LAMENT FOR 250

by Jon Wesick

after the Sumerian "Lament for Ur”

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

Gerald Ford forsook the bicentennial and a putrid wind haunts our hopes.

Abraham Lincoln forsook his top hat and a toxic wind haunts the 14^th Amendment.

FDR forsook the Resolute Desk and a loathsome wind haunts the New Deal.

JFK forsook Camelot and a foul wind haunts the Civil Rights Act.

Daniel Webster forsook oration and a scorching wind haunts the Senate.

Sam Rayburn forsook the rostrum and a blistering wind haunts the House.

John Lewis forsook the floor and a stale wind haunts the Black Caucus.

Clarence Darrow forsook the law and a sweltering wind haunts the courtroom.

Earl Warren forsook his gavel and a noxious wind haunts Miranda.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg forsook her robe and an intrusive wind haunts women’s bodies.

Mother Jones forsook picket lines and a desolate wind haunts the union hall.

Jonas Salk forsook his stethoscope and a pestilent wind haunts iron lungs.

Martin Luther King forsook the pulpit and a corrupt wind haunts the ballot box.

Rosa Parks forsook her bus seat and a lethal wind haunts the EEOC.

Edward R. Murrow forsook his microphone and infectious lies haunt the web.

Admiral Halsey forsook the Enterprise and a diseased wind haunts the Persian Gulf.

General Eisenhower forsook Normandy and a virulent wind haunts Afghanistan.

 

One

America, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Liberty Island, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Edmond Pettus Bridge, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Denali, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Grand Canyon, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Golden Gate Bridge, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Mount Rushmore, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Gateway Arch, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Hoover Dam, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Colonial Williamsburg, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Lincoln Memorial, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Liberty Bell, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Freedom Trail, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Yellowstone, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Alamo, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Gettysburg, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Pearl Harbor, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Space Needle, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Crater Lake, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Devil’s Tower, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Everglades, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

National Civil Rights Museum, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Sears Tower, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Vietnam Memorial, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

 

Two

The Statue of Liberty cried, “The tyranny that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The lies that came to be; their lamentation hang heavy on me. The corruption that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The theft that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The waste that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The stupidity that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The rancor that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me.

 

“Because of the bitterness in my land, I gave out leaflets that householders ignored. Because of the bitterness in my land, I attended protests that politicians ignored. Because of the bitterness in my land, I posting memes that web surfers ignored.”

 

Three

On that day tyranny gathered, when in the presence of Liberty her nation was doomed, when they pronounced utter defilement of the nation, when they directed its people be enslaved, she did not forsake her land. Truly, she shed tears. Truly, she made supplication.

 

She pled, “Bull Connor, spare our nation,” and Connor said no.

“Lester Maddox, spare our nation,” and Maddox said no.

“George Lincoln Rockwell, spare our nation,” and Rockwell said no.

“Roy Cohn, spare our nation,” and Cohn said no.

“Phyllis Schlalfly, spare our nation,” and Schlafly said no.

“Jerry Falwell, spare our nation,” and Falwell said no.

“George W. Bush, spare our nation,” and Bush said no.

“Steve Bannon, spare our nation,” and Bannon said no.

“Stephen Miller, spare our nation,” and Miller said no.

“Russell Vought, spare our nation,” and Vought said no.

“Speaker Johnson, spare our nation,” and Johnson said no.

“Justice Roberts, spare our nation,” and Roberts said no.

“CBS, spare our nation,” but they capitulated.

“Paul Weiss, spare our nation,” but they capitulated.

A&O Shearman, Cadwalader Wickersham & Taft, Kirkland & Ellis, 

Latham & Watkins, Milbank, Simpson Thacher & Bartlett, 

Skadden Arps, and Willkie Farr & Gallagher capitulated.

“DNC, spare our nation.” They asked for donations 

and brought up gun control.

 

because the billionaires had already decided. 

Elon had decided. Peter Thiel had decided. 

Marc Andreeson, Steve Schwarzman, Miriam Adelson, 

Diane Hendricks, Harold Hamm, Bernard Marcus, Bill Ackman, 

Ike Perlmutter, Steve Wynn, the Winklevoss twins,

and Linda McMahon had all decided.

