THE OBLITERATOR

by Steve Rodriguez

"Supreme Leaders" by Nick Anderson

President Donald Trump has put the United States on the verge of war against Iran with the goal of ending that nation’s nuclear weapons program, less than eight months after proclaiming he had “completely and totally obliterated” that same program. —HuffPost, February 20, 2026

Back in ’71, during the spring semester of sophomore 
year, after receiving a long streak of D’s and F’s,
my geometry teacher surprises me with a quiz grade
of C+. I read the comment “good job” and for
one second revert to being a humble twerp,
suddenly contrite about previously 
disregarding each of his homework assignments.
 
Then that second passes, and I once again act
out the more familiar role of arrogant jock. 
From my seat, I shout out “Good job? Ha!  Admit it,
old man. I totally obliterated that loser quiz.” 
The bell rings.  As my fellow students depart,
I loudly repeat my point…“OBLITERATION.”  
 
Mr. Prebbles—a low IQ dope who closely
resembles one of Nixon’s crewcut aides—smiles
and responds with “I trust you have turned over
a new leaf, and that studying becomes a habit.”
I toss the quiz on his desk and demand he cross 
out the words “Good job” and replace them with something
 
like “You quite simply obliterated this quiz,”
and that the o-word be underlined with glitter. 
After mentioning the obvious—that high school 
teachers don’t stock such primary grade art supplies–
he shakes his head and asks me to leave the classroom.  
 
Later in fifth period, my English teacher  
smiles and refers to teacher lounge banter
mocking my awkward use of “hyperbole”
in math class. I tell her, “You’re no Shakespeare,” 
and that I alone will judge what is “hyperbole” 
and what can be deemed as “obliteration.”  
Miss Jones chuckles and seems to dismiss me 
as if she is both Funk and Wagnalls.
 
Not until much later in the afternoon do
I gain more clarity on the fine nuance
of language. While attempting to pitch my baseball
team to victory, I am overwhelmed by our
cross-town rivals who decide to tee off
on both my fastballs and curves, scoring ten runs in
two innings before Coach Funk yanks me away from
the mound. Yes, me!  Ace of the staff. Later, as we
 
suffer from a fifteen-run differential, and 
I am sitting disconsolate on the bench, Funk
offers me an assessment. “The last time someone 
got hit that hard was the day my B-17 
squadron obliterated Dusseldorf.” I nod,
reverting once again to that quiet, modest, 
humble self before retorting, “‘Obliterated’
may be too harsh a word.”  He snaps back, 
“Obliteration means to utterly destroy
 
or remove. From the Latin oblitteratus,
which refers to blotting out or erasing.”
Sure enough, that happens to be the last time I
pitch during my junior year. The coach finds ways
to keep me off the field. I am erased. 
Wiped off the map. Obliterated, so to speak. 
 
In the meantime, we win every remaining game 
while becoming league champions. Still, this account
is far from a lesson in adolescent humility. 
Later that summer, I devise a wicked pitch—
a breaking ball I term “The Obliterator.” 
So effective!  And I alone decide how much so.   
 

Steve Rodriguez is a retired U.S. Marine Corps officer and a retired high school English teacher. He resides in San Diego, CA.  

X-RAYS

by Matthew Murrey

 

 

Cartoon by Iman Rezaee

‘Deliberate targeting of vital body parts’: X-rays taken after Iran protests expose extent of catastrophic injuries. Expert analysis of images from one hospital suggests severe trauma to the face, chest and genitals was caused by metal birdshot and high-calibre bullets. —The Guardian, February 17, 2026 

 

reveal the structure beneath,
miracle of how strong and fragile
I am, we are. I keep one

of my right hand with its fifth bone
broken—a now-healed ridge I still feel
after half a lifetime. And these

(sent in secret from a country
whose leaders, like so many leaders,
hate the people they rule) reveal

ghosts haunting the injured
bones. Here is one with bright dots
of birdshot fired into the face,

another with pellets peppering
the chest, and one where the target was
the tenderness between the legs.

