MALL MONUMENT TO A PRESIDENT

by Patrick G. Roland

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

Maybe every other president was doing it wrong.
Hell, maybe I’m doing it all wrong. 

My four-year-old once told me
my tie looked like an elephant trunk with a cold,
so she swapped it for a toy mermaid’s tail,
and I got compliments—
even a high-five from my boss.

So, I turned to her again,
this time about the president’s tour of the Middle East.

In Saudi Arabia, he’s got luxury towers going up.
They gave him $600 billion for defense.
“Rapunzel had a tower for her hair, Daddy,
maybe he needs to protect his hair.”

In Qatar, it’s golf resorts and seaside villas.
They threw in $200 billion for Boeing,
and gave him a $300 million jet. 
“When I eat all my dinner,” she said,
“I get vanilla ice cream for dessert.”

In the UAE: a golf course, a skyscraper, and a crypto deal.
They pledged $1.4 trillion for U.S. tech.
“Krypto was Superman’s doggy friend.”

Don’t get me wrong, it smells like what I think
immoral would smell like—
if ethics had a scent.
My daughter can smell hardened Play-Doh
before she even opens the canister.

So I asked her if any of the deals 
smelled like an emolument.
She said mall monuments smell like pretzels.

“What am I doing wrong?” I asked.
You ask questions.

Patrick G. Roland is a writer and educator living with cystic fibrosis. He explores life’s experiences through poetry and storytelling, seeking to inspire others in the classroom and through writing. His work appears or is forthcoming in Hobart, Sacramento Literary Review, Maudlin House, Trampoline, and others.

WHITE HOUSE MENU, OCTOBER 8, 2019

by Pepper Trail

Amuse bouche: honey-soaked Smyrna fig with bitter Kurds

Soup:  bisque of watered-down regulations, topped with nutmeg and shredded tax
            returns

Appetizer: bruschetta of tariff-marinated soybeans and pork belly, dusted with
                     artisanal Kentucky coal

Salad:  wilted checks and balances, arugula, and raw ego, with a drizzle of raspberry—
            infused Saudi sweet light crude

Entrée:  tenderloin Republican reputation, flash-seared and bloody in the center,
                served with blanched asparagus wrapped in subpoena parchment

Sorbet:   whipped frozen tears of Guatemalan children, with savor of Miller lemon

Dessert:  half-baked crumble of sour grapes, drowned in a simple syrup of self-pity


Wine List:  Diet Coke


Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

WHAT WE CALL NEWS

by Joan Mazza

Nambia, a shock! was in the news, and now
the town of Pleasure, burned so hot that cars melted.
Families hope for messages of bones of those
who didn’t escape, an answer, end to their search.
A president not mine promises Great Climate!

advises raking forests. Behold! His followers follow,
like those who thought they’d board Hale-Bopp,
dressed for this special occasion in jeans and sneakers,
pockets filled with quarters, plastic bags over their heads.

Ho-hum to a journalist’s murder, dismemberment.
His memory dissolved in acid. Business as usual
for those who value money over integrity and human
rights. Let’s carry on and kill those turkeys, worry
about stuffing and whether it’s safe to eat the lettuce.

I can smell those foul family members arguing
from miles away. It’s the age of FFS and WTF, when
evidence provides the excuse to dig in deeper, yell,
Fake News! when you don’t like the turn of events

or intelligence communities that bring facts. Ho-hum.
We carry on like those in Poland, not Jewish, not gay.
No risk of being chosen, hauled off. What’s for dessert?
Here it’s apple pie with ice cream and whipped cream.
We’re grateful, and we write our long list of blessings.

Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and has taught workshops nationally with a focus on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam), and her work has appeared in Rattle, The MacGuffin, Streetlight Magazine, Valparaiso Review, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.

DELIVERY

by J. D. Smith

Yemeni children vent anger against Riyadh and Washington as they take part in a mass funeral for the 40 children killed in an air strike by the Saudi-led coalition last week. Photograph: STRINGER/AFP/Getty Images via The Guardian

“US supplied bomb that killed 40 children on Yemen school bus” 

—The Guardian, August 19, 2018

At this late date I have accepted
how the rain falls on the just and the unjust,
as does the air-dropped ordnance.

The downpours’ frequency still eludes me.

Another front, another deluge
far from page one, that is,
far from its readers, and we
might ask “What in the actual hell?”
except that it is already on display
by way of a blasted bus and limbs distanced
from their shattered frames.

What’s left of the means is marked
as coming from my country,
yet I don’t remember being asked
if I wanted to contribute, as if many would
outside of an alternate universe
where a collection might be taken up
as for flowers to send a co-worker
in the hospital, such as can no longer aid
those counted in the story.
Instead of “Best wishes” or “Get well soon”
the card might read “Thinking of you”.

J. D. Smith's fourth collection, The Killing Tree, was published in 2016, and he has received a Fellowship in Poetry from the National Endowment for the Arts. His other books include the essay collection Dowsing and Science and the children's picture book The Best Mariachi in the World. Smith lives and works in Washington, DC.