 

Four

The tyrant started a war—the aware groan. He replaced experts with sycophants—the aware groan. He fired government watchdogs—the aware groan. He fired generals—the aware groan. He fired diplomats—the aware groan. He fired doctors—he aware groan. He closed laboratories—the aware groan. He pardoned rioters—the aware groan. He pardoned drug runners and crooks—the aware groan. He praised dictators—the aware groan. He coerced colleges—the aware groan. He deported Afghans to the Taliban—the aware groan. He sued newspapers—the aware groan. His portrait dominates the Justice Department—the aware groan. He launched retribution campaigns against seashells, senators, veterans, astronauts, FBI Directors and National Security Advisors—the aware groan. He arrested reporters—the aware groan. He tore down the East Wing—the aware groan. He took food from the poor and medicine from the AIDS patients to build monuments to himself—the aware groan. He sued his IRS and awarded himself $2 billion—the aware groan.

 

Five

The tyrant stole from the nation, its farms fallow, its lunchboxes shattered. The arsenal of democracy dwindles—the aware groan. Wind power abandoned—the aware groan. Temperatures and tempers soar - the aware groan. Measles, Ebola, and hantavirus lurk—the aware groan. Voting rights cancelled—the aware groan. Election districts gerrymandered—the aware groan. Troops intimidate cities—the aware groan. Masked agents invade courtrooms and hospitals—the aware groan. Protesters murdered—the aware groan. He imposed tariffs—the people groan. Tankers languish in the Persian Gulf—the people groan. Prices skyrocket—the people groan.

 

Six

The Statue of Liberty laments her defiled home while awaiting deportation. “The tyrant has indeed defiled my nation. He took a pickaxe to its reputation. The world no longer looks to America as a beacon, sends its students to China instead. The tyrant turned Canada against us. He turned Greenland against us. He betrayed plucky Ukraine. He turned Mexico against us. He turned Brazil against us. He turned Albania against us. He turned Belgium against us. He turned Bulgaria against us. He turned Croatia against us. He turned the Czech Republic against us. He turned Denmark against us. He turned Estonia against us. He turned Finland against us. He turned France against us. He turned Germany against us. He turned Greece against us. He turned Hungary against us. He turned Iceland against us. He turned Italy against us. He turned Latvia against us. He turned Lithuania against us. He turned Luxembourg against us. He turned Montenegro against us. He turned Netherlands against us. He turned North Macedonia against us. He turned Norway against us. He turned Poland against us. He turned Portugal against us. He turned Romania against us. He turned Slovakia against us. He turned Spain against us. He turned Sweden against us. He turned Turkey against us. He turned the UK against us. He turned Saudi Arabia against us. He turned Kuwait against us. He turned Qatar against us. He turned the UAE against us.

 

Seven

The Statue of Liberty swelters at Alligator Alcatraz. Liberty, how is your heart? Faithful woman, confined to a flooded tent, how is your heart? Righteous woman, whose torch was sold for scrap, how is your heart? Symbol of freedom, denied a lawyer, how is your heart? Bronze goddess, beset by mosquitos, how is your heart? Inspiration, forced to unclog toilets with bare hands, how is your heart? How long will your imprisonment last? How long will you drink tainted water, eat moldy bread? How long will they deny you a doctor?

 

Statue, return to Liberty Island. Doctors, return to your clinics Scientists return to your labs. Professors return to your lecture halls. Stephen Colbert return to Late Night. Anderson Cooper return 60 Minutes. May voters declare an end.

 

Eight

The tyrant, who knows no humility, no empathy, no curiosity, no compassion, with an inflated ego, an incessant craving for praise, a sense of entitlement, a thirst for power, who boasts, who belittles, who wipes his ass on the law, who was ordered by hate, may he swoop down on the nation no more.

 

Those, who know no humility, no empathy, no curiosity, no compassion, with inflated egos, incessant cravings for praise, a sense of entitlement, a thirst for power, who boast, who belittle, who wipe their asses on the law, who were ordered by hate, may they be shunned. 