I do not understand what I see,
am not trained to diagnose what disease   
carries a shotgun into a crowd

of unarmed souls, levels it point-blank,
and pulls the trigger.  


Matthew Murrey is the author of Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026) and Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019). He has recently had poems in Flyway, En•Trance, ballast, and elsewhere. He was a public school librarian for more than 20 years and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Bluesky and Instagram under the handle @mytwords.  

WATCHING ALYSA LIU SKATE

by Tammy Smith

It’s impossible not to yell
“That’s what I’m f**king talking about!”
knowing she nailed it.

High above the ice,
even the Quad God
can’t hide his grin.

Nothing compares
to the joy of watching
her land a triple flip.

The globe spins with that power.
Bliss like this is contagious. 
I should return to the rink. 

Dig out my old skates, 
wipe down the blades,
sharpen them. 

Leave doubt in the arena.
Lace rage tight inside leather.
Release. Rise. Glide. 

Tammy Smith is a poet and licensed clinical social worker living in Fair Lawn, New Jersey. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in The New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, ONE ART, Grand Little Things, Paterson Literary Review, and elsewhere.

CATALOGUING OUR NAMES

by Karen Marker

 

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Homeland Security Wants Social Media Sites to Expose Anti-ICE Accounts. —The New York Times, February 13, 2026


Still in the down of the dream world a text 
comes from Mona that says you are so brave
which means she must have seen my Facebook post 
about ICE and knows of the threats made 
about collecting names. I also named 
the commandment from Exodus about how 
we should treat the stranger. 

Such a long list of us, once strangers ourselves. 
Will they record our names, imprison all of us, 
including the thirteen-year-old who read the torah portion 
and the rabbi who said all who want to take a stand rise
and come up for the blessings?  No one was left in their seats.  
We were packed so tight together, all of us touching 
someone who was touching the parchment, another name 
for light holding the words like a mother. Like the mother 
who stood beside me holding her child 

with deep brown eyes staring straight into my eyes.
She didn’t look away from my tearing up 
like I can’t look away from what keeps me awake 
at night thinking of the children in the prison camps,
the names I need to speak so I won’t forget.
Receiving blessings, touching light, 
we were one breathing body.  

What can I text Mona that will soothe her fear
for the dark skin she got from her Indian Hindu 
father, her Mizrachi Jewish mother?  Even 
with her credentials that made her a top doctor
specialist, gave her a beautiful suburban life, 
she’s still afraid for her son and tells me she couldn’t 
survive without her medicines, not one day 
in that prison camp and I admit I’m just as scared 
of being sent away. It’s all that’s unhealed 

that makes us even more afraid.  It is the cage,
the chains, the clanging doors of our brains, 
how the past climbs back up and casts us out. 
But now Mona is calling, telling me how
everyone’s been working so hard in Ohio, like one
family.  At least for today there’s a stay by the judge, 
the Haitians in Springfield are safe.

    
Karen Marker is an Oakland, CA. poet activist and retired school psychologist whose poetry of protest and hope in response to the news will be coming out as a book in the coming year.  Her poetry has appeared in NVN and various other journals including The MacGuffin, The Monterey Poetry Review, the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Slant, and WordPeace. Her book of flash memoir and poetry Beneath the Blue Umbrella is available through Finishing Line Press and explores resilience in face of family trauma.  

A NIGHTMARE OF COLOR

by Dick Altman

 

 

As reports come out across the country of Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents detaining Native Americans, a couple dozen New Mexico lawmakers are pushing a bill that would allow tribal citizens to update their state-issued IDs to reflect their enrollment status. House Bill 20 would give people enrolled in a federally recognized tribe the option to request a “distinguishing mark” identifying them as Native American on their driver’s license or other identification cards. A similar law passed in Arizona last year went into effect in January. On a sample license posted online by that state’s Motor Vehicle Division, “Native American” is written on the bottom left side of the card. —New Mexico In Depth, February 12, 2026

Northern New Mexico

In my mind

it begins,

a Pow Wow

of dance,

chant,

drum,

lofting

my Anglo dreams

to heights

of ritual

more ancient

than Columbus.

