DANCING WITH MR. BUNNY

by Alan Walowitz

 

 

Alan Walowitz is a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry.  His chapbook  Exactly Like Love  comes from Osedax Press.   The Story of the Milkman and Other Poems  is available from Truth Serum Press.  From Arroyo Seco Press,  In the Muddle of the Night, written with poet Betsy Mars.  The chapbook The Poems of the Air is from Red Wolf Editions and is free for downloading. 

DARK TIMES

by Tricia Knoll

“CPAC speech transcript aka Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before” by Jesse Duquette

We talk about now as if ominous shadows smear our thinking toward inevitable end times. Balance the probabilities of the asteroid coming too close with betting on the Super Bowl coverage of who will get more time on the camera: the girlfriend or the President. Trying to understand the ferocious truth of half-time rapper lyrics while dancers recombine the colors of the American flag to taunt a black Uncle Sam. Race. Religion. War. Lies. Impossible alliances. Obsequious sort-of-leaders speak mumbly words. Babies starve inside aid tents flapping in the wind until the tents disappear.  No one is sure where their food is tied up on a dock. We look askance at neighborly birds and ask if we are expected to laugh at a man who would be king. A poet says this is when we sing the dark songs. Few people, not enough for a loud chorus, seem to have learned the words. There are so many dark songs. Another says this is the time to rise. Maybe it is, but the planes are crashing. And I am snow blind. 

Poet Tricia Knoll has four-foot icicles hanging from the eaves of her house in Vermont. She shatters them with shovels as panacea for the angst of these days. She had measles as a child and knows it is no joke. Links to her nine books and dozens of published poems some of which are songs to the dark times at https://triciaknoll.com

RED TEAM VERSUS RED TEAM

by Shannon Anthony

Sounds like your party has a civil war

or self-implosion theme. Unfriendly fire:

Your taco bar comes with razor wire.

So now briefly, you are chiefly

claiming that your camp is

against the heartland champs

because the one point of Barbie, that doll,

is to be here to cheer, not cheered at all.

And because she once spoke

and you're proudly unwoke

you're rooting for the 49ers

to kiss the ring where the sun don't shine

forgetting every bad thing you ever said

about the city that gave you Nancy.

Cognitive dissonance and decline: Go red!

Knock yourself out with your bash (nothing fancy).

I think you'd agree I've got that right.

(I'm not male, but not pregnant, and I'm white.)

If you come to (such as they are) your senses

you'll see that concussions have consequences.

You're not immune, and this isn't a kingdom.

What happens in Vegas is just a symptom,

another test we'll hear he aced. Remember

the Big Game: That happens in November.

Shannon Anthony lives in Minneapolis.

LAST SATURDAY

by David Chorlton

Arizona Attorney General Kris Mayes said Maricopa County has the legal authority to temporarily provide water to residents in Rio Verde Foothills. The City of Scottsdale cut off Rio Verde residents from its municipal water supply last month in an effort to conserve resources. Because Rio Verde is located in an unincorporated area, Scottsdale officials have argued that the city's not responsible for providing water service. —12News, February 15, 2023. Photo: A water hauler set up hoses to fill the tank for a home that is listed for sale in Rio Verde Foothills outside of Scottsdale, Ariz. Water prices have tripled for some residents of the unincorporated neighborhood. Credit Erin Schaff, The New York Times, January 16, 2023

Broken cloud and pigeons overhead;

a hummingbird inside her nest

at the neighbor’s fence; Valentine’s Day

approaching and the wind

is circling her tongue in the mountain’s ear.

Word crackles

                          through the neighborhood

with news of police cars at Ranch Circle

and Thirty-ninth Street with tape

as yellow as front yard desert marigolds.

Maybe it was suicide

though some say dementia

but only the moon was watching

the man go into the pond.

                                                 The bookmakers

are busy preparing for tomorrow’s game

while the odds favor hotter

than usual days in Arizona come July

with a little comfort falling

as monsoon rains, even on the million dollar

homes in Rio Verde, 

                                     north of rush hour

traffic, master-planned for golf and scenery,

where life would be perfection

if only one could drink

the swimming pools and bathe

in Chardonnay. 

                            It’s late afternoon

back here on Walatowa; shadows float and soften

on the rocks; the mail van’s late;

starlings mob a suet cake and lost cars

circle the cul-de-sac in endless

search for the meaning

                                            of life with the brakes off

hurrying to find the answer

before the sky runs dry.

David Chorlton grew up in Manchester, England, in a city known for its rainy days. After some years in Vienna, Austria, he came to Phoenix and adjusted to the desert. His newest book Poetry Mountain owes much to the part of the city he lives in now, with a view of a desert mountain to soften the impact of the city.