 

Those, who know no humility, no empathy, no curiosity, no compassion, with inflated egos, incessant cravings for praise, a sense of entitlement, a thirst for power, who boast, who belittle, who wipe their asses on the law, who were ordered by hate, may they never recur.

 

Nine

Liberty, may your restored nation be resplendent. Like a bright heavenly star may it not be destroyed.

 

As supplicant, the poet offers this invocation to you. After absolving the nation of its errors, may your heart relent toward those who labor for freedom and justice.

 

May the hearts of your people who dwell in the nation be pure. Liberty, in your restored nation, may you be praised.

Hundreds of Jon Wesick’s poems and stories have appeared in journals such as the I-70 Review, The New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, and Unlikely Stories. He is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual and host of the Gelato East Fiction Open Mic as well as the NAV Arts poetry reading. His latest poetry collection is Rants of a Cranky Old Man. He lives in Manchester, New Hampshire and longs for gene editing to bring giant wombats back from extinction.

SHADES OF AI AND ALTRUISM

by Ashley Nicole Nootnagel

Technology Instagram

A California jury has tossed out Elon Musk's high-profile lawsuit against OpenAI and its boss Sam Altman. In a unanimous verdict, the jury agreed that Musk had waited too long to file his lawsuit, leaving all of his claims essentially expired. —BBC, May 19, 2026


The peerless archer stands in shaded wood
in Lincoln green beneath a feather cap.
We gather for a modern Robin Hood
who waits with patience for the gold to stack.

Full pockets split the seams of charity,
while our children’s pictures feed the machine.
Funded by his own foolishness. Pity.
Olive tights were traded for minted green.

Can three billionaires fit in one courtroom?
The ballad threads were never camouflage.
When all wear custom suits we can’t assume
which man is sheriff and which is outlaw.

Sherwood is lost in a shade of envy,
one model fits both men and company.


Ashley Nicole Nootnagel lives in Virginia and has a B.S. in Criminal Justice & Sociology from Old Dominion University. She works in human resources and is raising a daughter and two Australian Shepherds. 

MYTHOS AT COMMENCEMENT

by David Anson Lee

Eric Schmidt stood at the stage
like someone introducing age.
He praised A.I.’s unfolding reign.
The graduates booed him just the same.

“You are the future,” Schmidt proclaimed.
The students looked professionally ashamed.
“Machines will free you for new dreams!”
A voice cried out, “They killed internships.”

The billionaires call this “transition,”
their favorite synonym for incision.
At Citadel, whole teams were gone:
outperformed between dusk and dawn.

At Stanford now the freshmen pray
their essays still sound human-made.
The honor code grows frail and thin
when every prompt begins with Begin.

The parents clap. The provost beams.
The deans keep monetizing dreams.
Meanwhile Mythos scans the wire
like scripture crossed with hellfire.

It reads the grid for sport alone,
finds ancient flaws in backbone stone;
then Anthropic, careful, grave,
explains restriction keeps us safe.

Translation: banks and states may peek
while everyone refreshes LinkedIn weekly.
The students boo because they know
the future doesn’t need payroll.

And somewhere in refrigerated light
the servers bloom all through the night,
teaching silicon to replace
the species that designed its face.

David Anson Lee is a physician, philosopher, and poet from Texas whose work explores medicine, technology, public life, and cultural memory. His poems have appeared in journals including Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Braided Way.

THEY

by Jim Hanson

Cartoon by Ann Telnaes

They’re running it, ruining it
off the rails, in the ditch
sell the wreckage, get rich.

Truth killed, collateral causality
lies arise, as reality
deftly made, as cool aide.

Dollar inflated, debt escalated
hyper crypto, value to go
assets bereft, nothing left.

Empire today, for USA
Greenland now, Canada then
Ukraine to lose, Russia to win.

Love incarnate, just for the lust
Epstein teens, Trump playboy queens
sex for pay, with NDA.

Immigrants, detention camps
hit squads, brown shirts worn black
dream children here, sent back.

Justice ignored, polls soared
guilty of crime, no time
impeachment twice made, still stayed.

Troops march, mayors watch
cities, occupied
politics, on wrong side.

