CANVASSING

by Mark Williams

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

If a man’s home is his castle,

he reluctantly lowered his drawbridge. “Is she

a Democrat or Republican?” he asked us.

 

Manicured lawns, foot-high grass.

Porches with fishing rods, feral cats.

“She had three litters before she was fixed.”

 

A woman on oxygen. A man with a cane.

A woman using a walker

who agreed to put up a yard sign.

 

“I always vote Republican.”

“I vote straight Democrat.”

“I’m not registered.”

 

We were offered water, beer;

given thanks, directions, advice,

even hand-wipes. We learned

 

of dogs who’d been rescued, the price

of a condemned house. One woman’s grandson

is studying classic literature in Italy.

 

As for the king of his castle, he said,

nay, shouted, “Get off my land!” which,

as far as he was concerned,

 

wasn’t made for some of you and me.

Mark Williams's poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, Writers Resist, as well as The Southern Review, ONE ART: a literary journal, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of the collections, Carrying On and Life. He and his wife, DeeGee, live and canvas in Evansville, Indiana. 

DEMOCRATIC PROCEEDS

by Mark Williams

Cartoon by Clay Jones

Dear Joe Biden,

 

My name is Austin Baggerly. I am eleven years old.

Today my social studies teacher Ms. Kornblum

chose me to be you and Donnie Capshaw 

to be the President since his name is Donnie.

She said she would teach us about the Democratic proceeds.

First me and Donnie should give speeches to our class

which meets on Zoom cause the virus

the President said would go away did not.

So I put on my mask and sunglasses like you

and said I would beat the virus and bring our class together 

and Donnie put on orangy makeup and his grandma’s blonde wig

and said he would make our class great again.

Next Ms. Kornblum asked everyone who liked me 

to raise their hand and 15 people did 

if you count Jacob Dickinson who raised his cat’s paw

which everyone but Ms. Kornblum thought was funny.

Joe Biden, there are 25 kids in our class

which means only 10 kids raised their hands for Donnie

but Ms. Kornblum said that even though I won

we had to count hands again if we want my and Donnie’s election

to be like yours and the other Donnie’s. This time 

Emma Peterson looked around the screen

and smiled and raised her hand for Donnie Capshaw

when last time she raised her hand for me. Anyways,

that means I still won 14 to 11. Right? But Ms. Kornblum

said that even though I won fair and square 

now if we want our class election to be like your election

we have to wait and let Donnie Capshaw 

whine about our votes like an eleven-year-old

before I can be class President. She said 

this is an example of frickin democracy.

What did Ms. Kornblum mean, Joe Biden? 

Do some votes count for more than one? 

Why did Ms. Kornblum start crying

before she Zoomed away? 

 

                                           Yours truly,

                                           Austin Baggerly

Mark Williams's poems have appeared in The Southern Review, Rattle, Nimrod, and The American Journal of Poetry. His poems in response to the current administration have appeared in The New Verse News, Writers Resist, Poets Reading the News, and Tuck Magazine. He raised his hand for Joe Biden in Evansville, Indiana.

A POEM IN WHICH I COMPARE MYSELF TO THE PRESIDENT

by Mark Williams

The President plays catch with former New York Yankees Hall of Fame pitcher Mariano Rivera as he greets youth baseball players on the South Lawn of the White House to mark Opening Day for Major League Baseball, Thursday, July 23, 2020, in Washington. (Drew Angerer/Getty Images via Chicago Tribune)

The lines are straight, votes streaming in

like a fastball from the hand of Larry Broerman.

That’s me at the plate. I am ten years old,

squaring around to bunt in fear. Notice

how the ball is coming in too fast for me to move.

Watch me catch it with my groin. See 

the coaches and my parents run onto the field

and huddle round my crumpled, writhing form. 

Watch my father unbutton my pants and say, “Breathe.”

 

I don’t care about my team. My only interest

is my stats. I bat in the low .200’s, but if you ask,

I’ll tell you about the double I once hit. Never mind 

I make consistent errors in right field.

