BREATHING IN FLORIDA

by Mickey J. Corrigan

Fort Myers resident Wilson Cardenas tosses a cast net during sunset at Bunche Beach Preserve on Tuesday, June 30, 2020. Saharan dust is blanketing parts of U.S. including SWFL. Photo by Andrew West, The News-Press, July 1, 2020

The sky's a dirty white
Saharan dust brushing
through crusty air
pulsing in and out
bruised blue lungs
crablegs scuttling skin
burnt to the touch.

Weddings are off,
funerals are on again.

You breathe great again
on the sand, in bars, half-naked
bodies clumped around you
over cheap beers, laughs
strained burgundy faces
maskless, so careless.

Happy hour's brisk,
the ERs overcrowded.

Throw dust on the data,
another round to your health!
Joke about the washed out
camped in steamy hideouts
wringing scrubbed hands
germfree and chapped.

Red sunset fireworks
in a sky full of sand.

This is the kind of dirt
you throw at poetry too
making it shine darker
revealing bleak truths.


Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes Florida noir with a dark humor. Novels include  Project XX about a school shooting (Salt Publishing, UK, 2017) and What I Did for Love a spoof of Lolita (Bloodhound Books, 2019). Kelsay Books recently published the poetry chapbook the disappearing self. Grandma Moses Press will publish Florida Man later this year.

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.

DAYS I REMEMBER

by Tricia Knoll

Donald Trump with Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelenskiy at the UN on Wednesday. Democrats said the transcript of the pair’s call represented a ‘devastating’ betrayal of America. Photograph: Saul Loeb/AFP/Getty Images via The Guardian, Sept. 25, 2019

for the times they portend,
the times we were called to hold in memory.

My old-maid French teacher weeping silently
when the high school intercom announced
     President Kennedy is dead. The horse
     without a rider and the little boy’s salute.

During a beer strike in British Columbia, the radio
     told us Nixon resigned.

A hush in the Yale Law School dining room
    when TV announced we were bombing Cambodia.

Assassinations of Reverend Martin Luther King,
Robert Kennedy, the slaughter of so many innocents
   in so many places with weapons meant for war

The piece of the Berlin wall in my desk drawer.

Oh, our parents told stories of Pearl Harbor,
D-Day. Yes, a man landed on the moon.
Yes, we elected a President with a darker
skin color than mine.

Others do not come to mind right now.
Add your own.

Whatever happens next, skullduggery and lies
or the light of truth pushing aside the shadows,

the day impeachment opens into T***p’s world
of bigotry, aggrandizement, and hate

I’ll know this as the day I worked out back
yanking invasive buckthorn and honeysuckle

how hard I had to scrub to remove
the dirt from under my fingernails.

Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who fears the coming disasters of climate crisis as much as she deplores the political nightmare of the Trump era. Her work appears widely in journals and anthologies. Her most recent collection How I Learned To Be White received the 2018 Indie Book Award for motivational poetry.

THE TWO DONS

by David Spicer

Two vultures lurk on top of the tree,
both always wanting more, more,
slaves to their animal-egos’ greed,
each desiring money like a whore.
Don and Don, Jr. scowl, dark knights,
as if they despise the world they ravage,
father and son living to pick fights,
doing their best to act the savage.
Women? Just prized possessions
they might grab, fondle, and keep,
depending on their current obsessions
and whether they pounce after they leap.
Will Daddy devour Jr. under the bus?
More than likely, before he eats us.

David Spicer has had poems in Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Zombie Logic Review, Poppy Road Review, The Reed Magazine, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and four chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books.

THE SKY IS THE LIMIT

by Alejandro Escudé

“Russian Dirt on Clinton? ‘I Love It,’ Donald Trump Jr. Said,” —The New York Times, July 11, 2017

There is no way to confirm what we know.
A parade of Windsor knots. The meetings.
The taking and taking of meetings. In the East,
they say the West is “out here” when they’re
here. I travel the freeway under fiery skies
listening to the bare news sans the clothing
of images—unnecessary—as the haves take
more, history theirs, the colleges are theirs,
the homes, the beaches, the pearly oceans.
How do we unearth the hoard under the blip
on the metal detector? And how many cast
members! The lawyer, the singer, the orphans.
In the age of T***p, aren’t we all orphans?
Our ageless souls stripped from our organs.


Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

HOUSE CLEANING REQUIRED

by Howard Winn

They lifted up the corner of the Internet carpet
and exposed the filthiness and rat droppings
as well as ordinary dirt of life that is
part of the way in which some people live
and think and lie when truth and cleanliness
is uncomfortable for the mucky minds
who dream up the details of a life which
enriches them despite the facts of science
which gets in the way of what they want
to believe when that knowledge is inconvenient
as well as what they want the gullible to
think is the truth when it is really just a
pile of dirt mixed with mouse droppings.

