MAGA SAGA... OR PROJECT 2025 CONTRIVED

by Gilbert Allen

Cartoon by Pat Bagley, The Salt Lake Tribune, UT

Fear queers.

Ban trans.

Hire liars.

Bring on Elon!

Pardon felons.

ICE raids

housemaids

nurse aides.

Prez sez

"I buy

Gaza Plaza!

Bombshell hotel!

Max tax

Canuck crooks!

Vex Mex!

They pay

duty booty!

Hate great!

True Blue?
Screw you.

Gilbert Allen has tried to live True Blue in Travelers Rest, South Carolina, since 1977. For more information about him and his work, check out the interview here.

MARCH OF THE POSTER BOYS

by Scott LaMascus

for Robin Davis

He Took His 68-Year-Old Secret to Court and Finally Confronted His Ghost: Robin Davis (above) spent a long career in finance and philanthropy haunted by what had happened to him as a boy. Could an unusual trial on Long Island help him find peace? —Michael Wilson, The New York Times, August 5, 2024

The poster boys for this malady 
each stare into their mirrors hoping to see the ghost
they would be able to fight now
their feet are no longer frozen to the spots

of their only crimes — the car ride with a coach, 
an after-school job, a church’s back room. 
They gather now in a spectral locker room of boys
chosen by chance and dark intention, charged 

and armor-plated by twenty, thirty, sixty years
of silent shame driving them to something else.
However much success they find, the juries snicker
and some doze, nodding away at lack of blood

and gore, for they cannot see the fright of spirits
gathered on each side of the glass, a throng of 
poster boys facing ghosts who picked them out 
of the schoolyards of time. No justice can redress 

the fraids on either side of the mirror, peering 
in with one hand on gavel and one on a scale, 
sometimes seeing the wispy victims, sometimes not,
I suspect. All velocity has settled now into sleep.

The pardon Robin seeks is in that mirror, too,
as he speaks before the harsher judge and jury all in one,
a lone poster boy standing again before his ghost
testifying now into the wisp of time he cannot unimagine.

Author’s Note:  This poem puts Davis (and me) into the company of a myriad of ghostly perpetrators and ghostly victims. A “fraid” is the technical name for a gathering of spirits, in this poem’s vision a two-sided confrontation of ghosts of perpetrators and of survivors. The poem also turns on found language from the Michael Wilson article including the three F’s (fight or flight or freeze) quoted by Wilson from the courtroom testimony of the psychologist, Valentina Stoycheva.

Scott LaMascus is a writer and public-humanities advocate living in Oklahoma City. His recent work may be found in World Literature Today, The Writer’s Chronicle, Bracken, Red Door, and Epiphany.

CONVICTION IN XXXIV MOVEMENTS

by Erin Murphy

Altoona, Pennsylvania—May 30, 2024

 

I.

We are sitting in a tavern by the railroad tracks when the verdict is announced.

 

II.

A wave of gasps ushers in a hush as patrons scurry to check their cellphones.

 

III.

Like when a hawk swoops through a copse of trees and all breeds of birds chirp warnings, then fall silent.

 

IV.

Overheard: I’ll bet all the jurors were Democrats.

 

V.

In our town, 2020 election signs are still staked in lawns like tombstones.

 

VI.

When we moved here, people asked Whose house did you buy? Surely they knew the previous owners, went to church with their parents, played football with their brother or cousin.

 

VII.

Overheard: Hot damn! He’ll raise even more money now!

 

VIII.

Here, even the rain moves slowly. Some days it’s pouring in our front yard and dry in the back.

 

IX.

A few evenings ago, two women with clipboards came door-to-door encouraging registered Republicans to vote. Wrong house, I said and urged them to Take the rest of the night off—better yet, the rest of the year.

 

X.

Overheard: He can just pardon himself.

 

XI.

Overheard: I don’t think he can pardon himself for a state crime.

 

XII.

