Poetry from Wayne Mason

Lost In Empty Worlds And Metallic Beats 

Dismal gray like prisons of icy 

steel in the natural world  

Keep your eyes closed pretend.  

Living breathing dreaming hum  

of memories like ashes spread out  

Clanking steel bebop ding people fussing.  

Flesh hanging the mood silent  

amid the vapor of smoke and guilt  

Sitting within prison of bleak nothings  

Bad trip, We Are The Nightmare  

Karmic phantoms feeding on  

everyone in Bardo Hell 

Burning angels, remember?  

We lit the fire and started to burn  

They are squeezing all they can  

from our brains like a dingy sponge 

“It’s true that you are in dreamless sleep?” 

The clank of the door…  

We can use your blood in purgatory 

Discarded Dream From Apocalypse America 

O’ America… 

I give you a prayer so you may cut it up: 

            I am a literary scrap man  

                          Hopeless transmissions from (secret) 

dark dream factories 

                 (discarded) I’m an idea 

>>>>error 

Shadow People Might Even Be Music

 Shadowy    music approach

                  groping

time absence

light & shadow

               physicists draw ghosts in the dark

              ghosts

           to smoke

One

   person is

        they

           interdimensional musicians’

    making ectoplasm &

                               shadows

Industrial Poem 

Tick, tick zzzzzzzzzzzz 

hiss clank boom moan 

groan howl gnarled 

fingers reaching into 

the sky… click  

                       clack thud 

curling up like buzzzzzzzzzzz 

pow shhhhhhhhh tick 

crack snap hiss smokestacks 

belch vapors clink slam 

Poetry from Patricia Doyne

                TWO  CHEERS  FOR  TREASON

		January 6, 2021		
		A mob stormed the Capitol
		killing five police, wounding over 100.
		Some were blindly loyal to Trump,
		taken in by his “stolen election” line;
		others were simply spoiling for a fight.
		But-- despite the gallows prepped and ready,
		Mike Pence didn’t get hung.
		Despite Senators willing to double-cross voters,
		replace electors with puppets,
		and kiss the incumbent’s ring,
		each state’s votes were ratified.
		And despite Trump’s sore-loser grousing,
		he wound up a lame duck.

		December 12, 2022
		MTG boasts to the NY Young Republicans Club:
		“I gotta tell you something.
		If Steve Bannon and I had organized that,
		we would have WON.
		Not to mention, it would have been armed.”
		Here’s a Representative from Georgia
		bragging that she could have pulled off 
		a better insurrection.
		She would have brought more firepower,
		blasted her way through those cops.
		She would have marched over the dead and wounded,
		defeated Congress, and forced their hand.
		She would have WON.
		Backed by guns and slogans,
		she would have awarded Trump the oval office,
		perhaps President for life.

		Is this payback for Appomattox?
		Rebellion not quelled, just postponed?
		Trump’s infantry was a mix of malleable misfits,
		Proud Boys, Oath Keepers, Q-Anon fruit-loops,
		and politicians with an eye to the main chance.
		January 6 was the day they’d change the world.

		
		If a cult figure mouthing MAGA
		could be enthroned at gunpoint,
		kingmakers would hold undisputed power. 
		We would have won.

		January 3, 2023
		MTG places her hand on a bible
		and swears to uphold the Constitution.
		Are her fingers crossed?
		She bragged she could bring the US to its knees--
		if she led that mob;
		if she armed the rioters 
		so they could gun down law enforcement;
		if she took possession of the Capitol
		to thwart Congress’ Constitutional job. 
		Her victory?  Sabotaging a presidential election.
		It makes one wonder:
		should a person who cheers for gun-toting thugs
		be running our country?
		Should a person who brags about trashing ballots
		be making laws?
		Georgia’s white, rural 14th District thinks so.
		They re-elected her,
		despite her off-the-wall statements-- 
		Jewish space lasers cause California wildfires.
		Vaccinations are the devil’s “mark of the beast.”
		Black Lives Matter protesters are terrorists.
		Undocumented immigrants are rapists.
		Transgender individuals are predators.
		Abortion seekers and providers are murderers.
		Democrats are pedophile-coddling Communists.