Money sought, elections bought
billionaires gave, taxes to waive
offices for sale, free from jail.

Republicans scared, of primary loss
all bow down, to the MAGA boss
funny money, from dark accounts.

Legacy seen, power absolute
pride resolute, for life to be
none than, the presidency.

Jim Hanson is a retired university researcher and sociologist who lives in the St. Louis area. He has published four poetry collections, also some thirty single poems, and is a member of the St. Louis Poetry Center and Illinois State Poetry Society Southern Chapter.

WO IST MUTTER

by Jon Wesick

In the final days of the Third Reich, Magda Goebbels poisoned her six children. The Goebbels family in 1942: (back row) Hildegard, Harald Quandt, Helga; (front row) Helmut, Hedwig, Magda, Heidrun, Joseph and Holdine.

 —Wikipedia

 

Two girls, blonde hair, blue ribbons, bare feet caked with dirt. 

Their nightgowns smell of diesel, breath tastes of bitter almond. 

“I want momma!” Little Heide says.

“She’ll put us back in that basement.” Helga drags her sister 

past masked men deporting former allies to the Taliban.

 

“Have you seen my Helga, meine Heide?” 

Magda staples a poster to an almond tree.

FBI agents in blue jackets don’t reply. 

Pink blossoms, serrated leaves, smell of diesel, taste of bitter almond

 

“I want cake. I want Blondi,” Heide says. “I want Hilde and Helmut 

and Holde and Hedda. I want to sing the Leader a song.”

Show trials, lawsuits, rubber stamps in judges’ robes, 

Pink blossoms, serrated leaves, smell of diesel, taste of bitter almond

 

After an anti-anti-fascist salute at the inauguration,

billionaires bankrupt the sick, starve the poor.

Magda joins the president in the Horst Wessel song.

Ay! von mir, Wehklagende, Wehklagende

Wehkalagende, in himmelblau 

Green fruit, pink blossoms, smell of diesel, taste of bitter almond

 

Tanks in D.C., Predator drones over Portland, Gaza on Beale Street, 

iron lungs, broken test tubes, enemies within,  

“Why is your neck bruised?” Heide asks. 

Serrated leaves, green fruit, smell of diesel, taste of bitter almond

 

Partisans burn their rifles, mail excuses with requests for donations. 

“Hush, children.” Magda feeds her daughters poppies and marzipan.

Pink blossoms, serrated leaves, smell of diesel, taste of bitter almond

Hundreds of Jon Wesick's poems and stories have appeared in journals such as the I-70 Review, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, and Unlikely Stories. He is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual and host of the Gelato East Fiction Open Mic. His latest book, Reductio Ad Absurdum, is a collection of parodies. He lives in Manchester, New Hampshire and longs for gene editing to bring giant wombats back from extinction.

ONE BIG BEAUTIFUL BANK JOB

by Raymond Nat Turner

Humor Outcasts Cartoon, May 25, 2025, Written by: Paul Lander; Artist: Dan McConnell

Masked. Armed to the teeth. Synchronized
Rolexes. They left Lamborghini and Maserati
Motors purring… softly in the shadows on 
Capitalist Hill

And then—suddenly—in sonic boom unison they
Shouted at The People:
UP AGAINST THE WALL—MUTHAFUKKKAS!
GET ‘EM UP!         THIS IS A FUCKIN STICKUP!

Yo, fatso! Yeah, you. Waddle your way over to Senator
Sadist. You, on the crutches; swing over to Congressman
Cruel. Move it! Don’t make me bust a cap in your poor
Ol’ tired cripple ass! Did it in Afghanistan. Did it in Iraq.

Outta that wheelchair and on the floor, Pops! 
And, while you’re at it, gimme me those teeth.
Move it! Quick, fork over the hospice money.
Chop-chop, drop life expectancies in Golden Dome!

Hey, Bag Lady, drop those damn vouchers in the 
Billionaire bag over there! Yo, Sambo! Down on the
Ground! Keep your fuckin mouth shut and no one will get
Hurt … Well, at least until …  after we make our get away

Hey, Granny, gimme those meds! 
Hand over the Medicaid, ol’ maid.
Listen up, kids! Drop those school lunches in the
Billionaire bag. Yo, Teach, handover Head Start!

