The Alien Buddha Wears a Yellow Vest
ISBN: 9781796379464
Cover art and illustrations by Ammi Romero
A Poetic Foreword by Ty Hall …………………………..4
Mark Hartenbach ………………………………………..5
Chani Zwibel ……………………………………………14
Amirah Al- Wassif ……………………………………..29
Red Focks ……………………………………………….37
Heidi Blakeslee ………………………………………….57
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal …………………………58
Scott Thomas Outlar ……………………………………62
Mendes Biondo ………………………………………….67
Dustin Pickering ………………………………………..71
Jennifer Dunford-Roskos ……………..……………….75
Jeff Weddle ……………………………………………..77
Dave Roskos …………………………………………….82
Paul Hellweg …………………………………………….85
Tom Blessing ……………………………………………87
Ammi Romero …………………………………………..91
Mike Zone ……………………………………………….97
Nicholas Redf (Facebook user) ………………………………..109
A Poetic Foreword by Ty Hall
“niemöller”
I heard
somewhere once that
absolute silence precludes
Insanity
nowhere lingers
absolute silence;
Instead, iterations and
echoes trapped
under the dome.
If there was
absolute silence
there would still be whispers.
If there was
absolute silence
you’d hear the grinding
Inside.
Mark Hartenbach
voice of america
an oppressed people are authorized whenever
they can to rise & break their fetters
-henry clay
the oppressed & dispossessed can’t get no rest
-murdered dub poet mikey smith
pharoah tells us one thing, caesar gives us his slant
on the situation & mister charlie adds his two cents
though if you listen closely you’ll notice they’re all
saying the same thing with a slightly different spin.
a towering, intimidating babble going from one
oppressive hierarchy to the next & proclaiming it
progress. the gravy train cruises down wall st.,
makes a sharp right at madison avenue & another
at pennsylvania avenue with a watchful eye at all
times on a pyramid scheme. we’re branded with bar
codes that we mistake for the mark of cain. our
ingrained guilt leaves us susceptible to a system
that has no basis in love empathy or charity but in
dead language phrasing. we need someone to translate
for us. when young we’re conditioned to equate
conformity with goodness & order to recognize any
absence of order, or chaos as a frightening apocalyptic
scenario, a justification for the need of hierarchy
that shouldn’t be questioned unless you want to hear-
maybe you ought to go back where you came from-
though you’ve never been anywhere else. big daddy
puts the hammer down at the hint that someone doesn’t
see things his way. order & morality as two sides of the
same coin. a crash to send everyone running back to a
supposedly neutral corner. a false sense of community
that serves their agenda & helps to seal our dependence
on its mighty pseudo-benevolent hand not convincing
one-sided argument to trust their judgment & look the
other way during constant revisions of history. a
justification of the privileged positioning at the altar
of numbers. we’re taught to believe that we exist
only in relation to the established order. we’re force-
fed a pathological normality. we confuse sophistication
with intellect & imagination, fashion with creativity,
glamour with beauty. we obsess over the trivial rather
than think for ourselves established order speaks the
language of reproduction, rigged geometry of reason,
utopian fascism. some recognize the con is on but look
the other way figuring the more proficient they become
at fooling themselves. the better their chances of hitting
a lucky number some day. self preservation & self
righteousness become blurred, yet any display of
ambiguity is met with an incredulous look. the only
time, the only reason our opinion is ever solicited is
to get a better read, a more effective means to manipulate
us into better consumers. capitalism depends on
constantly producing desire & a feeling of being
unfulfilled. frustration with economic terrorism will
breed a fatalist class who lash out, often in blind rage.