		MTG hopes to be Trump’s running mate in 2024.
		Trump, too, thinks his defeat so outrageous
		that it justifies suspending the Constitution.
		The two are salt and pepper shakers
		showering spite and bile on a fragile democracy.
		Abetting a taste for hate.
									
		Copyright 12/2022   Patricia Doyne



                TRUMP’S  VIRTUES

		Trump’s gung-ho to run again
		in 2024.
		He says it wasn’t fair that he
		got booted out the door.

		Many think him crass, it’s true.
		Self-serving.  Prone to lies.
		But maybe narcissistic traits
		are virtues in disguise.

		He is, despite his girth and weight,
		a physical fitness buff.
		Visited golf links 308 times,
		spent a quarter of his term on golf.

		When shooters shoot up schools and malls
		we know guns aren’t for Trump.
		Five times he dodged his country’s draft.
		Said casualties were chumps.

		And family values is a realm
		where Trump does truly shine.
		Jared and Ivanka flaunt
		his regime’s family line.

		Forget two dozen rape reports
		and Stormy Daniels’ book,
		‘cause family pride glows in third wife
		Melania’s well-dressed look. 

		What’s more, he reaches out a hand
		to one-time foes. (Don’t groan.)
		He sends love notes to Kim Jong-Un,
		gets an $18 million loan.

		When journalist Khashoggi died
		at the consulate in Turkey,
		“Bin Salman ordered it,” said the CIA.
		Trump said the facts were murky.
		And when Trump won, a Russian hand
		pulled strings. The CIA spied it.
		Said, “Russia, leave our elections alone!”
		Shrugged Trump, “Putin denied it.”

		Yes, Trump extends a welcoming hand
		to strong men he admires.
		Sells airplanes, crude oil, tanks and guns
		to somewhat shady buyers.

		And Trump’s an open-minded man.
		When Neo-Nazis march,
		he sees good people on both sides,
		beneath free speech’s arch.

		When Ye claims Hitler’s misunderstood,
		and Fuentes flat denies
		the Holocaust was real, that’s cool.
		“Respect their views,” Trump cries. 

		His bosom buddies—Roger Stone,
		Steve Bannon, Alex Jones—
		show how Trump welcomes one and all,
		especially pale skin-tones.

		He disses “shithole countries.”
		He tried to build a wall.
		Just goes to show that Trump was true
		to MAGA’s siren call.

		And Trump’s unique. Never before
		a President twice impeached.
		He’s going down in history—
		for January 6th, at least.

		So if you want to bad-mouth Trump,
		Please take careful note
		of all his virtuous qualities
		when you step up to vote.

		Copyright 12/2022               Patricia Doyne
		

                Q-ANON  MEETS  QVC

		Mirror, mirror on the wall,
		reveal the winner I really am—
		not a fat old suit with a long, red tie,
		tan from a tube, hair fussed and sculpted.
		No, show my base their favorite President--
		Better than Lincoln!
		Better than Washington!
		Show the whole world the superhero
		who should have won. 

		A MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT:  
		(Drumroll)  
		Digital Trading Cards!
		Only $99 each.
		Send your money, we’ll choose your NFT.
		Take what you get; what you get is virtual.
		It exists in the ether, 
		like the image, like the “very exclusive community”
		I’m selling.

		See me in a cowboy hat and duster,
		a western lawman.
		See me dominate the room in a black tuxedo.
		See me suited for space, two feet on the moon.
		See me alone on a bleacher-ringed field,		
		owning that football.
		See me speeding to the rescue on a white horse.
		See me in a mild-mannered blue suit
		ripping open my shirt to reveal a red “T”
		and scald the world with laser eyes.

