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.

ON THE DEATH OF A CEO

by Lori D’Angelo

We don't trade one life for another or

a thousand. With every loss, the universe

cries out and also keeps on. Nothing, not 

yet, stops it. So, yes, whether your mother

just found out she has cancer or your father

has just entered hospice, the clock still tick

tocks, minutes go by. Every year, around this

time, we watch Dickens' A Christmas Carol

and think, Ah yes, even a miser had a soul. 

But yet when a man whose company did 

some shitty shady things dies, don't join in

the chorus of he deserved it haters. It's not 

much different to do that than it is to weigh

worth by a claim denied algorithm. If you say

all of them, mean all of them, even the maybe 

he deserved it bastards. In earth, their bones, 

our bones, all rot the same. The minute you 

forget, you become what you thought you’d

never be: callous, jaded, alive but also dead. 

Instead,                                      mourn it all. 

Lori D'Angelo is a grant recipient from the Elizabeth George Foundation, a fellow at the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts, and an alumna of the Community of Writers. Her work has appeared in various literary journals including BULL, Gargoyle, Drunken Boat, Moon City Review, and Rejection Letters. Her first book, a collection called The Monsters Are Here, was recently published by ELJ Editions. 

AS I WATCH ROSALYNN CARTER’S TRIBUTE

by Barbara Eknoian

Why do tears keep falling from my eyes as I watch? They say Rosalynn stood by her husband for seventy-seven years, and that she cared deeply for the most vulnerable among us. Throughout my life, although I am a good person and wouldn’t harm anyone, I never did anything as inspiring as she did for others. When the choir sings “America the Beautiful,” I’m a young girl again at school singing. Why do I find this tribute so touching? The religious music playing is the old-fashioned kind, which I miss very much. Maybe, that’s why the tears flow easily while listening to all her good works. One of the speakers comments that Rosalyn would be pleased that First Ladies from both sides have come to honor her, including Biden, Obama, Bush, Clinton, and Trump, and everyone laughs. I feel like I’m at an inspiring church service, though I haven’t attended in years. I’m so glad I’m watching. Her husband Jimmy, left hospice at their home in Plains, Georgia, traveling l40 miles so as not to miss his wife’s tribute. He is wheeled into church. Their daughter, Amy, says, since her dad can’t speak, she’ll read a love letter he wrote to Rosalynn when he was in the Navy seventy-five years ago. I imagine him thinking this right now: 

Good-bye Darling, 

Until tomorrow 

                            Jimmy

Barbara Eknoian’s work has appeared in Chiron Review, Cadence Collective, Redshift, and Silver Birch Press's anthologies. Her recent collection of short stories Romance is Not Too Far From Here is published by Amazon. She lives in La Mirada, CA with her daughter, grandson, one cat, and a very mischievous kitten.

A BRIEF GEOGRAPHY OF GOODBYES

by Mary K O'Melveny

"Red Composition" by Jackson Pollock

Everyone who knows grief as it settles onto chests,

humid as a jungle, thick as fog on a heath,

understands that goodbyes can be a gift. A brief

cushion to ease the long emptiness ahead.

 

As I write this, my friend’s husband is dying

in hospice care in New York. He surrendered

after waging a fierce battle with leukemia that,

for a merciful time, he seemed to be winning.

 

Each arc of loss beams wider than celestial skies

on clear summer nights. His young grandchildren

gather at a grassy hospital garden to say goodbye.

Siblings fly from far-flung homes to do the same.

 

My sister and I stood at our mother’s bedside

watching lights on monitors fade and fizzle out.

Without evidence of audibility, we still sang to her,

believing emigration is aided by a sound track.

In Gaza, bereaved households are less blessed.

A fine whine of rockets the only warning before

a family’s cardamom tea and künefe splatters

like a Pollock canvas across living room walls.

 

In Delhi, breaths come to a close after failed searches

for oxygen – it seems there is no price that can be paid

for air though grieving loved ones would mortgage

their own lung capacities if currencies allowed.

 

In North Carolina, police kill a man as he tries

to drive away from death. His story forms a pattern

recurrent as an Escher etching. Each morning’s only

question – will this day mark memory’s final day.

