

and to fade away there.

I still crave His infinity, and

I wish, once more, to dissolve within it.

 

At the tables surrounding us,

people appeared to be lost in thought.

They seemed to be reflections

in those shattered mirrors,

adorning the walls: introspection,

truthfulness, and self-awareness.

They grew increasingly indifferent and

complacent; self-satisfied.

I raised the cup to my lips and savored

the wine, which was delightfully cool.

I drank it all until

it vanished completely—nonexistent.

It was a chalice of sorrow.

It scraped against my throat.

The transparent liquid rendered the truth visible.

It was our untold truth.

I yearned to elevate my spirit.

We began moving in a dance-like manner.

It was our crowning dance

in that chaotic tempo of

those evanescent moments.

I would love to be kissed

over and over again.

Yet the tavern was crammed

with hot human mouths

exhaling and mantling the windows with

a veil of condensed steam.

It was a shroud of anarchic noises.

Those mouths instantly froze my feelings.

Some tears trickled down your pale face.

I stood tall for once

and departed from that moment

irrevocably and voiceless.

I had to choose a different thoroughfare.

I entered through the main gate of my realm,

a world devoid of meaning

without your love; without love.

I did not glance back.

I still do not look back.

Over and above, I knew that

you were watching me leave,

and I knew that this love

was my existence.

It remains my existence,

steering this world towards

divided feelings,

broken feelings, still bleeding,

a fierce defiance against

the divine, perhaps.

Now, I realize that as long as

the divine exists, this love can endure.

 

A Spiritual Hue

I use colors to recreate

a sacred, unveiled image

while concealing the past

in a dance of opposites.

I am akin to a painter

in pursuit of a divine hue

while yearning

to make my voice heard,

rather than as a philosopher

striving to grasp the human genesis.

This hue resembles a reverie

suspended between

ultraviolet and infrared thoughts.

It mirrors the mauve of Aurora Australis

gracing a Tahitian canvas

belonging to Paul Gauguin

or echoes the green of Aurora Borealis

adorning a masterpiece

belonging to Vincent van Gogh.

This hue embodies The Unfinished Symphony,

a resonance in the deafness of

Ludwig van Beethoven.

This hue speaks of a philosophical self

harboring a sense of sanctity within.

Baptism in the depths of water;

then, in the fire; hotness;

eyes that perceive the divine

in a nameless color.

This hue of eternity is hot:

the healing rays illuminating my essence;

a beacon for the woodland of

my burgeoning emotions;

emotions akin to those of evergreens.

The essence of humanity exists in harmony.

Maria A. Arana

Addiction

it starts with one word

leads to two kisses

 

travel three doorsteps

under covers

 

wrapped tightly

they undress

 

before too long

i devour each

 

and beg for more

chocolate

 

 

The Internet

 

Too much of a good thing

Too much of you

 

I can’t stand you

But you won’t go away

 

You only stay

And make this your home

 

Too much information

Too much of you

 

I can’t think

Without you

 

You make the decisions

I’ll just travel down

 

Scroll and click

Scroll and click

 

After Work

drinking hot chocolate

its mint aroma bubbles rise up my nose

 

marshmallows float near the rim

of my candy-caned cup

 

pulling back the throw

looking out the frosty window

 

relaxing evening

to the beat of my hum

Joan McNerney

Summer Stupor

milk curdles up my coffee

as sticky macaroni covered

with fake cheese is pushed

into the microwave

recyclables sit next to a putrid 

bag of dumpster garbage 

while loads of laundry wait

checking the fridge to

gauge how many days

I can avoid my hot box car

and a trip to Shopping Rite

many shopping bags hang

on the doorknob piles of bills

junk mail lists notes gathering

dust on my kitchen table

languid wishes memories of

finer times now reaching

to mute another newscast

turning off another day

 

Crazy Hot Summer

During this summer, bales of hay explode

crops scorch, livestock are slaughtered early.

We shuffle though grocery stores. Limp

lettuce, mushy tomatoes languish on counters.

Prices rise inexorably while driving to

gas stations where fumes fill our nostrils.

My throat is dry and coated with metallic taste.

I guzzle a bottle of ice tea, saccharine sweet.

Our town park floods with children spilling over

brown grass, their shouts cutting the airs.

Laundry comes out piping hot from

the dryer, zippers burning my fingers.

