Thursday, April 8, 2021
How we made love in the memorial forest for the Shoah dead
and we remembered only ourselves from the night before!
The forest did the remembering for us and gave us leave to love.
You remember how we threw off our clothes in the madness of desire:
The outer garments flew like heavy birds to the branches of the trees,
and the underwear remained on the forest floor
clinging to the springy briars of the thorny burnet, like snakeskins.
And our shoes stood nearby, mouths open in psalms of praise.
Sunday, April 4, 2021
By Juanita Rey
He lies back on the couch,
lights a cigarette.
That’s one more reason
why this is not my place.
I would never allow smoking.
And he doesn’t beg for forgiveness.
A butchered haircut he can live with
but guilt is not his style.
That’s why I’m packing all of my stuff
in the blue suitcase.
Luckily, what I came with
is the same size
as what accompanies my leaving.
This wretched piece of luggage
is rectangular shaped, warped in places,
and closes with much effort.
Who’d have thought
snapping it shut
would be the hardest part.
Monday, March 8, 2021
By Cassandra Lease
Thursday, February 4, 2021
By Gregg Shapiro after Dave Awl
Sitting with the lost souls in the airless
circle of hell known as the State of Illinois
DMV waiting room. Which, despite being
underground and the little, useless rotating
fans mounted precariously, randomly along
the walls, manages to be 20 degrees warmer
than the street above. A half-asleep guy who
hears his number get called, jumps up, shouts
an exaggerated "Hey!" like he just won the lottery
or bingo. No one else shifts or stirs. Except for
the fans on the wall, looking shyly, slowly in
our direction, and then slowly, shyly turning away.
Gregg Shapiro is the author of seven books including the 2019 chapbooks, Sunshine State (NightBallet Press) and More Poems About Buildings and Food (Souvenir Spoon Books). An entertainment journalist, whose interviews and reviews run in a variety of regional LGBTQ+ and mainstream publications and websites, Shapiro lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with his husband Rick and their dog Coco.
Monday, January 25, 2021
By Hal SirowitzYou’re both trying to achieve closure
in this relationship, my therapist said.
You want to marry her. She wants
to break up with you. And I think
she’s going to prevail, because
it’s a lot easier for her to break up
with you than it is for you
to marry her. You’ll have to buy her
a ring, go for a blood test, & get
both families involved. All she has
to do is not see you again. And
it seems like she has already started doing that.
Tuesday, January 19, 2021
Monday, January 18, 2021
Build monuments to his glory.
Sing Hosannas to his name.
Dead men make such convenient heroes.
For they cannot rise to challenge the images
That we might fashion from their lives.
It is easier to build monuments
Than to build a better world.
So now that he is safely dead,
We, with eased consciences will
Teach our children that he was a great man,
Knowing that the cause for which he
Lived is still a cause
And the dream for which he died is still a dream.
A dead man’s dream.
Monday, January 11, 2021
By Dennis Gould
This poem was first published in August of 1969.
Wednesday, January 6, 2021
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.
Monday, January 4, 2021
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.