who yank out any available wiring that connects to the
system who will ride ivory towers all the way to the
ground, who will bite the iron fist that feeds them
morality & laws of the masters are proclaimed one
& the same, & anyone who toes the line, never speaks
out are deemed patriots instead of lackey’s of the
bourgeoisie traitors to the proletariat who blow kisses
along every mapped-out parade. who bow down to the
eye of the pyramid, who constantly rub their lucky coin
who worship at the altar of eigenschaft. repetition is an
effective way to control through learning by rote in
school meaningless ritual of organized religion constant
yammer of hucksters telling us what we need. we’re
always be sold something always being encouraged to
get with the program, to cling to archaic customs
& superstitions, to stick with the status quo, established
pecking order. they’re all tools of oppression. it’s an
ethical system that insures business as usual. the ruling
class have mastered the art of the pompous, choreographed,
tug at the heartstring salute the flag or throw your fist in
the air speech accusing anyone who thinks for themselves
of being anything from a communist to an anarchist to
a hedonist to a nihilist bashing their lack of spirit. the
privileged laugh at the idea of a day of reckoning but
it’s a forced laugh. they feel under the gun to build a larger
empire, erect higher walls around ‘what i’ve earned’
to make certain they always have enough silver to buy
off anyone that might be leaning another way & hire
the best scriptwriters & talking heads to conjure up tales
of monkey’s paw.
it’s time to throw some light on the way imperialist/fascist/
fundamentalist bourgeoisie power hitters have taken the
idea of divine proportion & manipulated it into a circular
reasoning tool supposedly so perfect that to call them on it
would be blasphemous. how dare we question their strange
brew of adam smith, highlighted passages snippets from
the bible, the koran & torah (or for that matter any text that lays
a divinely pronounced mantle on certain heads). an evil mix
of economics, numerology, kabbalah & the fibonacci
sequence turned inside out. all stirred up to make a batch
of black art & ink mathematics. of course this recipe/theorem
is kept sealed & buried under miles of red tape. everyone
knows the corporate & political world are in cahoots but
sometimes we’re in the dark about much of the methodology
how complete the mass manipulation of reality (talk about
dumping acid in the water supply!) but no-they’re much
more clever & insidious than that. they watch from on high
& laugh as we separate ourselves with cultural, religious,
race distinctions or invisible borders that all play right
into their hands, keeps us distracted so we don’t notice the
long shadow hovering over us. the government is a well-
oiled machine that depends on unquestionable obedience
from top to bottom, one line of thinking a thick, impenetrable
bottom line. when the numbers are crunched. we’re squeezed
into a tight spot. what does a scared, wounded animal do
when backed into a corner. it doesn’t sit there & let some
sadistic henchmen crack his bullwhip, to see it squirm.
it doesn’t listen to indoctrination of forced commodity
formulated by capitalist intellectuals on the payroll
that help maintain ideological control over social
management a conformist intelligentsia who betray the
proletariat. it no longer worries whether it’s going to
wander away from imposed parameters or ‘out of the loop’.
if it’s going to go out, it’s going to go out fighting,
regardless of what the doctored numbers coming out of
the ivory towers say about his chances.
family of man
there are only two families in the world,
the haves & the have nots
-miguel cervantes
the gap between hero & anti-hero is created by the press
who are corporate owned toadies charisma & style are
purposely confused with honest-to-god content. it’s all
about image, one commodity after another, splashed across
the screens of collective consciousness, though everyone
has an innate screening process to filter out the jive. many
ignore it, it’s too difficult to take the truth in unrelenting
doses that contradict everything that’s been sanctified
by those with a divine hand or more specifically those with
a midas touch. we can get away with saying almost anything
if we attach a catchy hook to it. we can gain a fistful of points
with a simple dedication that isn’t heartfelt in the least
because we’re seldom called on it, not when you tell them
what they want to hear. why do we put such a premium
on acting urbane & aloof. able to slip into & out of
conformity from a cynical point of view unconcerned with
which side we stand on, even if it requires constantly having
to look over shoulders. why do we depend on selective
amnesia or let the boys in the back room shout out the
details. why are we satisfied with what’s laid down for us
willing to add a nuance here, a bit of color there, then call
it our own. why do we take pride in being able to say-
‘i can hear you clear over here.’ there are those that can
solicit a nice chunk of change to fund their trip up to the
mountain top ascending with much fanfare with a promise
the wealth will be judiciously divided on their return
but they disappear into the clouds & never descend with
the goodies from on high. there’s more than one way down
the mountain & any con man worth his salt can distract the
crowd with a sparkling distraction sell them a reasonable
facsimile of a holy grail, a roadmap to nirvana, a compass
that always points to mecca, a life-size replica of jerusalem.
