MATTEO MESSINA DENARO’S GIORGIO ARMANI SUIT HOLDS A PRESS CONFERENCE

by Patricia Phillips-Batoma

Giuseppe di Matteo was kidnapped in 1993 in an attempt to blackmail his father into not giving evidence against the Mafia, Italian prosecutors said. The 12-year-old boy was held in captivity for two years before he was strangled and dissolved in acid. Matteo Messina Denaro, one of the mobsters who ordered little Giuseppe's kidnapping and murder, was finally caught yesterday in Palermo while he visited a private clinic for cancer treatment. —Mirror (UK), January 17, 2023

For Giuseppe di Matteo, who loved animals.

I stand before you today

single-breasted and slim cut

of jacquard silk-wool blend

with breast pocket for a pocket square

made with Italian love.

Gentle fingers

stitched together all the precision-cut

pieces of me into the kind of shape

that dreams someday it will grace

a UEFA champion at a red-carpet gala

or the jaunty gait of a screen star

collecting a prize.

 

Now imagine

our fate in the closet of U Siccu—Diabolik

—hoarder of Raybans and Rolexes,

my Armani brothers, my Versace cousins,

in bunkers during 30 years on the lam.

 

Scars are etched in every single place

he sweats acid of the same grade

used to melt bodies after torture

and strangulation. That is to say

those not simply blasted away.

 

Here on the threshold of his demise

I announce today my candidacy

to serve as outfit for the cremation.

 

After all, nobody wants to don me,

and I, uncomfortable now on any skin,

no longer abide the humiliation of covering up

a criminal body. The way he felt my buttons,

caressed my smooth weave, precludes

all pretense to future dignity.

 

But the worst was how he adjusted each sleeve,

likely how he strangled that pregnant woman,

 

with  just  one  tug. 

Patricia Phillips-Batoma is a writer and teacher who lives in Illinois. She has published poems in OffCourse, Plants & Poetry, Parentheses, Tuck Magazine, and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis.

I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE IDIOCRACY

by Mickey J. Corrigan

Sign at Women's March, January 21, 2017 via diggit

"God grant that men of principle be our principal men."

—Thomas Jefferson

Idiocracy is claiming you are the king
of reality, seeking only ratings
while the rest of us
let the show go on.

Idiocracy is becoming your own smoke-
filled room, your attraction
to wrong-doing unabated
as supporters compromise
integrity on demand.

Idiocracy is having thousands of points of entry
to you
through your businesses
and no one sticks a finger
in that holey dike.

Idiocracy is allowing a transactional businessman
to run the country like a mafia state
while the rest of us watch reruns
of The Sopranos.

Idiocracy is riding the rollercoaster
of presidential whims
ignoring the vast scope
of your childish unruliness.

Idiocracy is standing by
while you self-ignite
self-inflicted crises
daily, glorified
babysitters for the biggest
crybaby in the history
of our crumbling world.

We live in an idiocracy
our government run by loyalists
where narcissism and hegemony,
hateful groupthink,
one-size-fits-all cowardice,
dangerous stupidity
and the end of democracy
being neither
indictable crime nor
impeachable offense
are okay with us.

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. Kelsay Books is publishing the poetry chapbook the disappearing self in 2020. 

THE FALL

by Tatyana Muradov 

Stanislavski as the Knight in The Society of Art and Literature's 1888 production of Pushkin's The Miserly Knight.

Welcome to Russia circa 1991.  

Ask but do not answer. Survive.

Positions are fickle. Open lies. 

Wolf eyes. Uniform responses.  

Family fuck ups and generations of militants.

Socialist foxes sucking on the nothings of your neighbor.

Zone out. Fade out. 

Whatever. 

You only exist in the reflection of your money. 

Don’t give input, just spend,

Survive. 

Push past the thieves and the games.

Don’t switch sides, nothing will change. 

Sleep, bitch.

I come from a battered peoples

I may look white, but I am muddied grey

From centuries of waiting for a parent

To teach my people how to live.

How to take a land so spanning and reign it right

How to use the resource full and make it use full 

How to take the money out of politicians pockets and put it into schools.

My sixteen year old cousin doesn’t go to school

She skips class to post pictures of herself on Tumblr

She skips class because no one taught her not to

Because the chances of her getting into college

Ride on the bank account of her mother

And the ride is short

And admission is partial.

I do not know how to tell her to behave in a country that teaches her daily to do what’s easy

To try less.

To play dumb.

To leave it to those in charge. 

I do not know how to love a country that gets away with murder, daily.

I do not know how to love a jungle,

A country with no name, just letters

that get shifted with each new president

who promises my people rights

and shits on them more than the last.

I do not know how to love a coward,

A country that does not fight back

A country that jails Robin Hood and cheers for the Joker

A country that gives itself a bad rep

With people that make me look bad.

I am so sick of being related to 

The mafia

The winter cold

The bad guy in every fucking movie

The mail-order bride

The Stalin

The Putin

The protests

The Pussy Riot,

The misuse of the word babushka, which means grandmother, you fuckers 

The word sneaky

The word evil

The word corrupt

The word communist

The word red

The word hate

The word fear

I have been soiled with hate and fear for years.

I had to put five thousand miles between us to feel safe,

And I’m still scared. 

But I miss her,

And every time I go there, I feel her underneath my feet, weeping.

Laughter is universal.

So is pain and pride.

But somehow here, at home, everything is more alive.  

Even the cigarette buds and pollen that pollute this city

Layer by layer.

But next to the industrial remnants stands a tree more beautiful than your own mother

And you breathe a sigh of relief

And remember about hope                                                                                       

And what could be

If only they cared more.

If only you cared more.

Apprehension lingers on your spine                                                  

Like food stuck in your teeth

And Pushkin’s “Land of Moscow” comes to mind:

“And where the luxury was thriving,

In shady parks and gardens, in the past,

Where myrtle was fragrant, limes were shining,

There now are just coals, ash, and dust.”

He’s right, the scent of dust is overbearing but what about the rose haw and the conifers?

There are still things to fight for, 

Aren’t there? 

Tatyana Muradov was born in Moscow, Russia and raised in a small town in Texas. She moved to New York two years ago and since then, has been a part of the poetry scene there in the city performing for spoken word/slam teams such as LouderArts and Urbana.