Stevieslaw: ABC Apologizes
In response to the Trumptweet that ABC has never apologized for the awful things they said about him, a mortified ABC issued the following apology:
“We sincerely regret our role in the 2016 campaign that led to the election of the self-centered man child, Donald Trump. Had we, and other news organizations, been more forceful in exposing his lies and inhumane and divisive remarks, we might have prevented him from becoming President .”
Entanglements
Mom’s enormous family
gathered once a month
in what they called the cousins club.
The women wore their best—
outfits from Saks and Macy’s
and the men would comb and shave
and try to pass muster.
My brother and I,
Scrubbed, fed
and relegated to the back bedroom,
listened to the murmurs
and protestations
of gossiping
and gambling.
We longed for the food.
There might be
cold cuts and salads
from the local deli,
or smoked fish and bagels,
or the crown jewels
of brisket and potato kugel,
cooked all day in an aunt’s steamy kitchen.
We drooled
and listened to our bellies grumble.
We made brief feeding forays
when the chatter had softened
to the whisper of innuendo.
I often marveled at the miraculous
revival of even the oldest
of my uncles and aunts.
They arrived
sallow and pained
then absorbed the energy
of that gathering of closest kin,
and bloomed.
I could find no explanation
in the gentle baiting and bickering
that characterized their affection,
so pajamaed and half asleep
I imagined them
rooted in the generous earth—
black and life-teeming.
And those roots, I felt sure,
must intermingle
and, through those myriad entanglements
the stuff of happiness must flow.
Stevieslaw: We are offering Trump-Kim Jong-um Commemorative coins at a very competitive price. Truckloads are available. The first 100 customers will also receive a signed copy of Donald Trump’s Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech. So hurry. Make Stevieslaw rich again.
Stevieslaw: Trump Doubles Down on Walls
Donald Trump tweeted today that he has offered to help the Israelis build an monumental wall on the border with Gaza. “Bibi was thrilled,” Trump added, “especially when I told him that the Palestinians would pay for it.”
Jared Kushner, who will take the lead on the project said, “We understand how sensitive this issue is, so to avoid any spurious claims of favoritism, we will conduct negotiations between the Israelis and Palestinians in our new Embassy in Jerusalem, with Hebrew as the official language.”
Happy Mother’s Day. Miss you.
I can laugh now,
but for a time
I was so scared
of my shadow;
that I would only
venture forth at
night, or noon
or during an
occasional
eclipse of the sun.
You might guess
that I’d be ridiculed,
what with carrying
a parasol to school
on sunny days in Spring,
but my brother was
three hundred pounds
of muscle, hung out
with the Amboy Dukes
and carried, as a
weapon, half a tree
trunk like a third arm.
From the time I was
six years old, the other
children called me sir.
My mother put an end
to it “toot sweet.”.
While no student
of psychology,
she took the time to
reason with me,
as she bent over a
steaming laundry tub,
in her ragged house dress,
like something out of Dickens.
She said quite clearly,
“Go outside right now,
or I will cripple you.”
My mother never…
View original post 27 more words
A fine poem from my friend Sarah.
This poem is a departure for me. I found myself channeling Hemingway after reading for the third or fourth time A Moveable Feast — perhaps the best and least known guidebook for Paris. My thanks to Scot at Rusty Truck for publishing it this week.
At 3 a.m.
after one more day
without words, Paris
takes you in like a whore,
not surprised you’re back
for another fuck in the dark.
November. Brittle rain
scrapes the bone.
You walk the sheen of cobbles
to the Seine, where bodies,
freshly guillotined, once floated,
heads left behind in baskets,
past the great cathedral, gargoyled,
buttressed, to the boîte
on St. Louis where absinthe
and jazz make love, and a girl
comes to rub against you
like she knows your name.
– Sarah Russell
first published in Rusty Truck
for Poets United Poetry Pantry
Photo by Nicolas Vigier
My poem Stardust
By: Steve Deutsch
What
are we
if not
a mix
of stardust
and desire?
A shell
that screams
I want
across the wanton
landscape
Those
of us
not saintly
or demonic
may
temper
ache
with
kindness,
a balm
of sorts
for the
relentless
longing
And for
the evil
we do
in our
own
interest,
we have
no better
recourse
than to
beg
forgiveness
from
the night
sky—
all
aglow
in
majestic
indifference.
My poem No Joy for the Timid
By: Steve Deutsch
I have never
been one
to dive in.
At Brighton Beach
I’d shuffle
seaward,
slow as silt,
while other children
screeched
into the ocean
at a gallop,
more race horse
than human—
faces shocked
from whoa to joy
Can joy
come slowly?
Does delight
ever descend,
thick as honey,
on the timid
among us?
Those
keepers
of butterflies
who greet
opportunity
with a stammer
and a shrug.
Does it
sneak up
on those
of us
who research
the obvious,
elbows deep
in sacred
texts
while just
outside
the shadow
of the library
lions
the sun
is bright
and people
cross
the avenue
without
looking
both ways?
I wrestle
with
the puzzle—
pleasure
or peril,
while
you
walk
with great
determination,
away.
Here is the link to the poetry section:
http://www.eclectica.org/v22n2/poetry_list.html
And here is the poem:
Poet
I found your first book today
in a second hand store at the Harrisburg Station.
Dingy and age-tanned,
it retained its dustcover,
with a photo of you at 22,
wearing a threadbare corduroy coat
I’m sure is still in your closet,
and what might pass for a smile.
It’s a rare first print from ’69.My war.
Your deferment.
You kept to your poetry
like you kept to the old neighborhood,
both mired in bottomless poverty—
an endless scraping by.
Yet, just last year, The Times called you
the Bashful Bard of Brooklyn.We will lay you out tomorrow
in a sandy plot
in one of those many cemeteries
that dot the flat, emptiness of the mid-island plains.
Bury you next to Mary
your common-law wife of fifty three years
and your only treasure.Old friend,
I never told you what I felt
when I first held a copy of your book.
I was outside my tent,
less than a mile from the wreckage of Ben Tre.
The package had been waiting for me
while we took that city down.
Not even the rats and the roaches
could have survived our fury.
“That should be me,” I thought,
and tossed that splendid book
on the residue of the war.
Stevie's Law 