they might present a worthless trinket with a glitzy, iconic
shine or convince us to attach ourselves to someone else’s
myth someone else’s remembering. the herd will usually
head straight for a reference point that’s recognizable. art
is reduced to mood management, thick-headed linear
statements art is turned into a passive experience, a
cosmetic gesture that diminishes consciousness
instead of raising skulls to the sky. why are we willing
to pay more for distractions. something that simulates
reality than that which stimulates the soul. imagination
becomes atrophied from being constantly entertained.
a romantic idealization that’s nothing more than laying
down cash for an obscured view a glossy, slicked up,
toned down waste of time a bland teleprompter reading
of anything from a bedtime story to a report on the end
of the world. we live for the day a condescending crown is
dumped on our heads, covered with worthless rhinestones
& fancy calligraphy we can’t read while a threadbare carpet
is laid out before us, covering middle ground ceremoniously.
where we can walk down the aisle with arrogant dimwits
who have an artificially enhanced temptress on their arm
bathed in florescent light & trailed by subliminal kids.
Chani Zwibel
WRONG
All the wrong people have a swagger these days. Bullies and the pretty dolls of bullies.
People keep writing about the pussy-grabber-in-chief, president 45,the ninth fool, the father of all fat cats, his fascist tendencies, his vulgarities and unintelligence, and general negligence and un-presidential manner, how he’s courting nuclear disaster and imminent destruction not to mention those of us paying attention constantly wondering everyday how he and his Ilk will destroy, devalue, desecrate the earth, air, water, listen we need stricter rules for big pollution not less, we need clean air and water, these nihilistic, bring-on-the-end-times, apocalypse-jockeys are greasy weasels set to consume our bones and I just don’t have the grace or panache to put current events into good words and phrases. The news is always bad, and the society stays racist. Everything is cloaked in a bonnet of blood while safe satiated “Christians” flip houses for profit, praising creamy white shiplap and positive can-do attitudes as their manicured toes in wicker rattan platforms crush the shoulders of the ones beneath them. I have nothing to add to this conversation and I wish I could subtract all the banal evil from it.
It is the same now as it has always been. The rich profit, and the rest suffer.
KIDS THESE DAYS
The Greatest Generation are all gone.
Absent our holiday tables,
only their ghosts linger.
They’ve done their duty, earned their rest.
We’re stuck with The Baby Boomers and they are stuck with us,
their children, The Millennials.
Generation X is too busy with their own shit.
They don’t figure in this feud.
They have ten to twenty years on us Millennials.
They have jobs and kids and Etsy shops to run.
But never mind that for now.
All we hear at family gatherings:
the unrelenting chorus of
kids these days kids these days kids these days
Don’t have any respect, or work ethic, or common sense.
Want everything now-
tweeted, microwaved, digitally streamed
Boomers speak to us of a vanished world,
remember the early days of TV,
sleds of wood slats with metal runners,
carrying pocket knives to school,
going without seat belts and helmets,
civil unrest, desegregation,
Vietnam War/Protest,
the space-race,
Nixon, hippies, JFK.
They believe that America of brick and steel,
of midnight tokers and good-natured jokers
lives in a cloud castle
far from computers and terrorism,
unbothered by cellphones, pdfs, and more than two genders.
They look at us and don’t approve.
We don’t buy the dream they’re still trying to sell because
Kids these days kids these days kids these days
Can’t pay attention, can’t support themselves, need a safe space
They’re stuck with us and we’re stuck with them.
Absent our holiday tables,
ghosts of the Greatest Generation float,
offering no help but hollow smiles.
LAST DISPATCHES FROM THE DESPAIR FRONT
Justice weeps in the dark and none hear her cry
Brazen men of evil want her voice to die
They want her to be silent
They want her in the grave
For such a goddess none will praise
When all they know is “take”.
When will she arise again?
When we she come forth?