 

COVID focused attention toward microscopic gestures –

the tensile strength of touch, the graceful creases

of a laugh line, the thrill of whispered thank yous.

Such gifts may allow us to survive our diminishments.

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.

CONTRABAND

by Gary Rainford

Winterberry  Heights

“Good morning from isolation,” an angel from Winterberry
Heights PMs the caption and a pic of Bobbi because memory
care is locked down; residents are not testing positive for

Covin-19, so they want to keep the curve flat. “Laughter
is the best medicine,” captions the next pic, a few days later,
Bobbi laughing, hugging herself. After forty five minutes

on hold with the CDC, a caffeinated operator reads the same
script I had already read from their website. Did I answer your
questions, sir? she asks. Nope, I reply. What do you mean,

sir? She sounds hurt and offended. I asked for guidelines
about compassionate care visits at assisted living facilities, but
you read a soap opera about how the blahblahblah spreads

and the importance of blahblahblahing in place, which to me
translates as, Go fuck yourself. “Your mother is just fine,” says
the latest caption from Bobbi’s quarantined studio while her

toothless smirk remembers the 1950s, polio pandemic: sore
throats, fevers, headaches, respiratory infections, beaked face    
masks, nausea, fatigue, and fear spreading like the virus.


Author's Note: Maine Governor Janet Mills, like many governors across the country this week, ordered Shelter-in-Place measures for all non-essential activities.  My mother Bobbi is under hospice care, receiving doses of morphine daily, and now she will likely die without me, her only local family, at her side.

Author of Salty Liquor and Liner Notes Gary Rainford lives year-round on Swan's Island, Maine, with his wife and daughter. Gary's third book in progress is a verse novel that tells the story of his mother's dementia and Alzheimer's disease.

WHELM

by Tricia Knoll

For the very first time, a Russian tanker has traversed the Northern Sea Route in winter without an icebreaker Getty via The Independent, March 1, 2018

The snake fell from a branch into his canoe
inside the open lid of a wicker picnic basket
of tuna sandwiches, potato chips, and pickles.
He skipped only three paddle strokes.

The police arrive en masse at the homeless shelter
to pick up a man with a false ID wanted
in four states for sex abuse and one officer
injects out-of-date Narcan into another man seen
dying of an overdose in the restroom. One life saved.

The electrician-son lives upstairs
in his mother’s house while she frets
over garlic mustard in her garden
and an infrequent overnight guest who gives her
homemade kimchi every Wednesday.

An old man wants to sing farewell to his wife
in a hospice room. She whispers behave yourself
over and over as he forgets the words
to the tune they used to dance to.

A woman named Hope excuses herself
by saying she told white lies for the President
as if whiteness makes her trumped-up story
less problematic than a black lie might be.

On You Tube puppies tumble, parrots dance, kittens pile up
in boxes, a calf falls in love with a blind bison, and a mini-pig
scratches his hindquarters on a table leg to collect millions
of hits and oh, did I ask what happened to Hope?

The extension of the Orca’s range into waters
where sea ice melts early? Red squirrels return
to the Scottish Highlands? Kids who go to school
demand changes in gun laws to keep them safe.

Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet who sifts through the vagaries of Facebook entries and news nearly every day. Her new book How I Learned to Be White will be available from Antrim House Press and Amazon by the end of this month.

READING RICHARD CURREY

by ayaz daryl nielsen





again, sleeping in a VW van
the back parking lot of
hospice's southern office
early morning, the
Trident Coffee House,
enough change for caffeine

at the discount table
reading Richard Currey's
'Crossing Over The Vietnam Stories'
memories of Jeff Beatty,
class clown '65, killed shortly
after enlisting, my reaction
long ago tempered by my
own draft notice. . . no extra
money for Currey's poetry,
even at this price, nor can I
find the stack it came from. . .
carefully balancing Currey's
poems across two other
stacks where a discount
book paramedic will find it

waiting quietly
   the empty coffee cup
      hangs from my finger

one drop, two, three
   a slow four, five
      finally, a sixth. . .

and where are
   the paramedics for
      discount warriors?


ayaz daryl nielsen, x-roughneck(as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/125+ issues). Homes for poems include Lilliput Review, SCIFAIKUEST, Shemom, Shamrock, Kind of a Hurricane and online at bear creek haiku.