THE NEW NORMAL

by Lawrence J. Krips 

This morning I tossed an empty toothpaste tube

into the toilet bowl instead of the basket.

 

Later, the just simmered Marinara sauce

went from the stove into the everything drawer.

 

You see, the system I relied upon, 

has taken an unapproved vacation.

 

My friends insist dictators will save the world

and that being independent is an unnecessary burden.

 

My children are beginning to wonder not at the barking 

but by the preternatural scratching with my left foot.

By overwhelming minority opinion, The Supreme Court

declared the United States null and void.

 

The stairs took me up to the basement, while 

the dump sink in the attic overflowed to the roof.

 

The President has ordered all new maps 

eponymously rename the Western Hemisphere.

 

Who knew vaccinations cause fleas or 

cameras can substitute as hearing aids?

 

From now on, men’s votes are the only ones counted

in all the elections we will no longer have.

 

For as a woman seweth so does a man reapeth,

the oceans tideth and space-time discontinueth.

 

Nothing does lead to something 

and a stitch in mine is yours in time.

 

I no longer need to study all those tedious details for elections,

the decisions have been and will be made for us.

 

Do not fear this upheaval.  The old normal 

is just the new normal calling a time out.

Lawrence J. Krips is an evolution coach  and poet.  A founding member of Ocean State Poets and contributor to the Origami Poetry Project, Larry's poetry has appeared in such publications as Tifferet, Writers' Circle, Rhode Island Writers' Circle Anthology, The Open Door, 50 Haikus, New Verse News, The Best of Kindness II Anthology and Under the 13th Star Anthology.  His poem, Yahrzeit, received a Pushcart Prize nomination.  Mr. Krips' first book, A Soul's Way . . . Soulspeak, was published by Hallowed Abyss and is also available as a cd.

BACKCOURT VIOLATION

by Paul Brassard

The original Unsplash photograph of the Supreme Court building by Tim Mossholder was adapted by the poet using the GIMP image manipulation software for use in this haiga.

Paul Brassard is a retired teacher of high school students with behavioral challenges. He has been writing poetry and fiction since he wrote his first short story Honolulu Calling at the age of twelve. Paul has been writing a personal haiku, senyru or haiga every day for the past several years as a method of self-reflection or in response to current events. He writes his short stories and poetry at his home in South Portland, Maine, which he shares with Patti, his wife of 50 years. "Backcourt Violation" is his first published work.

MY BODY DOESN’T BELONG TO ME

by Linda Laderman

The Alabama Supreme Court [pictured above in Night Country] has ruled that frozen embryos created and stored for in vitro fertilization (IVF) are children under a state law allowing parents to sue for wrongful death of their minor children… The 8-1 majority of the court found that it was a long-established precedent that "unborn children" are "children" for the purpose of the 1872 wrongful death law at issue in the case. It said that any doubt about that was removed by a 2018 amendment to the state's constitution, which declared that it was "the public policy of this state to recognize and support the sanctity of unborn life and the rights of unborn children." —Reuters, February 23, 2024

I tell my husband that my body doesn’t belong to me.
Does it belong to me then, he says. He thinks he’s hilarious,
 
a comedian. That’s what he calls me when I say something 
he finds absurd or annoying. So I say, are you a comedian?
 
Then he asks me to explain. If your body doesn’t belong 
to you, who does it belong to? All sorts of entities, I say.
 
He thinks I’m overreacting after we watched the episode 
of True Detective Night Country, where we (spoiler alert)
 
find out that the frozen male bodies were not murdered
by a demon, but by a group of indigenous women who
 
were rightly pissed that their friend Annie K was brutally
beaten to death after she discovered a truth hidden from her
 
by her lover. I say, good for those women. Those men deserved
to be put out in the cold  How many times have women put
 
their hands on truth’s hot stove, in spite of its capacity to burn,
and ended up paying for it with everything that meant anything?
 
I ask, did you read the ruling from Alabama’s Supreme Court?
and wave my phone with the breaking news in front of his face.
 
Look, I say, Alabama is the spawn of Dobbs. This is not an episode on HBO.
Well, he says, what are you going to do, throw a bunch of naked law-
 
makers into sub-zero temperatures and leave them to freeze to death?
Only if I have the means and opportunity, I say. You are a comedian, he says.

Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet. Her work can be found in many journals, including SWWIM, One Art, The Scapegoat Review, and Mom Egg Review. She is the 2023 recipient of Harbor Review Jewish Women’s Prize and was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

THE NEW USA

by Wendy Hoffman

The Supreme Court #2

voted 24 to 1

not to allow men to impregnate

female humans, plus to find guilty

all those who ‘aid and abet’ them

in this endeavor

such as florists, chocolatiers,

romantic restaurateurs,

violinists,

other musicians,

and makers

of 400 thread Egyptian cotton sheets.

Oh, and it ruled that only females may carry guns.

Wendy Hoffman has published three memoirs, The Enslaved Queen, White Witch in a Black Robe, and in 2020 A Brain of My Own.  The Enslaved Queen has been translated into German. Her book of poetry Forceps was also published along with a book of essays, From the Trenches, written with Alison Miller. Her most recent memoir After Amnesia is published on the SmartNews and Survivorship websites. It has been translated into German. What gives her life meaning is helping other surviving victims.

FOOTBALL GODS ABOUND

by Gary Lark

The Supreme Court said Monday that a Washington state school district violated the First Amendment rights of a high school football coach when he lost his job after praying at the 50-yard line after games. "The Constitution and the best of our traditions counsel mutual respect and tolerance, not censorship and suppression, for religious and nonreligious views alike," Justice Neil Gorsuch wrote in the majority opinion.

After the thunder and dash
we have the coach
and his batch of Evangelicals
kneeling at the fifty yard line.

The Wiccan folks are on one twenty
and Muslims on the other.

Down by the east goalposts
there's an Indigenous circle
seeking guidance with peyote.

Over to the west Jains
are trying to avoid the ants.

Sikhs and Jews are having a debate
about the shape of the field.

Eleven Buddhists are chanting
on the east thirty,
Hindus claim the west.

On the track three Mothers
Against Drunk Driving
have given up and are passing a bottle.

The Eckankar crowd are setting up
near the concession stand.

The Crips and the Bloods
are sharing a joint with Spinoza
in the bleachers.

There's a street preacher
practicing his quick draw
when the lights go out.


Gary Lark’s most recent collections are Easter Creek (Main Street Rag), Daybreak on the Water (Flowstone Press), and Ordinary Gravity (Airlie Press). His work has appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Catamaran, Rattle, Sky Island, and others.

U.S. SUPREME COURT PROTECTS GUNS

by Penelope Scambly Schott

Illustration by Elizabeth Brockway/The Daily Beast: “Inside the Celebrity Murder Behind the Gun Law SCOTUS Just Gutted,” June 23, 2022

“A State may not prevent law-abiding citizens from publicly carrying handguns because they have not demonstrated a special need for self-defense,” Justice Clarence Thomas wrote.

Through the arched cap

of my neighbor’s brick chimney

the sky so deep blue

and above his chimney

and all around town

while here in my garden        

yellow roses pink roses

and across the continent

over distant chimneys

under other skies

the noise of gunshots

the triumph of lies

Penelope Scambly Schott is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Her newest book is On Dufur Hill, poems about the cycle of the year in a small wheat-growing town.

HIS ABORTION POEM

by Dick Altman

Source: “Abortion” by John Bartlow Martin from the May 20, 1961, issue of the Saturday Evening Post.

he’s the golden boy

of parent/teacher/friend

the boy wanted on everyone’s side

the scholarship boy

the grad school boy

the golden boy

who in that familiar moment

of uncontrolled/youthful rapture

watches his golden prospects

for the future turn to dross

                      *

the Viet Nam draft

breathes down his neck

he still hasn’t found a job

(too educated, he’s told)

he’s not married

(though one day he will

marry the woman

he impregnated)

they are neither ready to marry

nor ready to have/support children

abortion is illegal

Roe vs. Wade is nowhere in sight

                       *

he reaches out to his composer father

who reaches out to friends

in the music business

an address and phone number

in Harlem surfaces

no names/no receipts

the golden boy borrows

from his father enough cash

to pay for a semester of college

the young couple agree

this is their only alternative

they discuss their mutual anxiety

she—they agree—must make

the decision

                         *

they never talk about what exactly

took place on the fourth floor

of the Harlem walk-up

she’s bleeding profusely by bed time—

in the emergency room by next morning

a spontaneous abortion the doctor calls it

knowing it wasn’t

whatever made the embryo abort

likely ended her/their prospects

of ever having children

Roe vs. Wade would not be decided

for another nine years

Politico’s revelation the Supreme Court

may overturn the decision

shatters him to tears

 

Dick Altman writes from New Mexico. His work has been widely published in the United States and beyond.