Brazen men of evil only understand force.
Someday soon the call will sound
Someday chained hearts break free
Justice will wake, rise in power,
And bring liberty
I’ll keep these hopes for freedom banked and glowing coals,
but they are quickly growing cold.
SURFACE PARADE
Sometimes the surface suffices,
the glossy glory of Coca-Cola,
Santa Claus and America: the official version.
Celebratory consumerism:
buy and eat
eat and buy
smile wide,
a pop star wrapped in a tailored pea coat.
Be uplifted like a massive cartoon balloon,
but don’t slip the grip of your handlers
for the pull of wind.
eat and buy
buy and eat
stuff the glossy surface
in your smiling mouth.
Never speak the unofficial version:
Sugar, Myth, and Imperialism.
Careful; don’t listen.
Those screams you thought you heard?
Just the wind.
buy and eat
eat and buy
the surface suffices.
ONE CAN HOPE
I saw Old Man Patriarchy shopping yesterday.
He was pale, had a dirty, grey beard
with food bits stuck in it,
and his mouth held
rotting stumps
of teeth.
Soon, his bite will be gone.
He was dragging
an oxygen tank behind him
as he desperately purchased
wheat grass powder,
the last grasp
at longevity.
His days grow shorter
and shorter,
his breath slower
and slower.
Soon,
if we all work very hard,
he will be in the grave forever,
one skeletal hand,
scratching at the coffin lid,
in vain.
FOURTH OF JULY 2017
Mermaid in a moonshine jar
Do you hear American exploding out there?
I sure do.
Fireworks
are racking
coughs
in the dying
throat
of freedom,
its consumptive lungs
hacking up blood and phlegm,
that’s your red and white,
and blue, the lips of liberty
as she suffocates,
throat stuffed with dollar bills,
struggling to see beyond the flaming stars
that burst
behind her fluttering eyelids.
Mermaid in a moonshine jar
How are you not drowning?
Because we are out here.
Beaks open like turkeys
to drink the rain.
The eagle long since swept away
in the deluge,
its noble corpse escorted
by a convoy of beer cans, plastic Pepsi bottles, metal sticks of sparklers.
Mermaid in a moonshine jar
Sing me your song
And take me down under the waves
Where I can’t hear these sad cannons
barking retreat.
AMERICAN’T
The Oppressor is US.
We shoot with no regard.
We spray tear gas,
rubber bullets,
and freezing water cannons.
We deport.
We ban.
And even if it’s not our hands
on the trigger of the gun or the teargas canister,
our hands tying the zip ties,
our hands probing at the terminal search,
our mouths questioning the political affiliation,
or our eyes looking scornfully
at what reading material,
it’s US who all broke lady liberty’s arm
and threw her torch into the sea.
It’s US who lifted the skirts of justice
to give all the old, rich, white men a leer and a grope.
It was Us who left her bleeding behind a dumpster.
It was US who shot her in the face when she called for our help,
and it’s US who put the biggest bully out of all of them in charge.
It was US it was US it was US.
Nor is it anything new.
One hand flying a flag flaunting freedom,
and one foot on the mountain of bones.
Bloated-corpse buzzards
feeding on the carrion
that carried on
until it couldn’t.
Keep looking, wondering how long
until the tanks roll across the asphalt,
crushing discarded debris as they go
how long before the booted feet
stomp across the suburb
past the stop signs,
and how long until the bullets’ laughter
chuckles lifeless, guttural,
where the robin once sang.
How long until the balls of play are all stilled,
leaving only silent bodies
with ravaged, skeletal hands
gripping backpacks full of homework
never to be finished?
How long before the machine comes rolling through?
Not long because
the trains are already
hauling heavy military vehicles
right through the square of my little town,
between the coffee shop and the antique mall.
Weary, white supremacy grinds down,
grinds down,
another wrinkle deeper,
another grey hair spreading,
streak widening across temples,
no temples to the god of time-moving-forward,
only altars to youth and anti-aging serum.
Mumbling ring around the rosy,
Sat at our Fourth of July picnics nice and cozy.