Howard Winn's work has been published in Dalhousie Review, Galway Review, Descant. Antigonish Review, Southern Humanities Review, Chaffin Review, Evansville Review, and Blueline. His latest work is Acropolis, a novel published by Propertius Press. He is Professor of English at SUNY-Dutchess.

TENDING

by Jeremy Thelbert Bryant

BREAKING NEWS: The Army Corps of Engineers said that it would not approve permits for construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline beneath a dammed section of the Missouri River. —The New York Times, DEC. 4, 2016

A mother bird, in the tree my grandfather planted, drops food into babes’ beaks.
How long have mothers tended this world?
A police officer opens hose on a woman protesting pipeline. A piece of her rips away.
How long have women fought for earth and man?
The babes without knowing to be grateful, blindly eat.
Water washes away blood, but dirt and rocks remember.

Jeremy Thelbert Bryant is a poet and a writer of creative nonfiction who lives in Virginia. When he is not teaching English, he is burning incense, listening to music, drinking coffee, and writing. He finds inspiration in the red of cardinals, in the honesty of Frida Kahlo’s artwork, and in the frankness of Tori Amos’ lyrics.

ESCAPING THE DONALD

by Bruce Bennett

Image source: HenriCartoon

A day without The Donald
is something fine and free.
It’s like a paid vacation
to somewhere by the sea.

It’s like a walk in sunlight
on white and sparkling sand,
or skimming on the water
just out of sight of land –

But then, the spell is broken.
You hear that grating voice.
You see that smirking visage.
You haven’t any choice.

You’re back amidst the rubble.
The streets are garbage-strewn.
There’s shrieking from loud speakers.
You won’t be leaving soon.

With nerves all raw and fraying,
condemned to high alert,
you’re subject to The Donald,
neck-deep in muck and dirt!

Bruce Bennett is the author of ten books of poetry and more than two dozen poetry chapbooks, the most recent of which is The Donald Trump Of The Republic (FootHills Publishing, 2016), released at the end of May. Bennett is an Emeritus Professor at Wells College, where he taught English and Creative Writing and directed the Visiting Writers Series since 1973.

TEN LITTLE REPUBLICANS

by Daniel Galef

Caricatures by DonkeyHotey

Sep. 11, 2015

Seventeen Republicans:

What a sorry scene!

Funds dried up for one,

And then there were sixteen.

Sep. 21, 2015

Sixteen Republicans

Vying for King or Queen.

One was called by God to quit,

And then there were fifteen.

Nov. 17, 2015

Fifteen Republicans

On your TV screen.

One went out on a limb,

And then there were fourteen.

Dec. 21, 2015

Fourteen Republicans

Shelling out the green.

One fraternized with the enemy,

And then there were thirteen.

Dec. 29, 2015

Thirteen Republicans,

With too much dirt to delve.

One fell into Jeopardy,

And then there were twelve.

Feb. 1, 2016

Twelve Republicans

(Though I can’t remember seven).

One got out-FOXed,

And then there were eleven.

Feb. 3, 2016

Eleven Republicans,

Most old, most white, most men.

One got cut to pieces,

And then there were ten.

Feb. 3, 2016

Ten Republicans

Sat down to wine and dine.

One aborted his campaign,

And then there were nine.

Feb. 10, 2016

Nine Republicans,

Scrapping in debate.

One dropped out—got up—dropped out,

And then there were eight.

Feb. 10, 2016

Eight Republicans

In a hater’s heaven.

One took a bridge too far,

And then there were seven.

Feb. 12, 2016

Seven Republicans,

Nobody’s top picks.

One couldn’t score a score of votes,

And then there were six.

Feb. 20, 2016

Six Republicans,

Fighting for their lives.

One “left the island,”

And then there were five.

Mar. 4, 2016

Five Republicans

Where once stood a dozen more.

One couldn’t stay awake,

And then there were four.

Mar. 15, 2016

Four Republicans

(And none of them for me).

One ‘whiz kid’ whizzed away,

And then there were three.

May 3, 2016

Three Republicans:

So very, very few!

One got elbowed out,

And then there were two.

May 4, 2016

Two Republicans,

When the moderate finally left,

Leaving one Republican,

Of sanity bereft.

One Republican

Dragging us to Hell.

Just—

One “Republican.”

O, God.

Oh, well.

Daniel Galef has published poetry in Light Quarterly, Lighten Up Online, the Snakeskin Poetry Webzine, Child of Words, and Word Ways. He tweets sometimes, too, so would it kill you to follow him?