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Showing posts with label MAGAts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MAGAts. Show all posts

Monday, February 08, 2021

PILGRIMS PROGRESS

by Deborah Gorlin


Phineas Pratt's Grave in Charlestown MA


The inscriptions a kid could cartoon
on a gravestone, crude and simplistic,
the skull-soul effigy a kind of gothic lithic
Jack-o-lantern, wide hollows for eyes,
triangle for nose, slotted mouth,
snaggle-toothed, Medusa-like heads
winging hair. A second childhood
for the Puritan church as some feature
breasts, amen, as God-besotted poet
Edward Taylor wrote unblushingly,
his syntax, don’t ask, “to put these
nibbles, then my mouth into and suckle
me therewith humbly pray.” Gravestones
that put one in mind of crumbly English
biscuits, taken at teatime. Their headboards
face east towards the sunrise, when the dead
will wake one fine Sunday morning to the smell
of pancakes the Lord makes at a sleepover.
 
But the news today tells me they won’t
wait—rebranded their black white outfits,
buckled shoes, top hats, dressed this time
as the half-naked shaman in bear skins,
horn helmet, face paint, just like their old
enemies the Indians, why not, it’s on their land,
the Senate floor, to save us from those devils
in Pederast Forest. Fake 'em out. Boys. 
An impatient breed these new pilgrims, grown
young, who, in their first iteration, claimed
that specters in dreams and visions, those
with a third nipple, an ugly birthmark, a black
cat familiar, were evidence in a court of law
for burning witches and warlocks. Emboldened,
always exceptional, they invent new ways to rise
from their shallow graves of history, their scraggly
tombstones askew, who refuse, even their God, to die.
 

Deborah Gorlin is the author of two books of poems, Bodily Course (White Pine Poetry Press Prize) and Life of the Garment (Bauhan Publishing, winner of the 2014 May Sarton New Hampshire Poetry Prize). She has published in a wide range of journals including Poetry, Antioch Review, American Poetry Review, Seneca Review, The Massachusetts Review, The Harvard Review, Green Mountains Review, Bomb, Connecticut Review, Women’s Review of Books, New England Review, and Best Spiritual Writing 2000. Recent poems appear in Plume, On the Seawall, Chicago Quarterly, Trampoline, and the Ekphrastic Review. Emeritus associate faculty of the Writing Program at Hampshire College, she serves as a poetry editor at The Massachusetts Review

Wednesday, January 06, 2021

ARMED AND DANGEROUS

by George Held


A pro-Trump mob interact with police after storming the US capitol. Photograph: Win McNamee/Getty Images via The Guardian, January 6, 2021


Sure, the Jew-boy and the black preacher
Saved the leftwing bacon in Georgia last night
But they ain’t gonna stuff us back in the dirt
Or the bottle or wherever we came from
 
To make America great again. We’re white
And proud of it. We’re armed and dangerous,
As the sheriffs’ posters say it, and we might
Have us a little Civil War to settle things,
 
Only this time we win, ‘cause we’re armed
And dangerous, you bet, and ‘cause
The North is a bunch of mongrel cowards,
So this time we win behind General T****
 
And with our militia in defense of Red MAGA.
Don’t you play shocked or angry at my words
When you know I’m right: we are gonna’
Win this time and set up our new capital
 
In Tuscaloosa, where our footballers
Are already Number 1 and we can beat
Any fake students in other uniforms
Like Ohio State or Clemson and be champs
 
Again. Because the South she is rising
To be great again. We’re red from Texas
To Canada and lots of other states
Between the coasts. So join the movement
 
While you can and make us great again
Forevermore: in football and politics
And the military we’re the best
And soon we will really rule the roost.


George Held is a longtime contributor to TheNewVerse.News.

Sunday, November 15, 2020

POST-ELECTION STRESS DISORDER

by Howie Good

 

Thousands of President Trump’s supporters converged on Washington, D.C., on Nov. 14 to falsely claim he won the election. (Video: Jorge Ribas, Joyce Koh/Photo: Toni L. Sandys/The Washington Post)


The emperor’s model army marches on,
bringing with them the suffocating smell of smoke,
a darkness like mud, while tens of millions
of just plain folks artlessly demonstrate their devotion
by cheering threats of kidnapping and murder
and parading bright new flags that with each wave
in the lie-filled air grow duller and more tattered,  
and when the light dwindles to a final few hours,
there will be tweet storms and wild speeches
and the military music of boots stamping on faces.


Howie Good is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Tuesday, July 07, 2020

WHAT IS THE AIR?

by Ralph James Savarese


Source: The New York Times archive


An elderly person said, “What is the air?” gasping as much
     with her arms as with her lungs.
How could I answer this woman? I do not know what it is
     any more than she.

I guess it must be a mother feeding her babes little morsels
     of oxygen. A clear, blue bib.

Or I guess it’s the wind taking a nap, the clouds a comforter
     letting dreams rain down.

Or I guess the air is itself an elderly person, death’s new
     confidante. What has it heard?

Or maybe it’s a commuter on the breathing Tube. (The rasping
     sounds like medieval German.)
“Stand away from the doors.”

Stand away from each other! The virus is sprouting in broad
     zones and narrow zones, growing among black folks
     as among white (more among black folks).
“I give them the same, I receive them the same,” a super-
     spreader says.

Perhaps the air is a bathhouse for lungs. All the panting they
     could want!
The Right once denounced promiscuous mingling yet now
     promiscuously mingles itself.

The air, madam, is an unregistered weapon. In America
     everyone carries.


Ralph James Savarese is the author of two books of prose, Reasonable People and See It Feelingly, and one collection of poetry, Republican Fathers, due out in October.