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Showing posts with label #HealthCareLess. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #HealthCareLess. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 26, 2020

A WORD FROM OUR FEARLESS LEADER

by Gail White



Coronavirus Pandemic by Bill Day, Tallahassee, FL


Coronavirus crisis?
I don’t know what you mean.
We’ll stop it at the border.
We’ll find a new vaccine.

They loved me in New Delhi.
I didn’t wear a mask.
You’re safe with me to guide you.
Your health care? Please don’t ask.


Gail White is a formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light. Her most recent collections are Asperity Street and Catechism. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats. 

Sunday, January 19, 2020

TASHONNA

by Nadia Farjami




black. healthcare. matters.

she died from
their silence, from

sealed lips and silicone gloves that
pushed

her aside—her
pulse would have kept pushing,

but they put her
on pause.


Nadia Farjami is a poet from California. Her work has been recognized by The New York Times, Cathexis Northwest Press, High Shelf Press, The Esthetic Apostle,  Prometheus Dreaming, Polyphony LIT, Youth Poet Laureate, Body Without Organs Literary Journal, Marmalade Magazine, Cagibi Literary Journal, The Athena Review, & more.

Thursday, April 25, 2019

REAGANOMITRUMPICS

by Rémy Dambron





what trickles down is not their tax breaks
is not charity or compassion

what dribbles rather their self importance
hunger for power dispassion

what trickles down is not investment is not
wealth or higher spending

what oozes rather is their gluttony vanity
and planned meddling

what trickles down are not more jobs are not
higher wages or social security

what flows rather are attacks on speech over
reach and obscurity

what trickles down is not healthcare is not
welfare or opportunity

what leaks rather are their lies transgressions
and impunity

what trickles down is not a future is not progress
or positive growth

what percolates rather their narcissism and
hypocritical oaths

what trickles down is not good faith are not
grand ideas or democracy

what slithers drips seeps and bleeds conspicuous
autocracy


Rémy Dambron is an English instructor and lyricist from San Diego, California. His work focuses on denouncing political corruption, advocating for the environment, and promoting social justice. He has been published by Poets Reading the News, The Veggie Wagon Journal, and What Rough Beast. This poem was written in response to recent reports that dozens of multi-million and multi-billion-dollar corporations (like Amazon) paid zero dollars in taxes last fiscal year.

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

THE TIN MAN

by Matthew McDermott


Coco Fusco: Twilight at The John & Mable Ringling Museum of Art, Sarasota, FL. 


Beauty makes me long to build hotels.
Dorothy stood here once, her hands on her slaphappy hips.
She spoke glowingly of Kansas. I thought of her milky white tits.
She cast my advances aside, wanting true love from my heart.
I mimed my felonious advances, knowing of no other art.

The therapist sailed in confidently and tied three volunteers to me.
He rolled me down a mountain slope, trying to set a new side of me free.
We headed west, until, one day, we came to the great Muddy.
Surrounded by prairie dog dens, he sought to introduce America to me.

Off, off, off! I whispered, but we were tied together like a bundle of sticks.
The therapist flew above us in a balloon, watching to see if my mind was cleared.
My parents were killed in a car crash when I was twelve, said the man strapped
to my back. I cleared my throat as one is supposed to when sympathy is required.

I have breast cancer, said the woman on my front, but I couldn’t get a look
at her, no matter how I writhed. I gave up and threw my weight to each side.
Come on, I said. What’s your deal? I’m waiting. You better not be dead.
I can’t take the smell, the bugs, the worms! Just then, I heard the therapist’s voice.

This worked before on a man with a heart of coal, but here we only have an absence,
a tin chest acting as a relic of our forgotten humanity. I wash my hands of you,
there’ll be no rebirth; for here strides our grifter-in-chief, the Tin Man. To feed his ego
he would sell the earth, or your sister, your dog, your child: all are casino chips to him.

I shrugged at his pronouncements. And smiled. Why am I so lovable then?
There’s one thing, I, as a grifter, know. It’s not me, it’s you. I couldn’t do
any of this without you. I will remake this nation in my image: hollow men.



Matthew McDermott is a poet and nonprofit manager who lives in the Chicago area.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

LET OBAMACARE FAIL

by Jeremy Thelbert Bryant




“Let Obamacare fail,” he says
like “Let them eat cake”
like privilege is universal
like old folks don’t get older, sicker
like men don’t have prostates
like women don’t have breasts
like cancer is fake news
like kids don’t break
like everyone stays in a tower
like all inherit their daddies’ money
like no lives matter
like the leader of a country doesn’t care


Jeremy Thelbert Bryant is a poet and a writer of creative nonfiction. He is a graduate of the low residency MFA program at West Virginia Wesleyan College. When he is not teaching English, he is burning incense, listening to music, drinking coffee, and writing. His work may be found in Pikeville Review and Prism. He finds inspiration in the red of cardinals, in the honesty of Frida Kahlo’s artwork, and in the frankness of Tori Amos’ lyrics.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

ALEX'S TEETH

Spiraling Abecedarian
by Susan Vespoli


 “Trumpcare Will Be a Disaster for Opioid Epidemic” –Rolling Stone, June 28, 2017


Alex’s                                      baby
bottom                                     choppers
crept up like                            darts.
Duo of                                     early pearls
emerging                                 front row
finial twins,                             grinners,
grinders,                                  happy sprouts
held                                         in mouth like
innocence                                jiggled loose, lost,
jammed  beneath pillow.         Kid notes 
kissed up to tooth fairy          “Leave cash, please.
Lots.”  The                              mom
(me)                                        never said
“No”                                       or maybe
only rarely.                             Put five bucks under his
pillow, smiled                        quietly smoothed
quilt.    No sign of                  rotting then. Cavity free.
Really                                     straight
sans orthodontia.                    Teeth
to die for, eventually               under siege. Addiction is
ugly. I can’t watch them         vanquished,
vanishing into                         white powder,
wasting gray.                           Xed out by OxyContin
Rx. Then junk.                        Ya. I can’t watch 
you dissolve,                           zero each enamel bead into
zilch. Zot.


