Never Trump.

 

Unlikely Stories is working with Write About Now and the New Orleans co-ordinators of 100,000 Poets for Change to provide Hurricane Harvey relief, using the principles of A Just Harvey Recovery.

 

Ghazals 1-59 and Other Poems by Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt gets reviewed by Thomas Fink, Eileen R. Tabios, and Judy Katz-Levine

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mellowtone has it: that sweet, sad softness that is musically and lyrically congruent; the bittersweet sound that moves from triumph to defeat to joy and pain in absolute stillness.

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Ed Roman isn't relying on classic rock, folk, or pop sounds. Rather, he's creating an intricate kitchen-sink fusion of pop, rock, folk, reggae and country that gives us energetic, spontaneous, even gleeful fun.

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To defend José Lezama Lima is a right
defend him from God and from the hell
of majuscules and luck
stiff-necks and influxes
of the azure

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is family style, is by the book.
Is none of my bid'ness.
They have a joy-free smoke,
a homemade drink.

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They came from the four corners of the country
from remote places, walled off, cut off
and secluded from civilization,
practically removed from the map,
people of many clans, customs, and cultures

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6. The Protesters: massed in the streets,
shouting, lifting signs high in the air,
all to no avail. It was over—they just
​did not know.

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Jim Dandy takes his place in the soup queue,
Huck Finn just behind, and they
laryngitis whisper: it ain’t worth being
civilized, advertised, mesmerized,

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They were young.
Maybe not the brightest.
But among the most intrepid.
They were not Hitler youth.
Their motto wasn’t “Blood and Honor.”

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Curbside beers, meals of tramp stew,
collapse a minister’s graven idol imagery,
diminish metaphor and the morning.
Rancor falls, random as a star.
​I have no sense of the way home.

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you can't
make friends
with ghosts
not with
dead soldiers
or with
​old boyfriends

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They turned the torture zone into a tourist site
the torturers all got jobs showing busloads
of foreign schoolkids where the tor
tures used to take place.

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I never sleep. Not since I was six. When I had this dream which for some people might have been a revelation. But frankly there was nothing unusual about it. You’ve probably heard it all before. This procession of images. I was a small light flying around in space. But there were no stars, there were no planets. There was only direction and speed.

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But we remember also the marches
against the wars of horror and shattered bones
who would cry out against Napalm
the burning of villages, not just
one who prophesied in the '60's train
but many friends, many friends

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I became certain of silence, its
speech more relevant amid my
open hands releasing what was
         learned among irrelevant
                                 histories

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