A SOLITARY MAN

by Mary K O'Melveny

For the past 27 years, Dennis Wayne Hope (above) has been in a Texas prison cell that is somewhere between the size of an elevator and a compact parking space. For one hour, seven days per week, or two hours, five days per week, he is let out to exercise—alone—in another small enclosure. The only people he comes into contact with are the guards who strip search and handcuff him. The last personal phone call he had was in 2013 when his mother died. More than a quarter-century in isolation has led him to hallucinations, chronic pain and thoughts of suicide. Solitary confinement is a sanitized term for torture. Mr. Hope, 53, whose plight was described by the New York Times, has petitioned the Supreme Court to hear his case on the grounds that his prolonged isolation is a violation of the Eighth Amendment’s bar against cruel and unusual punishment. Lower courts denied Mr. Hope’s petition and court observers are skeptical the Supreme Court will take up his case. So sure are Texas officials that the court, with its conservative majority, won’t agree to hear the case that they waived their right to respond to Mr. Hope’s petition for a writ of certiorari. —The Washington Post, February 16, 2022

For twenty-seven years,

I have not seen a bird’s shadow.

Nor felt a droplet of rain.

No one has touched me

save the guards who strip-search

me to take me to an indoor

cubicle for solitary weekly

exercise. They do hold my hands,

to fix them to steel handcuffs

required for our walks down

cement block hallways of a

Texas prison. In 2013, I received

my only telephone call.

My mother was dead.

 

Last month, my lawyers asked

the Supreme Court to weigh

the parameters of punishment,

to tell me if unusualness or

cruelty come to their minds

in circumstances such as mine.

Some say prison focuses one’s

viewpoint. If it tends toward

the myopic, there is good reason.

I would ask them to focus

their eyes on distant objects –

a task I can no longer perform

because my narrowed world

affords no view of light or distance.

A compact car would be too large

to park in my 6x9 foot cell.

 

Next, I would ask them to consider

how vocal cords can atrophy,

as muscle, ligament, mucosal

tissue diminish from lack of use.

I did not take a vow of silence

when I entered this place

but my voice has hollowed

as its volume faded and its pitch

turned to a thin reed-like whisper.

At first, I talked to myself. Even

sang. But soon enough, I was

not enough. Words failed me.

Now, my head aches constantly.

My heart pounds, my pulse races

as if I was running up a mountainside.

But all I do is sit on my metal slab

or stand and watch walls wave, shift

as though a fan was moving them

like air. Sometimes, demon spirits peek

through wearing pinpricks of light.

 

Some say if you do the crime,

you can’t complain about the time.

But duration and despair should not be one.

I do not sleep. I have no sense of space

or stage. My brain must work overtime

to construct reality from scant available

signals. I read about a 1950’s experiment

on rhesus macaque monkeys. After thirty

days of isolation, they turned away from

social interaction, became disconsolate.

Each day I remember less.    Less.

I hope the Justices will answer me

while I still know my name. While I can

still name most things I have lost.  

Mary K O'Melveny is a recently retired labor rights attorney who lives in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. Her most recent poetry collection is Dispatches From the Memory Care Museum, just out from Kelsay Books. Her first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press. Mary’s poetry collection Merging Star Hypotheses was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2020.

CONFIRMATION TIME

by Jane Patten

The process begins—

But confirmation

Will depend

Upon its closeness to the midterms 

Or what it costs to send

A moderate to the court,

Saturn lying opposite

The Sun or

The last of the Super Moon

Shining bright, 

Agreement from the Right

And well-laid plans

To obstruct and strike again.

After retiring and moving to Huntsville, Jane Patten decided to write about her adventures, including growing up in Delaware and her career as a teacher in rural Georgia. Her writings have been published in Out Loud HSV: A Year in Review anthologies, The New Verse News, Reckon Women, and Reckon Honey.