Clumps of wrinkled clothes wobble on chairs.

Unopened mail and dust cover my table.

A nylon nightgown sticks to my skin as

fans push warm air brushing my face.

The shrill of cicadas drown the night.

I wait now to melt into dark oblivion.

 

S.A. Gerber

Heat

(A Semi-Rant)

Like wearing a

wool suit in

a steam room.

Like holding your

hand over a

pot of boiling water.

Covered in perspiration,

upon stepping out

of a shower.

What’s the point,

You gotta’ say.

Humidity!

Mother Nature’s curse…

wrath, revenge even

Don’t remember it

this bad in L.A.

Watering lawns,

swimming pools,

marble fountains,

all contributing factors.

We whom call

the tune, must

pay the fiddler.

The desert, where

I dwelt for years,

is not humid.

Merely like a kiln!

A pizza oven!

Like living in

a volcano!

But, it’s “dry

heat” they say.

All things considered,

better an ocean

breeze, a cooler

full of beer, and

nice, cool thoughts.

Helter Swelter

The heat is stifling!

Record heat—

Unforgiving—

Unrelenting—

Suffocating!

Like sitting with a

permanent hot air

balloon over your head.

Triple digit temperature

and single digit humidity!

Like living in a kiln!

A blast furnace—

A pizza oven!

Almost sixteen years…

gets no easier.

 

Change of venue???

A cooler venue???

 

Martha’s Vineyard!

Maine—

Vermont—

Oregon—

Washington.

(I’ve been researching).

Anywhere…just so I can

read about this somewhere else.

If I am indeed paying penance

for sins committed…or yet

to be committed, then I believe

that I have served sufficient

time in this neon version of

Dante’s celebrated Inferno.

All is not yet hopeless.

Paradise is not yet lost, or

even out of reach.

Just a bit more research,

and a bunch more money.

The heat is on!

                Summer Upon Us

(In Vegas)

Summer is upon us—

 

Drops of sweat

dot my notebook,

Sunday by the pool;

‘Women’s Voices’ is

playing on KUNV…

(Nevada public radio.)

Beautiful blue Morning-

Glories on the wall,

will disappear by evening.

A sad picture

of transitory beauty.

Temperature is 100 something.

Gulping ‘Aquafina’ as if

it was ‘Miller Lite’.

A phone call…

(Eugenie is back from Europe.

He took a picture of

Franz Kaffka’s house,

somewhere in the former

Czech Republic, just for me.)

A refreshing plunge in my

own cool blue body of water.

(The drops now dotting my

notebook contain chlorine.)

‘Patchwork’, (another KUNV

Sunday show staple), now plays.

Very peaceful my backyard

oasis of a Sunday afternoon.

I swim naked, ignoring the phone.

The stray neighborhood cats

visit now for their noon meal.

They are hardly an intrusion.

Neither are the distant chimes

of an ice cream truck…

only further confirmation that—

 

summer is indeed upon us.

 

CLS Sandoval

Pressure Heading Toward Implosion

 

Many things to do

Without appreciation

Challenges my mind

Pressure building more and more

Overheating

Outward anger turns inward

Respond

 

The pastor says the best way to respond to hate is love,

And the best way to respond to fear is with faith.

I know I have this juxtaposition deep within me, too,

But I get bogged down in the hate and the fear.

 

If we don’t fix it, we’ll be headed to where it’s too hot.

end

 

sleet and hail tearing through the air

sideways

rip tide at the toe

tornado swirling hair at the crown

dust combining with leaves and pine needles

bricks lifting from their grout

sun hiding behind smog haze

murky waters rising

every living thing

crying

    bleating

        moaning

fading

    awaiting a savior

talons digging into skin as the vultures take us as prey

fire down our throats and ice in our veins

spikes on our skin and throbbing in our ears

this is not the rapture I expected

not the stories from my faith or youth

Tammy Smith

Becoming (You)

I become your next thought

as it emerges—every idea

nothing but consciousness

calling itself cool.

Proper.

Pompous.

Hard.

Sometimes, cruel

to witness something so quirky,

sick and sharp—your soul

turning hard questions over,

watching them fall in spasms,

rhythmic as breath, as rain—

the liquid form words take

when we start to storm.

The relentlessness of too much release.

Greed, that hot rush of bile

at the back of my throat,

the smell of rotten hunger rising,

every temptation burning

before the deepest part of your shadow

swallows me whole.