Overheard: When he’s re-elected, he’ll change the law so he can pardon anyone he wants.

 

XIII.

Spitting distance from this bar in 1855, the first spark of the Civil War when two men leapt from a moving train: runaway slave Jacob Green and slavecatcher James Parsons.

 

XIV.

Overheard: He’ll send ’em all back to where they came from.

 

XV.

Overheard: Do not pass go, do not collect $200!

 

XVI.

Overheard: More like $200 million—that’s how much they’re stealing from us.

 

XVII.

Overheard: laughter.

 

XVIII.

Townsfolk confronted Parsons, demanding he prove Green wasn’t a free black, and in the scuffle, Green was able to flee. Parsons was charged with kidnapping, infuriating the South.

 

XIX.

Mason Dixon Line.

 

XX.

Blood line.

 

XXI.

Toe the line.

 

XXII.

Cross the line.

 

XXIII.

Line one’s pockets.

 

XXIV.

Bottom line.

 

XXV.

Flatline.

 

XXVI.

New York Herald headline, Jan. 31, 1856: “Threatened Civil War Between Virginia and Pennsylvania.”

 

XXVII.

From the Herald article: The common courtesies of life, good-neighborhood…should have been sufficient to induce the State of Pennsylvania to aid the people of Virginia to enforce the rights of her citizens to such property.

 

XXVIII.

Earlier this spring, a local middle school cut “Lift Every Voice and Sing” from its choral program after parents complained that the song was “divisive.”

 

XXIX.

Let our rejoicing rise/

 

XXX.

High as the list’ning skies

 

XXXI.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us/

 

XXXII.

Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us

 

XXXIII.

Overheard: That judge better have a good bodyguard.

 

XXXIV.

And yet. Last month we landed in L.A. during the solar eclipse. Under the baggage claim atrium, I pulled out the sleeve of eclipse glasses I’d packed just in case. I looked up. There it was: what Wordsworth called something night and day between. Is there a word for the urge I felt to share it with all my fellow travelers? As weary passengers came down the escalator, I offered them glasses, summoning the word sun in every language I knew: sol, soleil, sonne. Some hung back skeptically as others eagerly pressed the dark lenses to their eyes. Flight attendants and pilots from Russia, Korea, Poland, Japan, Tahiti. A man with a handmade ukulele. A maintenance worker with a walkie-talkie. Parents, children, young adults who ran to retrieve their grandparents in wheelchairs. Tio, you have to see this! one teen told her uncle. A boy said Mommy, Mommy—the moon is like Pac-Man taking a bite out of the sun! Even a few skeptical passengers shyly came around. So many ohhhhs. So many smiles. So many faces tilted toward the same sky.

Erin Murphy’s latest book of poetry, Fluent in Blue, was published by Grayson Books in April 2024. She is professor of English at Penn State Altoona and serves as Poetry Editor of The Summerset Review. 

HUMANITARIAN PAUSE

by Matthew Murrey

“Two Turkeys ‘Liberty’ and ‘Bell’ Pardoned by Biden” —VOA, November 20, 2023

For Thanksgiving week, forty-six million, 

while the sweep of a year will reap 

over four times as many, but not these two. 
 
They won the lottery of born 
right time, right place: were given room 

to roam, good food, and the light of the sun.

 
Their beaks and toes weren’t scissored, clipped; 
they weren’t warehoused for a life of stink and filth.
They are the inverse of scapegoats: suffer liberty 
and tender, attentive care to cover for the rest—
multitudes hoisted and hacked, gutted and wrapped. 
 
Thankful at the table, see and smell the golden, 
roasted bird—headless, plucked, and stuffed—
and give thanks for the generous spread of luck:
you here, and not there. Surely that rings a bell.

 
Matthew Murrey is the author of the poetry collection Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019). He's published widely, most recently in The Dodge, Bear Review, and Redheaded Stepchild. He was a public school librarian for 21 years, and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Instagram, Twitter/X and Bluesky under the handle @mytwords.