Despite the festive air,

masked figures,

I don’t

recognize as Native,

badged and holstered,

lurk in the shadows,

beyond

the drum circle—

waiting.

*

I try to sense,

living as I do,

in Indian Country,

what you,

a Native American,

feel like

awakening now

to a face

in the mirror,

that greets

morning’s light,

not with a smile,

but fear

your complexion,

perhaps only a shade

darker than mine,

might find you

in ICE’s

angry grasp,

two steps away

from expulsion.

*

Identity docs,

once sacred sources

of pride,

and connection,

sat vaulted

in your tribal home,

rarely,

if ever,

in need

of exposure,

to the world

outside.

Now,

I’m told,

you dare not leave

the reservation,

without

your paper shields

of origin.

*

Your biggest fear—

how could I not feel

the same—

likely separation

from your children,

an old fear,

dating back

to early last

century,

when federal agents,

as if yesterday,

drag off

Native offspring

to attend

schools,

to acquire

more “whiteness”.

A curriculum

leading often

to forced labor

and early death,

as history’s

numerous

graves attest.

*

I hesitate,

these days,

to stroll

the town square,

birthed

and sustained

by Puebloans

like  yourself,

long before

the arrival

of Europeans.

I reel,

with broken heart,

as ICE grabs you

off the street,

to challenge

your sovereign right,

stretching back

a thousand years,

to call America

home.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press.  Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 290 poems, published on four continents.

TO ALL THE IMPRISONED CHILDREN

by Julie Weiss

Hold on. You´re a rabbit, clever

and bold, galloping free through

tomorrow´s boundless grasslands.

Hold on. You´re the most extraordinary

lotus, blooming through cracks

in your country´s polar ice caps.

Hold on. They may have grounded

your body, but your mind

can fly a thousand glorious kites

in the rising winds of resistance.

Your will, sharp enough to slice

a prison guard´s insults into fluff.

Hold on. Right now, you may feel

more like a beetle climbing

a mountain under a crush of boots

than anything human, but you´re not

alone. You´re the song we sing

when the notes in our throat

have lumped impossibly together.

You´re the rainbow colors we use

to airbrush our hope across the sky.

You’re the poem we bellow at every

demonstration. Imagine! Your beauty

flowing in epic proportions.

You´re our brightest star, the one

that anchors us to our place

in the universe. Hold on. Without you,

we´d all be hurled deep into space.

Julie Weiss (she/her) is the author of The Places We Empty, her debut collection, and two chapbooks, The Jolt and Breath Ablaze: Twenty-One Love Poems in Homage to Adrienne Rich, Volumes I and II. Her second collection Rooming with Elephants was published in February, 2025. She was a finalist for Best of the Net, won Sheila-Na-Gig´s editor´s choice award, and was a finalist for the Saguaro Prize. Recent work appears in ONE ART, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Gyroscope Review, and is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, The Indianapolis Review, MER, and SWWIM. She lives with her wife and children in Spain. 

CALL REVEILLE! HE'S DREAMING OF WAR

by Darrell Petska

 

 

 

 

Peace is boring.
I’ll start a war.
Putin did it.
I can too.
Gaza’s done.
Ukraine soon.
My Department of War needs war,
a big beautiful war with bombs and booms
and bloodied bodies.

Peace is for wusses.
I’m mighty, so—
eeny, meeny, miny, moe,
shall I make war with
Mexico? Bad hombres.
Canada? Really nasty.
Minneapolis? Joking, just a warm-up.
Who said Iran?
(Thank you, Netanyahu)
I declare war on Iran!
Strike up the band!
Commence the killing!
Name it after me.

Epstein? Who’s that? Old news. I’m innocent.
Just think about war. So easy to make, I might make more.
Peace is boring unless there’s money in it for me.

(Someone pinch me when this meeting is over.) 