AFTER THE SUPREME COURT HEARS TESTIMONY ABOUT MISSISSIPPI’S LEGISLATION RESTRICTING A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO CHOOSE

by Katie Kemple

Cartoon by Walt Handelsman, The Advocate

I dream I’m in an auditorium about to see

a show. To the far left, in the dark, sits

Gloria Steinem, her signature straight

hair beneath the twin stems of her aviator

glasses, so calm and beautiful. Even the host

makes eyes at her, tries to grab her attention.

On stage, they roll out a gurney, the lower

half of a woman’s body. I can't see her face.

Others gather around—men from all over

the world, a type of ceremony. I find

my mother and sit behind her, slide

my arm through the space between chairs

to interlock fingers with her. I whisper:

"Gloria is here." But my mother has been

dead for seven years. I'm afraid of what

we're about to see. It's so dark. I can't see. 

Katie Kemple (she/her) writes to make sense of the world. Her work has appeared recently on Longleaf Review, Matter, and The West Review.

PENCIL

by Indran Amirthanayagam

for Sara Cahill Marron

There is a time to mourn and a time
to review the cards and cast them
again on the table trusting God
to guide your hand, to say this pencil
you left with roses, chrysanthemums,
lilies, in a riot of passionate flowers
before the Supreme Court, will be
picked up by a girl after the period
of mourning, not to be conserved
in the Smithsonian's Museum
of American History, but to write
the story of a young lawyer come
to Washington to interpret laws
with grace, acuity and impartiality,
to the best of her ability, until
such time as their articulation
becomes almost unnecessary,
so ingrained they would become
in the social conscience of
Americans walking then freely. 

Indran Amirthanayagam writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese and Haitian Creole. He has 19 poetry books, including The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, 2020) and Sur l'île nostalgique (L'Harmattan, 2020). In music, he recorded Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, is a columnist for Haiti en Marche, won the Paterson Prize, and is a 2020 Foundation for the Contemporary Arts fellow.

THE DEED IS DONE

by Marsha Owens

Cartoon by Michael de Adder @deAdder

            October 6, 2018
            lying Supreme Court Justice confirmed


I have no tears
maybe music for solace. . .
my cat sings soft melodies
moments click by on the clock
the wine cork pops
and I settle, watch

evening fold its cloak
around trees dropping leaves
the sun drops into its night
place beside those who can cry

and the anger, the anger
roils like hot oil

tap it down, tap it down!
stay calm! vote! be strong!

Being strong sucks . . .
We’ve been strong for centuries
We’ve marched for decades
We’ve kept silent because
            (“it’s a man’s world” my mother said)
We’ve raised daughters
We’ve raised sons
We’ve raised husbands
We’ve cried into pillows at night
We’ve put one foot in front of the other
We’ve organized
We’ve been in therapy
We’ve cashed inferior paychecks
We’ve walked in the dark with fear
We’ve birthed babies
hoping . . .

WE. ARE. TIRED.

My dear women friends . . . sleep.
Find peace and quiet.
It’s been a long day.



Marsha Owens writes to understand. Her poems and essays have appeared at The Literary Nest, TheNewVerse.News, The Huffington Post, thewildword, Rat’s Ass Review, Streetlight Magazine, the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, among others. She lives in Richmond, VA, not far from the peaceful Chesapeake Bay.

THE BAKER, THE CAKE, AND THE CLIENT

by Dorothy Baird

Image source: Bloomberg BusinessWeek

I bake cakes—
pound, fruit, layer, sheet—
for birthdays and tea breaks.
Wedding cakes, my greatest feat.

A merger of moist, delicate cake
with frostings and fillings of sweet.
Art and skill create a keepsake
with flowers and furbelows neat.

Oh! But wait!
two grooms will not eat my cake.
Neither a cupcake nor a pancake
will I make.

I have standards, you know.
My baking is conditional
on their being traditional,
then I’ll take their dough.

Dorothy Baird lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Her poetry has appeared on line and in print in TheNewVerse.News, Iodine, Kakalak, and other anthologies and journals, and in her book Indelible Ripples (Kelsey Books 2017).