Occasionally, I catch one. But for now,

 

behold me as I stand. Gaze upon me 

as I trot toward first base, even as my still-

unbuttoned pants fall from my waist, slide down my legs, 

and drop onto the first base path. Consider 

how the fans go wild. Listen to them cheer

as my short-lived, unaccomplished baseball career

comes to its ignominious end.

Mark Williams's poems have appeared in The Southern Review, Rattle, and The American Journal of Poetry. His poems in response to the current administration have appeared in The New Verse News, Writers Resist, Poets Reading the News, and Tuck Magazine. His baseball career ended in Evansville, Indiana, where he still lives.

COMMONIST PUSSIES

by Mark Williams

Hateboards photo via Campaign

“Hello, Mrs. Baumgart. Is Kyle at home?
It’s me Austin Baggerly on the phone.     No, Mrs. Baumgart.
Dad is still living at his house and Mom and me and Bradley
are living at ours.     Bradley is my turtle.     Yes, Mrs. Baumgart.
I wash my hands after playing with Bradley. Mom says
I’m more likely to get the 19 virus before Bradley makes me sick,
specially since Dad doesn’t believe in masks. He says
masks are for commonist pussies.     Excuse me, Mrs. Baumgart.
But that’s what Dad says. And when he picks me up
he makes me take mine off in the car.     I know, Mrs. Baumgart.
But he’s my dad. He makes me go with him. He says
if the President comes to town he’ll take me.
I would like to go with Dad that day, cause if I see the President
I’ll ask him why he doesn’t care if Grandma Baggerly dies.
I’ll tell him he’s old too, and since alls he cares abouts is him—
Mom says so—he should wear a mask. Then Dad will wear a mask
and I can wear a mask and save Grandma.     Mrs. Baumgart,
do you think Kyle and I will go to school this fall? Do you think
the virus will ever go away? Will there be more viruses after?
Do you think our planet will still be here when I’m old?
Mom says the rest of my life depends on the next election?
Do you think so? Dad says Joe Biden would be like taking a bus
across America instead of an airplane. Mom says if that’s true,
our President is a skateboard.     Mrs. Baumgart,
was it ever like this when you were growing—
Oh, hi Kyle. What’s up?”

Mark Williams wears a mask in Evansville, Indiana. His poems and stories have appeared in The Southern Review, Rattle, New Ohio Review, Drunk Monkeys, The American Journal of Poetry, and in the anthologies The Boom Project and American Fiction. His poems in response to the current administration have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Writers Resist, Poets Reading the News, and Tuck Magazine.

CLEARITY

by Mark Williams

Cartoon by First Dog on the Moon

“Hello. I am Austin Baggerly and I am giving my speech
in Mrs. Colley's fourth grade class at West Park Elementary,
which you already know since you are my friends
and you are here too. Mrs. Colley said to give a speech
on something that our country needs more of.
I asked my mom what our country needs more of
and she said clearity. I asked her what is clearity
and she said the state of being clear. I asked her
which state is that and she said the blue ones. Mom says
a person can never ever be too clear. Never.
She says for example take our President who says
the first thing that comes out of his mouth only then
it is too late since it is already confusing everyone.
Like he said when it gets warm the virus will give up
and quit killing old people. I hope so cause Grandma Baggerly
is old and I do not want her to die. But how do we know
the virus does not like hot weather too? It could.
Or when he said he wants to leave the people
on the boat since that would be good for the numbers.
What does that mean? What numbers? Whose numbers?
I heard my mom on the phone telling Aunt Alice
that she is surprised to learn Mike Pence has balls.
She does not mean basketballs or baseballs eccetera.
Even golf balls. She means for once he stood up like a man
to the President and said we do not have enough tests
to see if we have the virus after the President said
we have all the beautiful tests we need. Mom says
just you wait the President will fire Mike Pence
if he keeps being clear since that is the one thing
the President is afraid of even more than the virus.
So always be clear. Also wash your hands. And
Mom says to tell your parents and grandparents
to wash their hands of the President this November.
So that virus doesn't spread too. Thank you.”