		The face is mine, but photo-shopped bodies 
		are all young and buff.
		The world needs superheroes.
		But the world’s got me.
		Mirror, mirror on the wall,
		show the world I’m what they really want
		virtually. 
					Copyright 12/2022           Patricia Doyne
	
		

               
		

Poetry from RP Verlaine

No Xmas Tree 

Just an empty bottle 
of very good whiskey, 
2 women, and a drink 
during the course 
of a week that ended 
with us not speaking 
to each other since. 
 
I put a rose like those 
I steal from the neighbors 
garden in said bottle 
as I reminder 
there is much beauty 
In this world. 
 
Even with the women gone. 
 
The knife one of them 
threw at me for looking 
at her friend’s legs remains 
on the floor where it landed 
after hitting the wall and 
missing me by a foot. 
 
A reminder that 
any New Year’s Eve 
even for a man with little 
to lose can be more 
curious than planned. 
 
I/he does not mind 
the things they stole 
or borrowed with ill 
intent. 
 
Who alone with 
all that once was 
still reaches for 
what lingered sweet 
long enough to be 
savored. 

His wedding ring 
lost in a desk 
alongside knowledge
she pawned hers. 
He places a comically 
large Seashell to ear 
just to hear the sea 
scream for the past 
like him 
on most days.

 
She's OK Almost

She says but
her glazed eyes lost
pinpoints of
confusion
tell me different
and her
skin sallow
with track marks
I can't tell if
old or new
just that
they tell a story
I already know
the ending to.

We talk of poetry
we performed
once, together
apart
to smatterings of
applause long
ago. Of those we
thought we knew
under lights
spilling their souls
with captivating
corrupted
vehemence.

But she hasn't
read in years.
Tells me I look
like I'm doing well.
She's offended
when i ask if
she needs
money...
yet takes what I give
waving as she walks
away into the
darkness on
an unusually
otherwise bright
sunny day.

 
Ex On the Street

Not being invisible
or able to hide
when she spots
me first with
X-ray eyes.

The air, getting thinner
when she hugs me,
as if we’re still together,
as if that fatal night
hadn’t happened.

Then she says
that I look good,
that I’ve lost weight,
but I don’t and haven’t,
staring at her smiling face.

Love demands forgiveness
but losing your lover
& your best friend
in one cruel night
I never counted on.

I say goodbye 5 times.
It’s like she doesn’t hear
my last image of her,
him in her mouth,
in our bedroom, clear.

One of us was in love
and the other escaped
as I do now with alacrity
all shaken and wounded
by a past now present.


Rp Verlaine, a retired English teacher living in NYC, has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He has several collections of poetry including Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018) and Lies From The Autobiography 1-3 (2018-2020). Rp’s work has been featured in Punk Noir, Ygdrasil, and Runcible Spoon. 

Poetry from Dudu Tome

Therapeutics 

It is misting this morning.
So, I open the door to my mouth,
unattired, bring out my tongue,
to kiss waters, undiluted.

And this is a great healing:

Our village market has so many routes.
I mean there are ways to live
in places where air is not measured 
with a needle’s eye.

And this is a path to life: bonding––

bond to what gives you hope,
to what gives you a clan,
to what or who calls your name
each time a gusty wind makes itself known

and news about broken things hover around.

So I ask: when harmattan visits,
will you take me as your tropical plant
and spray on me fine droplets? Will you?

Calling for Waters

Because I know darkness is a pebble in search
of a home within me, I call for a drink of water
be it ice falling from heavens,
morning misting on leaves,
a drop of tears from rocks
or the salty sea enclosing borders
to flush them beyond death chamber
before they know the sweetness of success.
Because every day knows the hug of night,
I mean to say light is a man
and darkness is a beautiful maiden
standing along the lane to our home,
waiting to mould us into victims of fate;
(but fate is not a living thing)
I call waters from the depth of holy well
for cleansing. So I would sight only white angels
chanting my name into unending life.
Because I discover my demons are sour salts,
I poke the rock holding me captive.
What proceeds out of it I call fluid, 
you can call it waters from within me.
So my demons would know the feel 
of body melting into pain, into grief.
Because I love the sound of the drum echoing: 
life is a lollipop in the hands of a toddler,
I call upon waters to heal me, in every way possible.

