ELECTION NIGHT’S GLIMPSE OF WHAT THE PEOPLE REALLY WANT

by Raymond Nat Turner

“Universal suffrage is thus the gauge of the maturity of the working class. It cannot and never will be anything more in the modern state, but that is enough. On the day when the thermometer of universal suffrage shows boiling point among the workers, they as well as the capitalists will know where they stand.^” —Frederick Engels, Origins of the Family, Private Property, and the State

Celebratory blip on history’s continuum, tracing No Kings’ DNA to

Occupy-ish campus encampments. To pink pussy hats — #Me Too.

To Peoples Climate March, Strike-tober seasons of searing street heat —

Arab Spring to George Floyd Summer …

With warehouse hands lick … the Mayor-elect hit my 

Tear note Tuesday night

Hit my tear note like sopranos at Great Hope Baptist

Church, or Lady Day’s lovely “Autumn In New York.”

Bet he hit tear notes of thousands of phone bankers/door-knockers

Teaching NYC to shout No Mo Cuomo? 

Bet he hit tear notes of those reclaiming time from Turkey Trotting, 

Crooked rabbit footnote, PapaCop?

Bet he hit Muslim tear notes Big Apple-wide? Borough by

Borough? County-wide, state-wide?

World-wide with an authentic As-salamu alaykum and

Prayer for deliverance from raggedy-ass Islamophobia?

Bet he hit Jewish tear notes with sincere Shalom aleikhem? With

Recognition of tradition troubling czars, nazis, cossacks and klan?

Recognition of tradition opposing hospital-bombing, baby-killing 

Genocidal maniacs?

Celebratory blip on history’s continuum! DNA of vigilance, steel —

Class struggle — solidarity. Tuesday night’s tiny glimpse reveals

Good things will happen when we Walk; Chew gum; Shout slogans;

Text —  And Organize; Organize; Organize —       At the same time!

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.

MS MAXWELL AND THE ART OF THE DEAL

by Raymond Nat Turner

Cartoon by Jean Gouders posted 9 August 2025 on X by Iroon.

For her silence she wants the Ruby

Slippers back—along with her broomstick—

The Lolita Express… Better yet…  she

Wants the jet Qatar gifted grifter Boss Tweet.

She wants all alphabet agencies who

Spy on the American People

Mobilized/weaponized to find out which

Hedge fund flipped a house on her sister.

She wants ICE rounding up a million Munchkins a month

For her pleasure. She wants scores of other peoples’ babies.

She wants impunity to work Quinceañeras, Bat Mitzvahs,

Sweet Sixteens with former father figure, Jel-Low Puddin Man.

She wants a new psyop to co-opt left language.

She wants to use “What’s the call? Free ‘em all!”

To Free Harvey! Free Diddy! Free R. Kelly! And

Allow Russell Simmons to sing, “I believe I can fly!”

She wants Slick Willy notified that honeypots and

Sandwiches will return shortly. She wants Cuomo

To know he can come and go. She wants Papa Cop

To know that he can fly—free—to Turkey.

She wants baby oil tariffs removed. She wants

Diddy as mixologist aboard the Love Boat her

Father fell from and drowned in waters off the

Canary Islands.

She wants use of some 800 plus bases run by

Greasy-thumbed generals. Preferably, those

Named for confederate traitors. She wants to erect a new

Headquarters. A station. A secure location for predation.

She wants to “steal” reich-cult blondes for weekly workouts.

Smoothie-fueled saunas, steam baths and mani-pedis in secure

White supremacist, settler-colonial, tropical paradises. Built on

Profaned bones of indigenous ancestors.

Finally, if she’s found “unresponsive.” Entangled in sheets. Tumbled from

10th floor window. Or, reciting autopsy, a coroner crows, “A little poison!”

Bury her atop her triple-agent Pop. In Jerusalem’s Mount of Olives Cemetery.

With international intelligence community elite turnout—With 21 gun salute...

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.

ONE EYE, ALWAYS

by Paula J. Lambert

Dame Maggie Smith died
the same night Hurricane Helene swept through
the American South, which means nothing
except that our hearts can be broken
so many different ways. Eight people died
in Acapulco from Hurricane John.
Eric Adams pleaded not guilty
while the still-rushing waters flooded 
through Asheville, North Carolina. It’s a break 
from all the news elsewhere. That’s how we roll, 
unable to keep more than three or four or five 
catastrophes foremost in our minds. Breaking news 
splinters our brains by the second: Gaza, Ukraine, 
the guy who wants to be president again 
finagling himself into the worst of it,
one outrageous claim after another
designed to keep our tail lights spinning: 
T-boned by the news. Whiplashed 
while so many suffer the slings and arrows 
of the most benign living: sprained wrists, 
a broken tooth, kids not doing their homework, 
pot roast simmered dry when Mother forgot, again, 
she had something on the stove. Who’s taking her in—
or shouldering the blame for sending her away?
When the flood waters rise (they’re always rising)
we tend to what we must. When the waters recede,
we turn to the Dames, the Denzels,
to Sandra Bullock and the Great British bakers
to keep ourselves going, one step at a time,
one eye, always, toward the drought.

Paula J. Lambert of Columbus, Ohio, has published several collections of poetry including As If This Did Not Happen Every Day (Sheila-Na-Gig 2024) and Uncertainty (The Only Hope We Have) (Bottlecap 2023). Her work has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council, and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.