OK—simple-minded sukkkas—quick, up on your feet!
We’re breaking you for the billionaires; and Boss Tweet—
Robbing and plundering you, for the Murderous 1% Mob
Pulling off—yet another—One Big Beautiful Bank Job!

Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.

LUNCHTIME FOR BILLIONAIRES

by Karen Warinsky

AI-generated graphic created by Nightcafé for The New Verse News.

President Trump is rolling back anticorruption efforts and ethical standards for himself and allies like Elon Musk. —The New York Times, February 12, 2025

 
The millennial check-out clerk
holds my 50 toward the florescent light,
squints hard to find a fake
which is harder by the day 
with so much fakery about,
and I wonder
who will exchange those phony notes
along with those played for the crowd 
at rallies and events?
 
Who will teach the young
the dimensions of truth;
how large, how important it really is,
how to hold assertions to the light,
see if they are real?
 
Hot with anger I ponder
what will be left after
the stuffing’s been kicked
the juice squeezed 
as billionaires slice us thin
try to make grinders
of us all,
garnished with dollar bills.
 
Will they realize in time
that people are worth more 
than money,
and will we do whatever it takes
to keep from being
eaten alive?

AI-generated graphic created by Nightcafé for The New Verse News.

Karen Warinsky is a former finalist of the Montreal International Poetry Contest and a 2023 Best of the Net Nominee. She is widely published in anthologies, journals and E-zines. Her books are Gold in Autumn (2020), Sunrise Ruby, (2022) (both from Human Error Publishing), and Dining with War (2023, Alien Buddha Press). Warinsky coordinates poetry readings under the name Poets at Large in CT and MA.

SHORT DIVISION

by Diana Morley

Must cut says the prez-elect

in one of his cozy countless buildings

 

slipping in partners in crime

all the slime that’s fit to fill the void

the bigger the fire the better, he says,

to raise foes’ arm hair along with their hackles

to bring the thrill of campfire tales

all love to chill by, hoping they’re not real.

The public mass, like plants and wildlife,

work daily, yearly, season by season

knowing dawn’s the time to rise 

for the sun to warm, to turn us all toward others—

by nightfall there’s still the rent to pay

and a plugged-in quilt at bedtime

a kitchen cold as an unplayed banjo.

Diana Morley publishes poetry online and in journals. She published Spreading Like Water (2019), a chapbook; Splashing (2020), a poetry collection; and Oregon’s Almeda Fire: From loss to renewal (2021), a documentary of photos and poems.

WHAT MONEY CAN BUY

by George Salamon

US billionaires' demand for 'golden passport' schemes that sell citizenships to 'safe' countries for up to $6.5m including New Zealand and Portugal rockets by 337% in three years as fears of civil unrest spike. —Mail Online, May 7, 2022

Good riddance, and safe trip,

but before abandoning our ship,

make them sign a promissory note

forbidding return to their original boat.

George Salamon looks forward to the inevitable movie version, "Ship of Wealthy Fools," starring celebrities who appear in ads for beachwear.

UP UP AND AWAY

by  Judy Juanita

Billionaires space race published July 12, 2021 by Dave Whamond.

Billionaires millionaires the amerikkkan dream

Up, up and away onto the edge of space

Horatio Alger wins again

Rags-to-riches

Poor boy sandwiches

Raggedy Ann dolls

Immigrants in shacks 

Children in cages

We love it all, eh?

Up, up and away

The bigger the better

The farther from the crime scene 

The better. And the edge of space is

The Mall of America.

Opportunity our national anthem

Except except Tulsa in 1920-when? 1921

Black people black dynasties

Black millionaires buying and flying

Their own airplanes

Black businesses black prosperity

And we prostrate ourselves

For a black face on the $20 bill

   Eh?

Ask the black Okies

About the grand downtown they built

Especially for the bombs

Dropped especially on Tulsa

Listen to the sound of bombs

The bombs bursting in air

That Francis Scott Keys conjured

Ask the black Oakies

Then forward to Philly in 1990-what? 