Become Waters

There is fire burning beneath my skin.
It is ruthless than the kind of fire
your clergy makes you see on worship days.
Do not imagine this. Some caked bread
are better not shared––I’ve swallowed this one.
This is not me displaying my pains on a 5D screen.
The smokes erupting from my body is the reason 
the neighbourhood’s nose breathed questions.
And yes, this is the answer you seek.
Forgive me. I am stingy with the spirit.
Let my body alone be filled with it until I am 
reduced to fine particles on the palms of earth,
until I become the regalia of ash worn by wind.
Be alive, yes live in a peaceful piece
but become waters––water is life. Become waters.
Be alive. Be life itself. Friend, I shall burn.
A cut of this fire said so in a foreign tongue––
it took me a while to crack this hard nut.
Forgive me I did not tell you soon enough
that I am the brown pigment on your roof.
In a flash, be waters––hug me into life eternal.
You live. I would leave and live in you.

Lyrics from Chimezie Ihekuna

Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben) Young Black man in a collared shirt and jeans resting his head on his hand. He's standing outside a building under an overhang.
Chimezie Ihekuna
Song Title: Take The First Step
Genre: Pop

Chorus
Take the first step  (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)

Verse 1
They say ‘the journey of a thousand mile begins with a step’
Yea, taking a step could be very herculean
Fear of failure would suffice as the rationale
However, taking the risk is worth it
After all, failing forward is better than not stepping out
The journey of success begins with taking the first step
So, take the giant stride
Take the first step!

Chorus
Take the first step (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (2ce)

Verse 2
Discouragement is a part of success
Success is a journey, not a terminus
Determination without conception is like reaching a destination without intention
Consistency is inevitably important
Life is what you make of it
Walk your talk to see your worth
You learn those only if you take the first step
Now, take the first step!

Chorus
Take the first step  (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)

Verse 3
The first step in life is uneasy;
It’s like you taking the bull by the horn
It’s similar to how tasking it would be putting the crown on your head
The first step is a lesson that would give room for further learning;
It’s like getting past the hurdles of life
It’s similar to taking away life’s road blocks
The first step marks the road to your freedom
A great feat it would be when you take the first step!

Chorus
Take the first step  (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)

Poetry from Olawe Opeyemi

The Way I’d Like to Die

When my folk penned the lines

“The way I’d like to die”

Short but as a hero

With gold amass, laid dead on them

Then I posted to myself how I’d like to die

And my heart pondered a whit

I’d like to live wealthy, abound

Enough to acquire my desires without a sigh,

For that makes life easier.

I’d like it long and old

Telling tales of yesteryears to my grands,

For nothing more refreshing than that.

I’d like it calm and tranquil

With faces of loved ones to gaze at,

Without them, life is a misery.

I’d like to live on, ages ahead

In the minds of men, both acquaintance and aliens

With my footprint seen on the Niger

For that’s the greatest achievement ever.

I know no death bad, for none which is good

But I fair not as a dog on the road

Neither like a prey to a predator

Yet when at last death did me seek

I’d like it gentle and fast

Peaceful, with little regret behind

Then I’d have the rest I crave

Only then would death be a release

Short story from Lorena Caputo

TRUJILLO

You are a town spun in history, from Cristóbal Colón’s last voyage to a port protected from pirates by the Spanish Fortaleza Santa Bárbara, from the first capital of this nascent country to the execution of filibuster William Walker. Many had their embassies here: France, Spain, England, the US.