Lynn White

Too Darn Hot

Once we were able to shield our eyes

from the occasional brightness

but the sun has grown angry

and too bright for our eyes. 

It’s turning our dreams into sand

and raging so fiercely that

it threatens 

to bring

Africa 

to us,

to all of us

everywhere

it’s too hot now,

too darn hot.

First published in Poetry Super Highway, Poet of the Week, August 5 2024

 

The Last Word On The Last Bird

It’s almost done.

We’re close to the end

the too wet

too dry

too bright

too hot

bitter

empty end

If I could turn back time

I’d see flocks of birds

flying into the sunset

migrating 

as they did for millennia.

I’d see the too loud gulls

swooping and diving

in raucous frenzy 

to fill the sea and the sky.

Now there’s just one.

I’ve nothing more

to say.

First published in The Drabble October 10, 2021

Africa Is Everywhere

The factories closed for two weeks each summer

and it was off to the seaside then!

They would head for the beach and hire a deck chair

there were no sunbeds back in those days

and there they would sit on shell laden sands,

the women in cotton frocks 

and the men in grey flannels, sandals with socks

and a sleeves rolled up, open necked shirt,

there were no tee shirts back then

and shorts were too daring for the over twenties.

And most likely it was too cool in any case.

The sun could be bright though

so the women had a straw hat ready,

but this was too exotic 

and extravagant for the men,

newspaper fashioned into a sailing boat shape

was de rigour for them.

And so one way or another 

eyes were shielded

from the occasional brightness.

Nowadays the sun has grown angry,

too bright for our eyes.

It rages fiercely threatening all in its view.

Africa is everywhere now

and soon sunbeds will be out of fashion.

It’s too hot now,

too darn hot.

First published in Alternate Route, Issue 8, October 2022

Andy Palasciano

Refinery

When you think you are superior to someone,

you feel you don’t have to be nice to that person

because they should be serving you!

The gold you keep in your refinery is too hot

and melts the skin.  You keep it for yourself,

trying to hold it in your hands.

But when we are kind to everyone in our house

and those outside of our house,

as Isaiah said, He “will make our battlements of rubies,

and our gates of carbuncles.”

Fish Tank

I stood like a fish sleeping,

with its eyes open.

My fish tank I stared through,

and stood on, was a gallery.

We decided it was too hot

outside and the AC felt

good inside.

But art was never supposed to

replace nature,

but bring us closer to it.

We should care for the twigs,

for they bear berries,

and we will never receive

money under our pillow,

if we stop believing in fairies.

Robert Fleming

Susan Isla Tepper

Early September

They swarmed the deck

red foxes in a pack

as if they were getting ready

for going back to school

sleek ordering  new ripped jeans

and the latest phone. 

It was still hot

totally un-shaded

on the deck and

Mom said be careful of them

foxes cannot be trusted.

Jim Babwe

Summer 1972

The last few days

of Orange County summer

subtly swapped long hot days

for cooler hint-of-autumn afternoons

and off-to-college see-you-laters

which proved life would not continue

with grade school through junior high

through high school party friends--

mostly scattered to physical distances

not-too-long after commencement

followed by occasional phone calls

which eventually stopped.

During a Huntington Beach afternoon, though,

a skateboard rider interrupted

my indulgent loneliness by calling me by name

prior to our simultaneous glancing north

toward the pier where sudden flaming chaos

skipped a slow beginning.

Burning patrol cars

spewed black smoke,

rising fast as riot squad panic

on both sides of clear plastic face shields.

Outside the regimented helmets

half-naked frightened laughing raw joy

numbed by tequila and loud-as-it-goes

radio rock and roll

tasted dangerous like freedom or anarchy.

We said we would prefer death

to mindless submission,

but that turned out to be

postured bravado.

Young lovers of summer,

we taunted frightened new recruits,

whose tight-jawed bullhorn threats

could never back those angry words

with enough handcuffs for all of us

on the final weekend before expectations

told us we were due to hurl ourselves

into blue collar employment

and all the barely scraping by

or through university library doors

toward now-defunct card catalogs

and what we were sold as a more noble,

worthwhile brand of drudgery.

I know it's partially redundant,

but worth repeating

to tell you then-rookies

I remember

you were just as scared

to chase us as we were

scared to run away.