SUPER BOWL LVII: A MEDITATION

by Greg Friedmann

“The NFL Operates Like. Monopoly Which Fortifies Systemic Racism”—Choice, February 9, 2023 

Roman numerals: so perfect to enumerate 
our annual festival of gladiators. Modern pads 
and helmets make a man’s body a lethal spear; 
and yes, Roman coliseums also had luxury boxes.  
As ever, spectators make book on the combatants
under their aegis, just as owners once wagered
on dark-skinned men compelled to box each other,
hate each other, on hot Sunday afternoons. 
Imagine, afterwards: the plantation owner,
rotund, pink-flushed from heat, bourbon, and 
bloodlust, making his happy stumbling way 
to the barn, where Missy waits, as she must. 
He says he won’t sell her if she behaves; 
she waits, prays to be good. God must be in
His heaven, he thinks, to have made the process
of creating property so damned pleasurable.

Greg Friedmann's poetry has appeared in Sky Island Journal, The Northern Virginia Review, The Poetry Society of Virginia, Cagibi, Panoplyzine, Beyond Words, and other journals.

HAMILTON STILL SOLD OUT ON THE GREAT WHITE WAY

by Albert Haley

"History is happening in Manhattan: Hamilton has set a record for the most money ever made in a single week by a Broadway show."—The New York Times, November 28, 2016. 

That autumn a silver-haired man came
to see what was so highly rated.
The dancing, rapping, the black and brown
bodies bodiced and laced to build
a country from the pink soles up.

It wasn’t the livestock show
at the Indiana State Fair
or Peyton winning Super Bowl XLI
for the Colts stolen from Baltimore.

It wasn’t the cars going around
and around the Brickyard, spewing
fumes on Memorial Day.

It wasn’t even poor James Dean lying
beneath a marble slab in Fairmount
in the shadow of his uncle’s pig farm.

And it sure wasn’t talk radio,
Sunday pass the collection plate
church, or after home-school
milk and cookies. Not a goddamn
Oreo in sight.

Of course, the silver-haired man
knew this, only wanted credit
for trying to love the Founding Fathers
before being Secret Serviced out.
Dust rising, dust settling.

What did they think would happen?
It’s theatre. The show goes on.

The hills still alive with the sound
of that new music, the bold story
that must be sung.

A time-told tale that unleashes
rhyming tongues, night
after night, with men and women
who dance joyfully, freely on the graves
of any who might wish to enslave.

Albert Haley is a past winner of the Rattle Poetry Prize. His poems have appeared in the Texas Review, Poems & Plays, and other journals. He lives in Abilene, Texas, which is as odd of a place as it sounds.

MAKE-BELIEVE QUEEN BEY

by Matty Layne

many a gay have played Beyoncé
for a day. a night really. we drag our-
selves on stage, reach for revenge in
that paper—those ones & fives we tuck
under the seams. tuck, like everything else

between our thighs. down in the bayou,
I wove a weave into my own fair hair,
glued fierceness to my lashes, layered
my face w/ base after a close shave—
that green shimmering beneath my eyes.

how i filled nude hose with rice, tied two
knots for c cups so the boys could cop
a more natural feel—as if they would
know the difference. how i cinched my love
handles w/ a duct-tape corset, squeezed

into red sequin hot pants & stomped those
six-inch stilettos down the steps. Bootylicious.
i knew my audience. how they watched me—
bite by bite—down that pb&j on stage. they
weren’t ready for that jelly. you can’t serve

a crowd what they expect. but i’ll never be
the Queen. my body can’t fill those cups.
i’ll never wipe away the base & still carry
color on my face. no natural ’fro to tuck
beneath a black beret, & i’d never fit into

leather hot pants these days. i can’t afford
the golden rounds of ammo to drape over my
flat-chested fantasy of what it must be like.
but I do know that bullets look so much
better outside of a beautiful black body.


Matty Layne is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing & Environment at Iowa State University. His queer 'lil ditties on social justice have appeared in or are forthcoming from TheNewVerse.News, This Week in Poetry & The Furious Gazelle.

WORK WE'VE FAILED TO DO

by Barry Koplen

In the wings,
trouble greets submission;
guns speak. Murder calls
random numbers.

Mine? Yours?
The guy who commands
Curiosity to find water
on Mars?

He's distracted or
he will be
when the Super Bowl draws

nigh or when Miley
wears little or nothing but
the gunman is not

distracted. Like an actor,
he loves his role so much
we can't keep him
in the wings.


For more than fifty years, Barry Koplen has been writing poetry and prose. Often published by friendly journals too arcane to mention, he received his MFA from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. Recently, he completed the second half of a two-volume collection of poems and essays. The first, Whale of Grief, complements Wail of Joy, the second; both are related to impressions of life as a Jew in a non-Jewish world. His No Gold Stars tells his personal story of the integration of the Greenville, SC school system. His latest Why Don’t They Believe Me? Four of Us Saw the Saucer will be available in January. Currently, he is completing two collections of poems while teaching Creative Writing in Virginia at Danville Community College.