And both United Fruit and Standard Fruit left their cobwebs, too.

~      ~      ~

I wander through the odd clutter of Señor Galván’s museum. A band’s musical instruments, collections of coins and bills. Ship anchors and moorings. Old wine and patent medicine bottles. Treadle sewing machines, branding irons, the chair and bed of a man who lived to be 106. Mayan artefacts from the sierra. Assorted alligator and shark skulls. Caged monkeys reaching for a human hand.

And from the Companies themselves. A Standard Fruit lamp and sugar cane press. A United Fruit telephone and fan, railroad jacks, a brakeman’s lantern. And a 1940s brick of the Yunay Fruit Co. Mamita Yunai … United Fruit

Out front corrodes the wreckage of a C130 that crashed near Puerto Castilla. All 21 crewmembers were killed from Howard AFB in Panama. It was never explained to us what this plane was doing here that 22 January ’85 … in Contra territory.

~      ~      ~

I am spellbound by the tangled web. I pass days talking with Mr Galván and in the public library unraveling history.

For only a short two years did Vaccaro Brothers and Co (later Standard Fruit) spin its domain eastward to here. Those siblings had their fincas of sugar cane and syphilis-curing sarsaparilla. They timbered the precious hardwoods of these surrounding jungle hills.

Afterwards United Fruit came (in 1904, Señor Galván says) and later hid under the guise of the Trujillo Rail Road Co. For lands in this area, it promised to build the railroad to Jutigalpa and beyond to Tegucigalpa. It laid the line from port to plantations: Puerto Castilla and Trujillo to Olanchito, Tocoa, Savá and no further. Amid excuses of land blackened by sigatoka, United left in 1940, before the Honduran government could confiscate the fincas and rails for not fulfilling its contract.

When the Boston Octopus pulled out, families sold their furnished homes for a mere 400 Lempiras. Still, to this day, some rich people have a hundred houses or more.

And so this town fell into a quiet backwater. Black Caribe and whiter ladino intermarried. Over the years, the memories faded. Only Mr Galván remembered why the Fruit Company submerged a train east of the pier: To protect the beachhead from erosion. The plantations way out yonder changed once more to Standard Fruit.

In the 1980s, the US-Contras arrived with training camps and cocaine-for-arms trade routes. Within these jungle swamps, the US military had clandestine bases (or so say its veterans, in fear-hushed voices).

And little by little, the foreign travelers came, seeking the tranquil sea, the safe beaches, a town free from crime.

A new posh resort is built, The Christopher Columbus. Ninety-two full-time staff but few guests. The locals say it’s a CIA den owned by Ollie North, Secord and former-Contra friends.

And after almost 90 years, Standard Fruit makes its return. A high concrete wall with barbed wire surrounds the eight or so unseen houses within. Strong floodlights safeguard the grounds. These are the homes of the CEOs who work at Puerto Castilla.

~      ~      ~

One evening in a pleasant hide-away café – with rattan chairs, glass-topped tables, plants, English newspapers – an ex-pat United Statien tells the owner and me her family wants to move from Tela. The scene is getting too heavy there – the crime, the cocaine. They have found a house near the Company’s complex. But it has no electricity. They must ask Standard Fruit for permission to put it in. Its security comes first.

When I first came to Trujillo during Christmas holidays in ’93, I could stroll alone several kilometers along the beach. I’d leave my belongings on the powdery sand and swim in that crystal-blue Caribbean.

But two years later, with clenched fists and teeth, trujillanos tell me, It isn’t safe any longer to walk those isolated stretches. Inlander ladinos are migrating in search of the work the tourism surely brings. But there are no jobs … One night from Olanchito they came to the Garífuna bars in Cocopando. A white woman danced with a black man. Six redneck ladinos shot up the place.

Two more years or so pass. One evening, walking through town, seven foreigners are robbed and stabbed. One dies.

And that cocaine now floats like a blizzard along these ex-Contra coastal routes.