 

 

Darrell Petska is a retired university engineering editor and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. His poetry appears in 3rd Wednesday Magazine, Chiron Review, Soul Poetry, Prose & Arts Magazine, and widely elsewhere online and in print (conservancies.wordpress.com). Father of five and grandfather of seven, he lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife of more than 50 years. 

THE STRANDED CITY

by Iman Oshani

 

 

Tehran skyline at sunset, with the city's iconic Milad Tower rising in the distance, January 2026 —Iran International

 

The smell of gunpowder

lingers for a lifetime.

And in this land,

the snow migrated last year.

Car washes are shut down,

and cars won't move under the weight of ash.

Houses are drained of commotion.

The bedroom.

A large bed.

Sheets neatly made, but gathering dust.

The desk clock faces the wall.

And on the floor,

lies the only corpse: a fly.

The phone will not ring.

The TV is locked on the news.

And behind the window, there is no view...

except

a dog walking by,

sniffing the holes in the buildings.

Iman Oshani is an Iranian writer and poet based in Tehran. His work explores the surreal intersections of memory, objects, and the geography of crisis.

SUPREME COURT PRESIDENTIAL BACKLASH LIMERICK

by Paul A. Freeman

The New York Times

Said Donald Trump: “Let me be candid,
because the Supreme Court has handed
a ruling down I 
believe is awry, 
SCOTUS is hereby disbanded.”

 
Paul A. Freeman is the author of The Movement, a dystopia-Americana novel set in a future United States. It is available from Amazon as an ebook download and as a paperback. His first book, Rumours of Ophir, a crime novel taught at ‘O’ level in Zimbabwean high schools, was also translated into German. In addition to having two novels, a children’s book and an 18,000-word narrative poem (Robin Hood and Friar Tuck: Zombie Killers!) commercially published, Paul Freeman is the author of numerous published short stories, poems, plays and articles. He works and resides in Mauritania, Africa.

INTERLOCHEN

by Virginia Aronson

 

Years before they were convicted sex offenders, Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell used his wealth to gain access to a prestigious boarding school for young artists in Michigan, using a rental lodge Epstein donated to the school as a base from which to recruit some of their earliest victims, according to Department of Justice records and former campus administrators. —NPR, February 19, 2026

You sit on a bench
licking your ice cream
vanilla, maybe mocha
surrounded by summer
friends 13, 14 you are
such lucky talented girls
at the famous incubator
for budding artists
young friends giggling
singing in the sunshine
when she walks by
with a small cute dog
on a leash

and the bench empties
you're all squealing
you all love Yorkies!
you all bend to pet her
your future before you
like a field of daisies
and romping puppies
your friends drift off
to play piano, dance, paint
and the woman turns
her intense gaze
on you, she wants you
to meet her friend
this man can help you
he gives scholarships
he loves young artists
he is very wealthy
fellow Interlochen grad
school and camp benefactor
and your bright eyes brighten
your dreams coming true

and this man, he pays
for your education
while he takes
everything else
your childhood
your dreams
your sweet future
as he pets you
for years
and keeps you
on his tight leash.

Virginia Aronson is the director of Food and Nutrition Resources Foundation and the author of many published books. New poetry collections include Collateral Damage (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Whiskey Island and Whiskey Straight Women (Cyberwit Press).

RAMADAN KAREEM FROM THE UNITED STATES

by H.G.

Rep. Randy Fine, R-Fla., prompted calls for his resignation from Democrats and a major Islamic civil rights group after suggesting in a social media post that he'd choose dogs over Muslims. —NBC, February 17, 2026

3-4 million Muslims in the United States
begin Ramadan
On February 18th and 19th
while Randy Fine declares,

"If they force us to choose,
the choice between dogs and Muslims
is not a difficult one."

Fasting
Reflecting
Praying
Volunteering
Donating

"If they force us to choose,
the choice between dogs and Muslims
is not a difficult one."

Heads to the floor
in extra Taraweeh prayers
seeking forgiveness, answered prayers
and fostering community.