IN OUR ETATS-UNIS

by Elizabeth Kerlikowske

the republic is kaput.
We have turned our dhabarkoodas
to the banderas which the Tribunal Supremo
says we can burn,
hoping four anos will pass by like manana.
We live in rebellion secreta.
Our menschen eat shakshuka
and after dinner, play mahjongg.
Only four years. There will still be
algebra, kayaks, canoes, haus katzen,
carne adobada and brassieres.
We are the homogenized parfaits
of years of einwanderung.
We have found chaque autre.

A retired professor of English at Kellogg Community College in Battle Creek, Elizabeth Kerlikowske served 25 years as president of Friends of Poetry in Kalamazoo.

4 70

by Akua Lezli Hope

In a case that has drawn comparisons to “Les Misérables,” the Supreme Court of Cassation [Italy] threw out the conviction of a homeless man from Ukraine, Roman Ostriakov, who was caught trying to take 4.07 euros — about $4.70 — worth of cheese and sausage from a store in Genoa without paying for it. A trial court sentenced him in February 2015 to six months in jail and a fine of €100. NY Times, May 3, 2016

Not since JeanValjean have we understood
so clearly the wages of steal or starve
damned for either for both for most
punished for manifesting the system’s failure
our e-screens endless disgorgement
of unattainable nutrition  satisfaction  satiation
bloats many, maims more with fatty malnutrition
but this isn’t that, it is about lack  lack  lack
of will to see all sated, to even the baseline
start us all level, fed, when there is food right before us,
or stashed and rotting in shipholds still
why many go hungry and this time there will
be no jail for the body’s keening, there will be no
incarceration for hunger, this time there will be no
ravening relentless pursuit by a mad cop
this time someone listened and injustice stopped

Akua Lezli Hope is a creator who uses sound, words, fiber, glass, and metal, to create poems, patterns, stories, music, ornaments, wearables, jewelry, adornments and peace whenever possible. A third generation Caribbean American, New Yorker and firstborn, she has won fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts,  Ragdale, Hurston Wright writers, and the National Endowment for The Arts.  She is a Cave Canem fellow. Her manuscript, Them Gone, won Red Paint Hill Publishing’s Editor’s Prize and will be published in 2016.

BEWARE HEIRS PRESUMPTUOUS

by Gil Hoy

The Supreme Court might be about to blow a hole in Obamacare large enough to fit nearly 10 million people, a new analysis shows. The high court is scheduled to hear arguments this March in a lawsuit claiming President Barack Obama's administration does not have the legal authority to give tax credit subsidies to millions of people who have insurance under the Affordable Care Act. The argument is over a small bit of wording in the law, which says subsidies can go to people buying insurance on state-run marketplaces, but not to people buying on federally run ones. Since the federal government operates the exchanges in two-thirds of the states, a ruling for the plaintiffs would gut the Affordable Care Act. --Jeffrey Young, Huff Post Politics, January 9, 2015


Beware heirs presumptuous
of Greeks, holding gavels, wearing
flowing black robes, potent
mutant seed of Solon, democracy
turned on its head,  sitting beneath
Corinthian marble columns
despising POTUS--Obamacare--
servants of the tyrant,
bearing gifts for Plutus.

There, I’ve said my piece.


Gil Hoy is a regular contributor to The New Verse News.  He is a Boston trial lawyer and studied poetry at Boston University, majoring in philosophy. Gil started writing his own poetry and fiction in February of last year.  Since then, his poems and fiction have been published in multiple journals, most recently in The Potomac, The Zodiac Review, Harbinger Asylum and Earl of Plaid Literary Journal.

TRICK OR TREAT

by Gil Hoy

Corporations are no longer
inanimate sterile things.

They’re now breathing fleshy
with blood money flowing
through wheels levers pistons
rhythmically turning
deep sea blue to ghoul red

anointing black robed
Victor Frankensteins
to keep Fiends well nourished
and magically cause Creatures
to rise from the dead
with their wild incantations.

While Monsters use up
all free speech that is uttered
mere mortals can't buy a word
just a consonant here and again
found in a graveyard.

Some Adams of Victor’s Labors
think (?) contraception
against religion (!), then
Wretches trump people (!?)
as The Modern Prometheus

dissects ghostly law
like a science school project
held together by webs
taken out by morticians
with the afternoon’s trash.