Susan Vespoli lives in Phoenix, AZ where the opioid epidemic is alive and well. Her work has been published in a variety of spots including Mom Egg Review, TheNewVerse.News, Write Bloody, and dancing girl press.

Saturday, July 08, 2017

THE SHORES OF BROOKLYN

Saturday July 1, 2017, 3 p.m.

by Tsaurah Litzky


Pier 5 Brooklyn Bridge Park, photo by Etienne Frossard


Seen from my kitchen window, the line in front of Luke’s Lobster
across Water Street (lobster rolls $20 each) is longer than the B25 Bus
weaving its way through the crowd.
Families with strollers, dogs walking their owners, young lovers, old lovers,
people alone eating ice cream cones, legs, legs everywhere legs,
women of all sizes, shapes, ages showing off their knees, at least.
Shorts are in this year. T***p beware! Screw your tweets, your T***p care!
You won’t stop us from strutting our stuff on the shores of Brooklyn,
a big woman in pink short shorts, her thighs jiggling like Jell-O is
escorted by a guy who looks like a young Brando,
I want to cut in, steal her shorts, steal her date,
while behind them four young dudes joke and pass a basketball,
followed by three sweet teen angels in hijabs.
The waterfront is still a free country! Such happiness!
Suddenly! Claps of thunder! Lightening cracks across the river
the heavens open, rain comes pouring down, the crowd scatters,
to huddle under the trees in the park or push into the ShakeShack,
the happiness so quickly shattered!
I already know there are no guarantees of permanence anywhere,
especially in a country that could elect T***p for President,
yet something pulls me to the window, I open it, stick my head out,
in less time than you can say “the land of the free,”
my head is soaking wet but when I breathe in, I smell the sea.


Tsaurah Litzky is a widely published poet who also writes fiction, memoir and commentary. Her poetry collections are Baby On The Water (Long Shot Press) and Cleaning The Duck (Bowery Books). Her most recent poetry chapbooks, Full Lotus: Poems about Yoga and Jerry in the Bardo, were published by NightBallet Press.

Tuesday, July 04, 2017

NAMING OF PARTS

by Tricia Knoll


Image source: White Mountain Puzzles


After Henry Reed


Spring eased the almond blossoms open
and promises of cherries while we named parts
left over from winter. Collusion. Taking
away, reducing, throwing in the trash
legal widgets that keep the water pure,
air open to the cherry’s pollen flight.

We named parts with words round
to our tongues, like emoluments, to see
how that piece fit in the grooves
of palaces and greens like golf courses.
Lies are new lower swing swivels
alternatives, the stock aiming.
We call the liar  a number, not a name.

We watched tired armies of people
whose papers dictate that they bolt
backwards, locked. Riled bees assault
the fumbling flowers and some too
called that easing the spring.

Assembled from parts, the barrel
is loaded and pointed at every one
of us. The sick. Disabled. Those
who stumbled. Women mourning
in too many dry cities to count.
Children born to know only this.

Whatever bitter cold silence ensues,
whatever violence, these parts came
forged as cocking-pieces, and the many
words to name them buzzed over us
diseasing the spring.


Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet who in the last week has read Henry Reed's famous 1942 poem "The Naming of Parts" about fifteen times, sharing the dismay of progressives at how rapidly important protections of people and the environment can be dismantled. Her new book, Broadfork Farm, is a series of love poems to a small organic farm in Trout Lake, Washington.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, EVEN IF IT KILLS US

by George Salamon


“Young Americans are dying from despair. After the Great Recession, people aged between 25 and 44 started to overdose on opioids at an alarming pace. Overall, death rates for this age group rose an astounding 8% between 2010 and 2015.” —Jessika Bohon,  “Deaths of despair are rising in America. They are claiming lives all around me,” The Guardian, June 22, 2017. Photograph: Spencer Platt/Getty Images via The Guardian.


Flavius Josephus chronicled
The suicide of 960 Jews in 73 CE
Besieged by a Roman legion in Masada.
It may be history, it may be legend.
What young Americans are doing today
Is the real thing.
It is making America ugly and mean
And a mockery of the American Dream.


George Salamon has been watching the crumbling of the American Dream in and from St. Louis, MO.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

MIXED MESSAGE: A HISTORY LESSON 2017

by Alan Catlin


Capitol Police drag disabled protesters out of wheelchairs during Trumpcare protests. Forty-three people were arrested in connection with the protest. In some instances, police helped protesters back into their wheelchairs before forcibly removing them, but others weren't treated so generously Jacquelyn Martin/AP via The Independent (UK) June 22, 2017.

This is what
the Fascists did
in the 1930s and 40s:

cleansed the race
of the genetically impure

the mentally ill
sexual deviants
gypsies
jews

the cripples
and the infirm

Now here
in Washington DC
Today in June of 2017

republicans release
details of crafted-in-secret
No Health Care bill

arrest the protestors
in the halls of Congress:

the disabled in wheelchairs
on oxygen
disability disadvantaged all

and either forcibly carry them out
or escort them from in front
of the Majority Leader of the Senate’s
office door outside

to where the box cars are waiting.





Alan Catlin is poetry editor of online journal misfitmagazine.net. His latest book of poetry is American Odyssey from Future Cycle Press.