Mark Williams lives in the red but otherwise good state of Indiana. His poems and stories have appeared in The Southern Review, Rattle, New Ohio Review, Drunk Monkeys, The American Journal of Poetry, and the anthologies American Fiction and The Boom Project. His poems in response to the current administration have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Poets Reading the News, Tuck Magazine, and WritersResist.

DARK WOOD

by Mark Williams

So there I am in the jury box. Voir dire,
the judge calls it, which means speak the truth,
as in don’t and you’re in big trouble. “Have you had
any past acquaintance with either the prosecutor,
the defense attorney, or the defendant?” His Honor asks me.
I no sooner say, “No,” than the prosecutor says,
“May I approach the bench, your Honor?”
and His Honor wiggles his finger as in yes, and make it snappy,
so the prosecutor stands and approaches His Honor.
With their eyes on me, they exchange a few words
before the prosecutor steps to the box and asks,
“Do you have a beagle named Keeper?” Since I do
have a beagle named Keeper, and I speak the truth,
I say, “Yes.” Then he says, “Do you remember
the time you were walking on the levee,
and Keeper and another beagle picked up a deer scent,
and you and the beagle’s owner spent three hours
searching the woods for your dogs?” And now I realize
the other beagle’s owner is asking me these questions,
and my chances of being squeezed from the box are high.
Sure enough, “You’re excused,” says His Honor.

But in the upcoming case of

                       The Truth
                              v.
       The President of the United States

the majority of Senatorial jurors have demonstrated
they are no more capable of speaking the truth
than Keeper is capable of ignoring a deer scent. Not only that,
the majority of jurors are acquainted with the defendant
in the sense that Barnacle Boy, The Dirty Bubble,
and Man Ray were acquainted with each other
as members of EVIL (Every Villain is Lemons)
in Season 3 of SpongeBob SquarePants.
But with no provisions in place
to squeeze our Lemons from the box,
it is we who are lost within a dark wood,
with no hope, until November,
to get out.

Mark Williams lives Evansville, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Southern Review, Rattle, and The American Journal of Poetry. His fiction has appeared in Drunk Monkeys and the anthologies American Fiction and The Boom Project. In response to the current administration, his poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Poets Reading the News, Tuck Magazine, and Writers Resist.

THE BRING OF DISASTER

by Mark Williams

O Heavenly Father,

It’s me again Austin Baggerly. I cant talk long tonight.
Mom says to say my prayers and get to sleep pronto
cause Dad got me home late. Home to my house
where he used to live but now is just Mom and me
and my box turtle Bradley. But you know that.
Pastor Crandall says you know everything there is.
He says You are Omniportant. Everyother Sunday Dad
takes me to praise You at Sudden Glory Fellowship.
Pastor Crandall says You made our President President.
Pastor Crandall says our President is The Chosen One.
Mom says that The Chosen One destroyed her marriage
and that if you chose him then you must want
to take everyone to the bring of disaster.
Why do You want to bring us there? For instants why
did You choose someone who does not care
if the world gets too hot for us to live? Where will we go?
And why did You pick someone who lets fires
burn up all the trees and forest animals
that You made in the Beginning? Plus why
is it OK to let people buy guns to shoot me in school?
Mom says the President wants to build a wall
to keep out poor people so they can stay poor
in there poor countrys? Why would You God
want to keep people poor in poor countrys
when You cared for the birds in the air
before the President let them burn up in the forests?
Maybe You chose someone to bring us to disaster
so that next time when it is our turn to choose
we will choose someone who stops us
before going all the way in to it. But in my pinion
You are cutting it awful close. Dear God,
when I turn ten will all this make sense? I hope so.
Sometimes I wish I could pull in my head like Bradley.

                                                            Amen

Mark Williams lives in Evansville, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, Rattle, Nimrod, New Ohio Review, and The American Journal of Poetry. His poems in response to the current administration have appeared in Poets Reading the News, Writers Resist, and Tuck Magazine. This is his fourth appearance in TheNewVerse.News.

DON, JR.

by Mark Williams

“I don’t think they like me much anymore.”