With all mad scientists
the Vile Insects may elect
the black sky’s the limitless.
In the meantime

have mercy
on the poor corporation
yellow lips watery eyes
shriveled face
resist the temptation
to be a bigot.

Gil Hoy studied poetry at Boston University, and started writing his own poetry in February of this year. Since then, Gil’s poems have been published in Soul Fountain, The New Verse News, The Story Teller Magazine, the Clark Street Review, Eye On Life Magazine, and Stepping Stones Magazine.

CIRCUS BUT NO BREAD

by Janice D. Soderling

Image source: Ann Telnaes Archive

WASHINGTON — The Supreme Court on Wednesday continued its abolition of limits on election spending, striking down a decades-old cap on the total amount any individual can contribute to federal candidates in a two-year election cycle. --NY Times, April 2, 2014


Democracy is not for you.

She's for those who can buy

her wholesale. You can kiss good-bye,

your obsolete world view

that politicians' pas de deux,

adagio, is danced for you.

Democracy!



For businesses are people too.

Like other folks they like to screw

around. Now lift your glass on high

and toast King Cash. Mud in your eye,

Democracy.


Janice D. Soderling is a previous contributor to The New Verse News. Recent and forthcoming work at The Rotary Dial, Rattle, Hobart, Blink|Ink, B O D Y, Shot Glass Journal et al.

THE STATE OF WISCONSIN

by Margaret Rozga





Capitol Police Captain Lonergan speaks into his shoulder.

 During a game when he speaks,
Packers’ Head Coach Mike McCarthy
props up his nose with a stiff sheet of paper.

Two stiff-eyed officers, watch the center, slow-walk
the circumference counter-clockwise.

Guards on the circumference of the perhaps
mine in the Penokee Hills scarf their faces.

Judge Conley finds sections of the permit requirement
unconstitutional in ways that raise “the question of whether
the rest of the Access Policy can be salvaged.”
Perhaps he thinks this clear.

They nod and cut a clear line toward the center.

The center of attention, Senate President
Mike Ellis screws up his face, busts a gavel.

We saw you, your face, your mouth moving.
We have clear evidence. You were singing.

No one saw the Governor pick up the phone.
Just imagine his face as he answers the prank call.

Justices of the Supreme Court hear arguments
and take them into their own hands.

Teachers take pay cuts.

He’s busted. He’s held in
a basement room, plastic cuffs cutting into
his wrists.

In the still green of the Penokee Hills,
the Ojibwe set up a harvest camp.

Packer backers, happy to have tickets,
paint their faces and chests green and gold.

Another $200 ticket.  What’s up, Captain
Lonergan? What do you call down there?
And who calls it in to you?


Margaret Rozga has published two books: Two Hundred Nights and One Day and Though I Haven’t Been to Baghdad. Her poems have appeared recently in The Kerf, Nimrod and as a Split This Rock Poem of the Week.  Her essay “Community Inclusive: A Poetics to Move Us Forward,” published in Verse Wisconsin, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Milwaukee and blogs about poetry and social justice.

PROTEST CONTEST

by The Bangkok Bards
Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote

 

Dizzy dysfunctional globe rotating counterclockwise

Unnatural disasters undermining climate change

Iffy topsy-turvy meteor illogical forecast

Gyroscopic spin out of control

 

Gay marriage scared straight mirage

Supreme Court deliberations wrongly rightist

Bribe & groom inequitable morals corruption

Legitimate answers out ovda question

 

Anti-social network disconnected jobless youth

Uncivil war wages out-profiting peace

Uncommon cause mass insanity slaughter

Mindfully hidden out of sight

 

Fracking has changed game-plan favoring

Wind generation solar sun power

Unnatural NRG policies oily motives

Running-on-running out of gas

 

Incorporated stealthy wealthy unlimited greed

Wall Street versus Main Street

Marching to different drummer percussion

Dissonant voices out of tune

 

Outlandish aliens second class non-citizens

Wheeler-dealer Americano roulette losing gambit

Lesser humanimals lowly snake eyes

Tarot misfortune out of luck

No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson and Mr. Saknarin Chinayote proudly present YouTube mini-movies @ YouTube – CharlesThai1 .