Sunday, September 24, 2017

Found In-Box Poem

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--John Grey

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Josie

but better days have come
            i wipe the sweat
            smell piss on my knuckles
            abortion residue
            drips down my leg
            dogs will piss on my grave
i’m coming into a moon
            full of pock marks
            jealous old lantern
            lights my night
            lights my route
            down rockaway blvd
            into blue-black alleys
            where i give 20 dollar blowjobs
and in the morning i see Rico at the newsstand
            he gives me free smokes
            tells me to get some money to my kids
            who live with my mother
            or my sister
            maybe even a foster fondler
            who will rip little wombs open
crack
            i need my smack
            i need this pipe
            my lover
            my healer
            i smoke to God
            smoke to the moon
            and forget every crab corroding my body
            every pimp
            that yanked fist fulls of hair from my head
            forget the Siph
            the Gonorrhea
            the HIV
 lead me not into temptation
            i have done only evil
            it fires my peacepipe
            i inhale over and over
            over and over
            i wake up on the street corner
            in the back seat of a car
            in my lice infested bed
            want more
            can’t not want
 
 
--Donna Dallas

Sunday, September 10, 2017

The News at Six A.M.

It's six A.M. 
I boil the kettle 
and prepare my
coffee, strong 
no sugar, a dark
brooding concoction, 
stirring, entwined in 
a mad ballet dance 
with a spoon, destine
never to be silver.

Click

On the television the 
news anchors speak of
unimaginable suffering,
they seem to have a blood 
lust in their eyes. 

Blood lust

Like 

Modern day gladiators

Gladiators tucked safely 
behind shiny new laptop
shields. 

And seated like Roman 
emperors upon a leather
covered throne, their courtroom,
the pomp of brightly lit news 
studios.  

The lower ranks, take to the 
battlefield of urban blood 
letting. 

Reporters crowing at the 
blood shed rising, in the 
hissing sun, a new day comes
kicking and screaming into 
fruition.

The Paranas prepare to feast,
sharping fangs, a feast of blood
and meat, of meat and blood.

"Let's go! Let's go!" the reporters
bellow 

"Andddd weee are  

"Live on location,
at the scene of the crime!"

The reporters

seem to be describing the 
latest action / thriller movie
as they speak through their
smugness and slimy smirks.

The reporters

seem to be chanting into my 
living room, staring straight into
my own lust for blood and death.

"Death is interesting, death fuels
our ratings! Give us death! Give us
blood!" "Give us pain, suffering, war,
street riots and misery!" 

Cameras cut from the steely eyed 
reporter and ensuing carnage upon
the battlefields behind him 

"Now back to you."

The reporters in the studio all seem 
to agree in between quick glances 
struck between them, 

that 

"Death by violence is so exciting!"
                             &
"Our ratings must be skyrocketing!"

and so it goes on and on,
a vicious cycle, where will
it end?

The reporters on the morning news  
make pathetic attempts at cloaking 
the grisly scenes, with their hollow 
words of 

"Heartbreaking" 

and 

"So very sad" 

Yet 

I can see the twinkling of their eyes
blood lust and glistening sparks dancing, 
married, ambitions set high. 

I can just read their thoughts now

"Local news now, world news here I come!"
  
As they speak of the people 
that have been burned alive 
in mobile homes, drowned in 
floods, and shot and killed in 
convenience store robberies.

I can just read their thoughts now

"Yes it's a dirty job, but someone has too
report it." 

"Sigh, just another day at the office, mmmm 
donuts and coffee sound so good right now."

I sigh, drink my dark coffee for the same 
cup that I do everyday, and click off the 
blood bath on the morning news at 6 A.M. 

Yes it's a dirty life, but someone has to
report it.
 
 
--Wayne Russell