Monday, April 30, 2018

April 30, 2018





Trump vs. Big Bird
with a nod to Sesame Street
Crummy day
Stealing our hopes away.
On his way to where
Thought is tweet.

Can you tell Trump how to get—
How to get to Sesame Street?

Tweet and lie.
Environment's gonna die.
Friendly neighbors leave,
Not safe to meet.

Can you tell me what's the deal?
What'll happen to Sesame Street?

Tragic day:
Alphabet Z to A,
Numbers upside down,
Songs miss a beat.

Can you tell me how to save—
How to save our Sesame Street?

How to save our Sesame Street?
How to make America sweet?

by Kathleen A. Lawrence
in volume 6 issue 1

--------------

Advanced Alt-Rightitis

Twenty and beautiful and already showing
signs of a condition that once started gets
handed down from generation to generation.

I lost my ability to inoculate him when I lost
custody of his father, almost fifty years ago now—
first the son and then the grandson who grew up

far states and the attitudes of caregivers away—
leaving me little room to intervene or quarantine.
I watched as both were exposed, helpless

to stop the judgmentalism that invaded
and spread to their tissues and cells;
the mind infiltrated first, and then the heart—

the males in our family the most vulnerable
to the wiping out of the function of motivation
to budge. No matter how many M.D.s

or clergywomen I might pray to or call upon,
our family's case of advanced, full-blown Alt-Rightitis
Republicaniasis remains a diagnosis real

as an elephant this mother and grandmother
has no choice but to ignore if she wants
to be allowed today's in-home visits.

by Sharon Wood Wortman
in volume 6 issue 1
------------

The Orange Predator

I think that this poet never shall see
a predator foul and so smarmy as he.

His fowlish predation is ever so sweet,
he can grope any chick without moving his feet

which, along with his hands, are really quite tiny.
His brain is so small and his mouth is so swiney.

With faked indignation he tries to deny,
though he sees little need for a gal to comply,

or so he told Stern on Stern's radio show,
boasting to Howard like some horny crow.

"I can do what I want because I'm so famous
and handsome and charming and rich and
smart and huge and did I say very very rich and
very very handsome and just very very,"
(laughing Ivanka sits tall by his side,
enabling her father, the snide ignoramus).

Orange refining the meaning of smarmy.
Orange re-whining out lies to his army.

He steps like a goose and cuts down the tall trees,
honking and hinking and fouling the breeze

His lily-white shit that he dumps on the ground
is for Conway to gather and sell by the pound.

But this poet finds peace in the presence of trees,
even the trees that can cause him to sneeze,

and a walk in the forest does help him recoup
the hope and belief that the foul orange dupe

will goose-step and shit such a large smelly mass
that Congress will finally impeach his (not so) small ass.

poems are fashioned by fools like me,
but no one can help the brand new GOP.

by Michael Coolen
in volume 6 issue1

Buy a Copy

Return to the Online TOC

No comments:

Post a Comment

What say ye?