TO BE A WITCH IN SCOTLAND

by Lynn White

From allegations of cursing the king’s ships, to shape-shifting into animals and birds, or dancing with the devil, a satanic panic in early modern Scotland meant that thousands of women were accused of witchcraft in the 16th-18th centuries with many executed. Now, three centuries after the Witchcraft Act was repealed, campaigners are on course to win pardons and official apologies for the estimated 3,837 people–84% of whom were women–tried as witches, of which two-thirds were executed and burned. After a two-year campaign by the Witches of Scotland group, a member’s bill in the Scottish parliament has secured the support of Nicola Sturgeon’s administration to clear the names of those accused, the Sunday Times reported. The move follows a precedent by the Massachusetts House of Representatives in the US that proclaimed victims of the Salem witch trials innocent in 2001. —The Guardian, December 19, 2021

Scotland was not the place to be a witch,

it really wasn’t.

There were more than four thousand witch trials

in Scotland

putting Salem to shame,

the Witch-Finders boasted.

One would suppose that 

wise women did not become witches,

but it seems,

many did

and paid a hot and heavy price.

So not many would be dancing,

even at Christmas,

even in spirit 

few would rise

for the occasion

only the bravest

would celebrate.

But this Christmas in Scotland

there is something more

a vindication,

a recognition of innocence

that does not require bravery to celebrate.

Even though it’s three hundred years late.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

A LA MAISON DE TOLERANCE

by Bruce Robinson

with apologies, and homage, to Sandra Boynton  

". . . as the question of how to re-create humanity becomes a live question." —Hans Keilson, 1944 Diary (Damion Searls, Translator)

". . . they mistook his lies for truth, and his hysteria for sincerity." —Vasily Grossman, Stalingrad (Robert Chandler and Elizabeth Chandler, Translators)


One despot, enthralled by thrones,
calls two despots with his gilded phone,
Three despots, reigns insecure,
bring along another four;    
Five despots become distressed
when six despots decline to invest;
Seven despots who have gotten the sack
join eight despots and sneak in the back.
Nine despots have no need to work:
they do what despots do, they skulk for perks.

All through the despot night
despots pardon with great delight
and despot forty-five decides
to stop just shy of infanticide.  

Nine despots, it’s a beast,
join eight despots glancing east
while seven despots look to infest
at least six children quite distressed
and five despots then decamp
with four despots for summer camp.
Three despots go awry
alas, two despots don’t know why:
One despot, his throne uncertain,
dismisses the prior forty-four . . ..
Curtain.


Bruce Robinson appears or is forthcoming in Mobius, Pangyrus, Spectrum, Common Ground, The Maynard, and Connecticut Poetry Review.

OUR DULY ERECTED PRESIDENT

by Edmund Conti

“Every time I issue a pardon
I get an executive hard-on.”


Edmund Conti writes straight-up poetry.

RUDY! RUDY! RUDY!

by Darrell Petska

Caricature by Josh Ferrin

Hey, He could've shot james comey
and not been prosecuted:
He's the President.
He can say what He wants,
do what He wants:
more power to Him!
He can sleep with your lover if He wants,
steal babies from their mothers,
hell, He can rob an armored bank car
for all I care, and not be prosecuted
while He's the President.
He can pardon chuckie manson,
lee harvey oswald, the golden state
serial killer—whomever He damned well pleases:
He's the President.
He can put jeffy sessions out of his misery.
I mean permanently.
That turncoat trey gowdy, too.
He can cop a feel on sarah what's-her-face
sanders and what could she possibly do?
He's the President.
Just try to indict Him. He'll pardon Himself.
Besides, He can't be guilty of collusion or obstruction
when recollections keep changing.
What are facts, anyway? After three days
they begin to smell.
Allow me, your beloved prince of new york,
to spare you that terrible stench
by uttering the stupidest things—
just as He hired me to do.
(Praise god! I'm relevant again.)
I represent the President,
the One, the Anointed, the Boss,
so take it from me:
you'd better toe the line, amigos,
or He'll strip you of the rest of your rights,
and there'll be nothing you can do about it
while He's the President.
Capiche?