But I knew one of you--

confused

broken home

draft ready

can't vote

son of bowling alley

beer swilling

nine-to-five

dead end

bully.

You--

not-too-distant-future slave to bank

frozen turkey dinner

closest liquor store commuter

watching television

in your underwear

reclining in your

bargain basement chair

destined to be neighborhood famous

for yelling down the hall

at you children

because you want--

no--demand for them

to turn the music down

before you count to three

and stomp into their room.

I know

you remember me, too.

Charles A Perrone

Sixty Years Apart

     In memoriam Haroldo de Campos (1929-2003)

The good medical doctor 

resident of New Jersey 

averred that

So much depended on

a glazed red wheelbarrow

And we came to believe it

Six decades later

a visiting doctor of letters

warned that if you didn't

apply ten coats of varnish

to the front door

the paint would burst

in the hot Texas sun

And his observation remains

virtually unnoticed

 

Sans titre

1.

within the covers as dark as they may be in the fluttering future

stark lines to record the whiteness of the hospital bed sheets

to engrave the stone-grey spirit of the baptismal fount as well

to capture the roundness of initial chips from gold-sheen chalice

lest you fail to remember to remember all shades of saints' days

with or without smoke-filled hazes of observation or avoidance

a reason to keep the blackness of a marital tuxedo intact for in fact

it may be back when slacks of extremities have reached their limits

2. 

azure dog-eared pamphlets

smooth cat-eyed marbles

shiny duck-tailed headgear

four funny fox-tailed ferns

dozens of den-friendly clocks

following fields of sheared fur

private pictures of pleasure

all planning to return for more

3.

 the profile of the guitar

is shapely and sexy

and truths are played out

in chromatic changes

letters lilting wilting rising surprising

rounding the globe

and lifting to the skies

ready to descend

re-made into entries and lobes

4.

the drab cardboard is only an easel for the finger paints

of the enthusiastic children at the table who love all the colors

and how they feel as free figures emerge from their imaginations

even before the first one is all envisioned and turned to be born

5.

flash sun and flush moon are one celestial bodies be flesh

hip tips digits palms hands waving from the shore to the lore

hot hairs and stairs on end the moistening lips

the glistening eyes the Xs on the calendar

the wood-grain shelves nearly complete for a one-day stain at least

Things I have never done:

I have never recognized the meaning of "rising to the occasion."

I have never slept through a potentially apocalyptic event.

I have never walked a mile in the shoes of a false prophet.

I have never entered a prize-heavy hot-dog eating competition.

I have never won the inflated jackpot of an institutional lottery.

I have never purchased a ticket for travel to the moon itself.

I have never discovered the remains of an unknown dinosaur.

I have never expressed preference for imperfect over participles.

I have never completed the running of an urban marathon.

I have never ever traveled to any site of nuclear devastation.

I have never joked about the expression "died 'n' gone to heaven."

I have never taken a class proposing to explain the Beaux Arts.

I have never imagined or composed a musical piece à la Mozart.

I have never terminated the elaboration of an actual novella.

I have never reviewed an end-stopped French-language film.

I have never ended a lyric instance with the vocabular item fin.

Jackie Chou

Elegy for Iryna Zarutska

He set his wild rage 

flying like a firebird 

fluttering from his blade

into your tender flesh 

What madness 

glints in his eyes!

Hatred simmers in his heart

like a witch's cauldron

The flame of his touch

had snuffed out your light–

and now I ride the bus

with a chill in my blood 

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

WHITE PREZ’S GOT A GOD COMPLEX * 

Sez you look Latino 

You speak Spanish 

So you gotta be deported  

Cause white Prez’s got a God complex 

Sez don’t need no evidence of 

Venezuelan boat trafficking drugs 

Drone attack kills 11 aboard craft  

Cause white Prez’s got a God complex 

Sez there’s big crime wave in D.C. despite 

DOJ data showing D.C. violent crime at 30-year low 

Sends National Guard to nation’s capital city 

Cause white Prez’s got a God complex 

While wildfires torch forests, floods drown cities,  

and record heat kills our neighbors, 

Sez global warming is not too hot 

Cause white Prez’s got a God complex  

The enemy is within, not without, sez he 

So declares war on all those who won’t 

close their eyes and bend their knees  

Cause white Prez’s got a God complex 

* With apologies and love to the Last Poets

Vision Quest *   

Jesús goes on vision quest into the Judaean Desert. After he had gone without eating for 40 days 

and nights, el diablo appears under a blazing hot desert sun. “Tienes hambre, hommes,” he asks?  

