NOTHING

by Mickey J. Corrigan

“Russia is one of the hottest places in the world for investment,” Trump said in a 2007 deposition. “We will be in Moscow at some point,” he promised. 

—The Washington Post, June 17, 2016

The sky reddens, bleeding
on neon frosted sidewalks
my tuxedo shirt front
splattered. In the hole
I dig for myself
I lie
deep in the dirt.
So much good Russian dirt.

We don't rely on American banks. 
We have all the funding we need 
out of Russia.

I am emblazoned
in brass, glass, steel
towers that shower light
like diamonds in the darkness
above it all, I am
reflected
in the filthy snow.

Russians make up a pretty 
disproportionate cross-section 
of a lot of our assets.

Under long black shadows
of monuments erected
not by me but for men
like me, men
like fake gold, gilted
we lie
entombed
in castoff fame, no longer
arms for sale
to the highest despot
arms too short
to hang on to it all.
So much good Russian dirt.

We see a lot of money 
pouring in 
from Russia.

The nights ice over
awaiting the yellow dawn
to melt what's left, redden
flowers that burst above
the frozen mud
and my name, glittering
like a dirty coin in the sun.


Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes Florida noir with a dark humor. Her books have been released by publishers in the US, UK, Canada, and Australia.  Project XX, a satirical crime novel, was released in 2017 by Salt Publishing in the UK. What I Did for Love was released by Bloodhound Books in October.

IN THE LAND OF THE STUCK

by James M. Croteau

Poke London's website Global Rich List allows individuals to compare their wealth with the rest of world. Their hope is that seeing privilege will inspire those with wealth to share more of it.

I glance up to the fifty-inch screen, Brussels, the bombings,
pictures of three men with carts in the airport. While CNN
ticks ISIS #2 killed in U.S. operation, then Cruz blames Trump

for tabloid story. I can't tell what that’s about, Cruz's head is now
talking but the TV's muted for the theme to Dawson’s Creek. How American
this song, Dunkin' Donuts, me, my laptop screen split between Word and

Facebook, my table with coffee and muffin. There's a new post on
my home feed with a word too frequent among friends as I age:
metastasized, before I can think I click like. That's not right. No bombs

are bursting in my middle class air, and my news ticker's streaming that
my yard needs a mow, my dog's shots are now due, and in Track Changes
21 comments still need my attention. My life's full of small needs--this

I can see. The music seems mocking: I don’t want to wait for our lives
to be over. Am I waiting? I can see what I've got, there's a website
for that-- entered $60,000 a year, didn't add benefits or assets, and still

only one tenth of a percent of the world is wealthier than me. Then I pretend
my life as I know it will last, but twilight's last gleaming's becoming hard
to ignore. O'er my ramparts, I see folks missing-- mom, dad, a whole generation,

a cousin, three friends. My fingers password Caring Bridge faster than
Facebook. I sigh and glance down to my edits, my muffin, my coffee.


James M. Croteau lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan with his partner of 31 years, Darryl, and their two Labrador retrievers. Jim grew up gay and Catholic in the U.S. south in the 60’s and 70’s and his writing often reflects that experience. His poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Right Hand Pointing, Queer South: LGBTQ Writers on the American South and Assaracus: A Journal of Gay Poetry among others. His first chapbook will be published by Redbird Chapbooks in 2016.