           —Donald Trump, Jr., commenting on the co-hosts of The View

Just to let you know, Don, Jr.,

we have several things in common. 

Both of our fathers were in real estate,

and they took us with them on their showings.

Stepping from his car, a man once told my dad, 

“I like this house already.”

“You might like it on the outside,” young me said, 

“but wait until you see it on the inside.”

Like you, Don, Jr., the inside needed work.

And then there was the antique Steepleton slate-bed 

pool table my father was given as a bonus. 

(He’d sold a house within a week.) I spent 

many hours shooting pool on that table.

And I was good! But who wouldn’t be? Someone 

had rounded off the slate at every leather pocket.

If a ball was within two inches, it dropped in. 

Up until the day you talked to Joy, Whoopi, 

Abby, Meghan and Sunny,

it was as if you’d played your life 

on an antique Steepleton slate-bed

with generous, deep pockets. 

You were on a run. You could not miss. Please know

that when I shot pool on tables at Arc Lanes, the Y 

or the Brunswick at Brett Hart’s house, 

I embarrassed myself badly every time.

Mark Williams lives in Evansville, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, Rattle, Nimrod, New Ohio Review, and The American Journal of Poetry. His poems in response to the current administration have appeared in Poets Reading the News, Writers Resist, and Tuck Magazine. This is his third appearance in TheNewVerse.News.

WINNING OUR AFFLICTIONS

by Mark Williams





Dear Mister President,

My name is Austin Baggerly. I am 9 years old almost.
I am writing about the 4 brown women you told
to go back to the broken countrys they came from.
Mom says they cant go back. They came from here.
They are back. Or here. I am confuzed. Plus
Mom says that with you in the White House
our country is broken and the 4 brown women
should stay and fix it before they go any wheres.
Dad says he wishes they would go back
to where there Moms and Dads came from. Dad says
soon we will walk into for instants Chuck E. Cheese
and it will be filled with brown people
staring at our white butts. Moms and Dads
and my white butt Mister President. Mom says
no one would want to stare at yours. Anyways
since you became President our house broke to.
Dad sleeps with me in my room. He snores.
But since you told the 4 brown women to go back
things have gotten better for me in some ways.
Mom bought me a Perplexus Epic 3D Maze Puzzle.
Dad bought me a Ridiculous Inventions Science Kit.
Mom says that Dads gift is ridiculous cause
he does not believe in science. Anyways
I heard Mom tell Aunt Alice that when Dad
agreed with you about the 4 brown women
he crossed a dipping point. I asked Mom
what is a dipping point. She said ask your father.
I know what Mom and Dad are up to Mister President.
Thanks to you they are trying to win my afflictions.
It is working. I wonder who will buy me
a Fat Brain Toys Chaos Machine. Mom says
you must already have one. Is it fun?
Pretty soon I will have 2 houses to go back to.
If both Mom and Dad buy me a Chaos Machine
I will have 1 for each house. Sweet!

                                                            Yours truly,
                                                            Austin Baggerly

Mark Williams's poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, New Ohio Review, Rattle, Nimrod, Jokes Review, and The American Journal of Poetry. His poems in response to the Trump administration have appeared in Poets Reading the News, Tuck Magazine, and Writers Resist. This is his second appearance in TheNewVerse.News. He would buy a Chaos Machine if he knew it could be set in reverse.

WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE

by Mark Williams 

With each of three lies
Pinocchio’s nose
doubled in length from his face
to a distance
(assuming it started at one)
of eight unflattering inches.

Ten thousand untruths,
our Commander-in-Chief
has told since taking office. Imagine
how far his proboscis would reach.
Andromeda? Centaurus?
Sagittarius?

Most recently Mark Williams’s writing has appeared in Jokes Review, New Ohio Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Southern Review, Drunk Monkeys, Poets Reading the News, Tuck Magazine, and Writers Resist. After more than eight thousand calculations, he gave up and postulated the galaxies in his poem. He lives in Evansville, Indiana. But when he faces south, he is inching toward Kentucky.