“You kidding,” Jesús replies? “This desert like our river valleys and forests is crammed with 

heaven, and every bush here afire with God. I’ve been feasting every day.” 

1

 Then el tentador takes him to the holy city and has him stand on the highest point of the temple. 

“If you really trust God,” he said, “throw yourself down. For it is written, ’He will command his 

angels concerning you, and they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your 

foot against a stone.’” 

“What’s your problem, cabrón?” Jesús replies, “If God wanted me to fly, he would’ve made me 

with wings. 

The tempter then takes him to a very high mountain and shows him land from the Dead Sea to 

Lake Galilee, Samaria, and Galilee. “Behold, the promised land—a land flowing with milk and 

honey which God promised Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Moses but is now a colony of the Roman 

Empire. All this land, which was once your ancestral homeland, now belongs to pagans.’ 

Jesús shook his head grinning. “Tell me, something I don’t know?” 

“Do you like the pagan Romans occupying the Holy land?” 

Jesús shook his head. 

“Then what are you going to do about it, boy? The Romans are the the strongest empire the 

world has ever known, and it’s gonna take a lot of blood to take back the Promised Land.” 

“Are you kidding me? When you love your enemies, you don’t kill them.” 

* Excerpt from a work in progress titled DECOLONIZE THIS GOSPEL  

God’s Day Off * 

One day when Jesús went through the wheat fields on the Sabbath, his disciples were picking the 

heads of wheat.  

A man with a wide white beard on a round face, popped his head above the stalks of wheat. 

“Hey, you transgressors! This is the Sabbath, you’re supposed to be resting, not working.” 

 “What the fuck are you talking about, Ruco?” Bartolomé replied, “I’m eating not working.” 

“You’re reaping than eating,” the old man replied. “God created the heavens and the earth in six 

days and on the seventh he took the day off. Since then, man has worked six days and rested on 

the seventh day.” 

“Well, in the first creation account in Genesis, the world was created in six days but in the 

second one, it took only one day,” Tomás said. “So, either the world was created in six days or 

one day. Both accounts can’t be true.” 

“Yes, but both accounts can be wrong,” Natalia said.  

“Blasphemy!” Judas Iscariot exclaimed, “Gehenna won’t be hot enough for those uttering such 

heresy.”

“You missing the point, guys,” Jesús said. “The Sabbath was created for Adam and Eve. Adam 

and Eve were not created for the Sabbath.” 

“How was the Sabbath created for Eve when she still had to take care of little Cain and Abel on 

Adam’s day off when he got to rest from all the hard work he had done during the past week?” 

Joanna asked. 

“Maybe it was because the Torah was written by patriarchs,” Natalia replied. 

* Excerpt from a work in progress titled DECOLONIZE THIS GOSPEL  

 

Lawrence R Berger

Send in the heater!

Eighty degrees!

In March

In Rochester, NY

Where is the eight feet of snow?

It’s been starting the spring for fifty years!

It’s baseball season

The red wings are playing the Blue Jays tonight!

Not quite as good as The Yankees verses The Red Socks

but for the locals

It’s even better!

Fast balls get strike outs

Global warming also warms things up.

Both

Send in the heater amd win!  

Connie Johnson

 

Wayne F Burke

Arizona

We lived in Massachusetts.

Because of Gramp's asthma

talk of moving West begun.

Gramp sent for newspaper's from

Flagstaff and Phoenix.

Miss Good, principle of Howling Avenue Grammar

School, asked me

was it true? We were moving?

My sister bawled whenever Arizona

was mentioned, but

I was ready to go--

only time passed, and no one

went anywhere, and

then Johnny Decensi, from

across the street, who also had

asthma, came back from Tucson, and

said he did not like it there, and

that ended all talk of moving.

Slitzkrieg

An artist, or student of art

studying at the college:

a pleasing figure, face

no make-up, kind of dykish hair-cut, she said

"anatomy is hard."