Darrell Petska often doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry at the news. So he tries to laugh.

THE LAWMAN

by Alejandro Escudé

Caricature of former Arizona Sheriff Joe Arpaio by Lem Luminarias.

Arpaio sees a cage before the soul
of any brown-skinned man—

There is a god in every racist being,
chimeric fool, derogatory chant.

Arpaio sees a cage before the soul
of any brown-skinned man—

The mind molds prisoners, releases them as well,
fright detracts the willing and the fair.

Arpaio sees a cage before the soul
of any brown-skinned man—

The foreigner beneath a tarp of fear hides
from the sheriff hunting desolate lands.

Arpaio sees a cage before the soul
of any brown-skinned man—

More fascist general than lawman, stink
of Southwest sweat, sunglasses large and dim.

Arpaio sees a cage before the soul
of any brown-skinned man—

I spot the van along the American road,
a hot, disgruntled breeze, no court, and dry as death.

Arpaio sees a cage before the soul
of any brown-skinned man—

I speak, when helpless, in swallowed knives.
Nowhere to run from the people’s armored beast.

Arpaio sees a cage before the soul
of any brown-skinned man.


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.

THINGS TO DO WHEN YOU'RE IN CHARGE DURING A FLOOD

by Diane Elayne Dees

Eat birthday cake in the Arizona desert.
If, however, you’re not invited to the party
like the other guy was, don’t despair:
Arizona still needs you, though it’s as dry
as a page torn from the Constitution.
There is work to be done in the West,
though relentless rain assaults Houston,
and parts of Texas look like a war zone.

You could briefly fly over and have an aide
explain to you what’s going on; it took only
moments to fly clueless over Louisiana.
After that, you’re free to leave what looks
like the end of the world in the hands
of the callous and incompetent.
Heck of a job.

But you like to do things your own way,
to break the rules because you can.

You could ride out the storm at Mar-a-Lago
while Texans sleep on the floors of shelters,
avoid the bunker while they wade through
flooded highways. Or you could gather
the press to remind them that Texas
gave you its electoral votes, and the streets
were mobbed for your inauguration.
And you could assure Texans, as they search
for gas, water, food, their furniture, their pets,
their sanity—that everything will be fine
because there soon will be a wall.

Diane Elayne Dees's poems have been published in many journals and anthologies, including Hurricane Blues: Poems about Katrina and Rita. Diane, who lives in Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that covers women's professional tennis throughout the world.

TURING

by Richard O'Connell

Queen Elizabeth II granted a rare "mercy pardon" Monday to Alan Turing, the computing and mathematics pioneer whose chemical castration for being gay drove him to suicide almost 60 years ago. --NBC News, December 24, 2013

Breaking the Enigma code seemed simple stuff

compared to interrogation by police

of whether he was loyal or masculine enough,

desperate for details of illicit loves.

He knew his death must look an accident

to spare his family scandal and abuse,

knowing his persecutors would not relent

and ambiguity was always the best ruse.

He knew Snow White must triumph in the end

but he would not; the witches everywhere

were gathered well beyond the final reel

to flay his flesh and feast on his despair.

He held the lethal apple in his hand

devoid of vacillation or chagrin,

knowing he had constructed a new land

and smiling to himself bit deeply in.

Richard O'Connell lives in Deerfield Beach, Florida. Collections of his poetry include RetroWorlds, Simulations, Voyages, and The Bright Tower, all published by the University of Salzburg Press (now Poetry Salzburg). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, National Review, The Paris Review, Margie, Measure, Southern Humanities Reviw, Acumen, The Formalist.