"If they force us to choose,
the choice between dogs and Muslims
is not a difficult one."

Embracing the hunger
the thirst
the fast—
the great equalizer of humankind.
Feeling the pangs of those who go without
understanding the gratitude
of this feeling being temporary
for the fortunate.

"If they force us to choose,
the choice between dogs and Muslims
is not a difficult one."

Salaam my neighbor,
peace be upon you.

 

 

 

H.G. is an American poet based in New York. She holds an MA in history and is working on her first verse novel. Her previous poetry has appeared in Blue Minaret.

“PENISGATE” AT THE OLYMPICS

by Diane Kendig

 

Illustration from Journal of Astrological Big Data Ecology: Premium source for made up science

The Guardian begins with the obvious question:
“Why inject acid into your penis, and what are the health risks?”

If ever there were a serious misuse of the second person,
here you go. I won’t inject anything into myself, or,

as my sister said, when doctors ordered her to give herself
her own shots, “This is why I went into Speech, and you into Medicine.”

And actually, the athletes aren’t injecting their own, uh, organ,
because they are into Skiing and their doctors into Medicine.

Even for the men among us, though, says my husband, it's unimaginable.
Still ski jumpers go to great lengths and with hyaluronic acid, even further.

That is, they want their crotch at greater lengths for suit measurement—
which happens nine months before the games, so they get like a little

maternity ski suit, a tad larger, getting a slight lift, just 5% more surface,
but this is the Milano Cortino 2026. Competition amounts to centimeters.

The World Anti-Doping Agency is investigating. One urologist says,
the rarest case would be gangrene and loss of the penis.

No athlete has been willing to comment on that.

Diane Kendig  is the author of five poetry collections. Her latest is Woman with a Fan. Her writing has appeared in Cider Press Review, Comstock Review, Valparaiso Review, and other journals. She ran a prison writing workshop in Ohio for 18 years, and now curates the Cuyahoga County Public Library weblog, Read + Write. 

IS IT ABOUT THE SURVIVORS OR ABOUT THE TAO?

by Raymond Nat Turner

“Laws grind the poor and rich men rule the law”

 — Oliver Goldsmith

“What does the Tao have to do with anything? Are you kidding?”

Epstein-class—pedophile protectors—RICCO racketeers agree 

to pee on survivors. Deploy entire capitalist state apparatus coming 

at us: D. C., Cali, Chicago, Pacific, Caribbean, Canada, Greenland!

Depends on nothing, does not change 

operates everywhere, free from danger

Mother- of the universe—We didn’t have

a name for it—but she called it the Tao.

Keeps to the Mother-  fed by the Mother-

source of all being; life and death are the

same—We didn’t have

a name for it—but she called it the Tao.

Multiple meanings include ‘way,’ ‘path,’ ‘road,’

‘doctrine,’ ‘principle.’ Undifferentiated, yet complete.

soundless, formless, existing before heaven and earth—

We didn’t have a name for it—but she called it the Tao.

Kamikaze pilot crashing into committee hearing—burn

book in hand. Firing triggering rounds at survivors’ scars;

bootlicking, brown-nosing, on behalf of apex predators—

We didn’t have a name for it—but she called it the Tao.

 

Talentless student of Theatre of the Absurd, contesting every word—

stonewalling, gaslighting, sowing wild quotes, burn book notes at 

child scapegoats, like secondhand smoke—

We didn’t have a name for it—but she called it the Tao.

Ball-less Roy Cohn. Consigliere believing JD’s Junkyard Dog,

rather than Juris Doctor. Degree granted by corrupt, defunct

university of sole client?—We didn’t have a name for it— 

but she called it the Tao.

What does it take to get a disbarment date in the Sunshine State?

Empire State disbarred J6-inciter, election worker-harasser, Count

Ghouliani. Golden State disbarred loony theorist, J6-agitator and

former Thom-ass Clarence law clerk, Eastman …  And some say 

MAGA means Make Attorneys Go Away—

We didn’t have a name for it—but she called it the Tao.

Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.