We sat across from each other

in the cafe;

side-by-side in her car;

together a number of times, she

unsmiling but not unfriendly, me

eager for whatever but

waiting for a sign, a signal

"come her" maybe, or "go away"

but never came--

she sat there

and I sat to

unsure of

what to do--

she sat

in corduroy pants, jean

jacket,

I in pants and coat;

we both sat

sat there,

sat--

I am sitting

still.

happy new year

I wissch you besch

ub everything you

deserbe it

you dirty old--

ha ha hab 

annudder one

youse the besch frind

I hab

appy newsh year!

daonly frind

I hab

I sayz hab annudder

and besch wissches for

annudder

too.

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Gone Too Far

 

For billions of years

Something small has swum

In my vast wet belly

 

When footsteps first stepped

On my skin I welcomed them

… tickled with pleasure

 

Then thunderous lizards

Stomped over my dermis

A mere 165 million—nary a change

 

But now in this last blip

Of a few hundred decades

These opposable-thumb re-facers

 

Have reshaped my face

Pouring concrete on top, placing

Buildings, I occasionally shake off

 

How long can those destroyers

Possibly continue as they hurt

My breathing, dirty my fluidity

 

All I can do is let Papa Time

Take care of my problems

As he always has, always wills

Cars Are People Too

 

Sometimes

In the rear

View mirror

I can see

Headlights

Drift a bit

Just to look

Ahead a little

When a car

Gets impatient

You’ll sight

One suddenly

Swerving out

Of a lane

Without regard

For other automobiles 

Makes me laugh

Spotting a sedan

Meekly inching

Toward another

Lane as if

Asking permission

From some

Big SUV

Ever seen

An angry vehicle

Get on the tail

Of a slower mover

Shocked if the slow

Poke slows a bit

Simply to spite

The speedster

I hate to notice

Ailing auto

Start to sway

Onto the shoulder

For a rest stop

From the rush

Or more likely

Tired of braking

Often I glance

Inside windows

To glimpse

Moving brains

Hold on tight

Trying to control

Their metal skins

Like shields

Nothing finer

Than lonesome

Wheels on

A highway

Barreling down

The concrete river

With a laughing

Skull enjoying speed

At times I hear

Music emerging

From an open

Window emanating

Feeling unleashed

Heads bob

Arms rap

To the beat

What creature

Has eyes

And mouth

In their front end

Middle and back

Expressing

Happiness

Or depression

 

You are one of the flowers too

It’s even easier to acknowledge Veteran’s Honor when it is a lush magenta rose as well.

Take a walk to the Rio Samba, see dresses swirling yellow, orange, and pink.

The Gemini, white center opening out to the sun of red outer petals.

Mardi Gras, you know the brilliance of an electric pink dress touched by frayed brown edges.

Belinda’s Dream, the face in the softest hint of pinkish cream that has more layers than you’ll ever experience again.

A bunch of delicate white rose petals clustered around each other, Pillow Fight! (Radiating suns in the middle of every pillow.)

Scattered white flowers, near pink ones, next to yellow, a Rainbow Knock Out.

Midas Touch is the goldest yellow imaginable; if roses were money….

Royal Amethyst has cornered the market on lavender, such a feast full of flora.

What’s left but yellow heavily tinged with pink, Love & Peace, a perfectly shaped rose.

No, look down at this! Small roses blushing to white…just like Passionate Kisses!

The ultimate coupled rose? A Double Delight of sun yellow vortex and bold red ends.

But what makes this garden complete?

The petite beach-tanned cellphone photographer in her white dress artfully filled with black paisleys, sandal-exposed white-out painted toes, her fragrant smiling face framed by an auburn hairfall.  

 

It's All Too Much

A universe littered with galaxies beyond my imagination

Every spiral stretching outward festooned of stars

Each sun sporting some planets, moons and asteroids

This sphere always covered by untold clouds

Oceans alive since evolution evolved here

Thousands upon thousands of fish, sharks, and whales cruising currents

Shores infested in the billions because trees grow and humans manifest

Beings briefly bringing forth into being millions of buildings and books

Made merrier making music and art and children

A ground even more populated around a quadrillion animals and insects

Enough food and flowers to delight all those eyes and noses and mouths

Burgeoning brains recreate creating electric visions and revisions

I'm just a pixel in a pixel in a pixel in a pixel

Part of the whole shebang breathing in and out

Cosmic light went on, someday I am shut off

To be recycled as the planet pleases until it ceases

Also repurposed multiversally for unknowable time

Does God have a new design planned in the possibly etch-a-sketch future