1990-when? 1990-why?

Because a black mayor dropped bombs

On wild haired Ramona Africa 

An American millionaire, no?

Rags to riches, no?

Horatio Alger, no?

MOVE the antithesis of progress

Cleanliness

We, the clean, deodorant-rich country

Watching  televised spectacles 

Little blue-and-white suited people

Blast past the boundary of space as

The richest man in the world

Thanks his wage slaves and customers

For paying for it all

And all is forgiven because why? Because

When the land ran into the Pacific Ocean

Manifest destiny shot into space

Judy Juanita's latest book is Manhattan My Ass, You’re In Oakland,  a collection of poetry. Her semi-autobiographical novel Virgin Soul chronicled a black female coming of age in the 60s who joins the Black Panther Party. Her collection of essays DeFacto Feminism: Essays Straight Outta Oakland examines the intersectionality of race, gender, politics, economics and spirituality as experienced by a black activist and self-described "feminist foot soldier." The collection was a distinguished finalist in Ohio State University's 2016 Non/Fiction Collection Prize. Her seventeenth play, “Theodicy,” about two black men who accidentally fall into the river of death, won first runner-up of 186 plays in the Eileen Heckart 2008 Senior Drama Competition at Ohio State University.

SPACE-TIME DESIRE

by Art Goodtimes

Tweeted by @SciencepornPics

More than the spark

of the 4th’s faux bombardments

 

it’s the dark

with its slow burn

of thousands of nuclear fires

 

that makes me appreciate

the exploding population of stars

that we imitate

 

That all nature mimics

 

This space-time desire

to expand beyond all limits

 

That colors our lives

vermillion and gold

and speeds our demise

as a billionaire species

 

Beautiful

Deadly

Perplexing

 

Art Goodtimes was an Earth First! poetry editor before getting elected to five terms as a Green county commissioner in Southwestern Colorado, where U.S. Rep. Lauren Boebert (R-Rifle) now represents the Third Congressional district in Congress. Art is co-director of Talking Gourds, a local and regional poetry program under the non-profit aegis of the Telluride Institute.

PONDERING SPACE TRAVEL 2021

by Mary K O’Melveny

Jeff Bezos will soon soar out to deep space.

Someone with thirty million to spare

will join him in that endless place

we all struggle to comprehend, stare

at as if we could know it, trace

its contours, fix its borders. Where

does it end, this endless cash some chase?

 

As workers sweat and toil in nightmare

warehouses, such wealth will outpace

most whose dreams must rest elsewhere,

whose week’s small paycheck is embraced,

then quickly dispersed. Some might declare

the super-rich have every right to showcase

their successes. Others will despair

our grave inequities—just in case

one missed them—say it is quite unfair

to celebrate when most of the human race

struggles, starves, resides in threadbare

dwellings with no breathing space,

much less leisure time or medical care.

 

For most, three jobs won’t outpace

the bills. Yet, our daily news fare

carries front page tales without a trace

of irony about travels of billionaires,

as if their exploits might displace

raw fears, needs, demands, the wear

and tear of days grounded in place.

 

Still, our imaginations can take us there

even without cash for shuttle fares to space.

We can visit vast black holes that appear

to consume all light, marvel at defaced

meteorites, search long dead stars where

memories lie fallow waiting to be traced.

We can follow spurts of sunspots, the flare

of celestial meteor showers. There’s grace

in that truth. Almost like an answered prayer.

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 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.

GODZILLA VS KONG

by George Salamon


Former New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg on Friday officially filed as a candidate for the Alabama Democratic presidential primary … Bloomberg could jolt the Democratic primary race with his late entry and a personal war chest estimated at more than $50 billion.” The Hill, November 8, 2019

If two money monsters will fight
For the nation's greatest might
Yankee Doodle Dandy  has put
A feather of another color in his cap,
The one flying for democracy will
Have given way to one celebrating
The piracy of buying and selling,
Making business the only business
Of our fading political institutions.


George Salamon lives and writes in St. Louis, MO and has most recently contributed to The Asses of Parnassus, One Sentence Poems, Dissident Voice and TheNewVerse.News.