Amirah Al- Wassif
so lucky
so lucky because I am stuck here in my kingdom, in my chamber!
carving my oddity alone on the windows under the thunder
so lucky because I am struggling like a fighter
eating my worries, create the adventure
feeling more than what I should
thinking more than normal
so lucky because I am stuck here laugh at my memories like a monster
imagining a big battle between me and me
hearing an imaginary whisper!
so lucky even though my body covered with the answer
of how all the beauty has been shortened in the feather of painter?!
so lucky because I am not a member
when matter relates to a number
I am more than
I am the opener
of all locked doors
I am no border
and well
so lucky because I am a writer.
A Courage Woman Boil The Bananas
a courage woman boil the bananas
and watches her people on Haiti mountain
runaway behind her dream
with curly hair and hidden pain
she bribes the sun with her smile
to dissolve the hot and murmured
“ Amen”
a courage woman boil the bananas
and never experienced its taste
always surrounded with tents and hungrier
much secrets there, in her chest
counting the footsteps in the sand
reveals how many persons are lost!
the Haiti girl plants the corn with her father on the highest
she tides his body with the robes, she trying her best
and to make our life better
what should we do?
if we through our ages truly suffer
if all our times were blue?
a courage woman boil the bananas
and touches her baby skin
“ Work…Work” a sound around cries in the space said by men
she tore the tent with a huge passion
she never understands what a mean of station
where everybody needs to dream, to travel
but there isn’t her reality level
a courage woman boil the bananas
and watches her people on Haiti mountain
runaway behind her dream
with curly hair and hidden pain
she bribes the sun with her smile
to dissolve the hot and murmured
” Amen”
At The Funeral Of 50 Barefoot Man
once upon a time
there was an ancient place
which called “Amon village”
that a very far spot
where everybody talks
about the river legend
that a very far spot
where everybody knows
how to distinguish
the smell of fresh bread
there, at the Amon village
where all the folk lives
in their dreams
and the blazing sun cry
against the face of heaven
there, where the poor sweeper
drowning in the colors of the rainbow
and the great brown mountains
announce its upper secret
to the mass grave
in the Amon village
where everybody talks
about the river legend
and the real tale of
50 barefoot man
in the ancient village
all people are storytellers
and all of them say
the same story
which starts with
once upon a time
there were 100 man
lived together in the same village
but 50 of them were barefoot
and the other 50 had fancy shoes!
50 man sweeping the streets
and 50 men making the bread
50 ones looking for more!
50 shoes in luxury leather
and 50 toes inflamed and cracked
the river recognized the difference
between the shoes and the toes
then it made a good decision
according to the nature rules
and the river understood
the difference between
the torn clothing and the perfect ones
then it made a good decision
according to the nature rules
on the ragged edge, all the people walk
under the boiling sun
all people talk
and there were two kinds of talking
talking from shoe to shoe
and talking from toe to toe
and the river didn’t love that kind of speech
so, it made a good decision
according to the nature rules
50 barefoot man carrying
their empty pots
their facial bones
tell you about long age of bitterly
shabby dresses, fearful eyes
ancient faces full of pimples
much sweat
and shaky hands
50 barefoot man bearing their pain
looking for a way
to protect their feet
from another pain
but the shattered glass
everywhere
the dispossessed people died
and the rest were alive around the river
laughing, jumping, drinking
but the river has a sense of justice
so, it made a good decision
according to the nature rules
and, dried up!
Red Focks
Peaceful protests are
Half-Measures & it’s
Half-Past time to act
So get mad
Get loud &
Fuck shit up!
The only time
you ever bring
a super-soaker
to a gunfight
is when its
full of kerosene
and the enemy is
marching forward
with burning torches
When people ask me if I’m a democrat or a republican, I just start talking about cheese. I tell them that american ‘cheese’ is not cheese. If you like american cheese, whatever. I think it tastes shit’s mucus but you can like american cheese all you want; however if you think it’s real cheese, you’re wrong. Fact-of-the-matter is american cheese is popular, they use it at mcdonalds, and there’s a lot of it, but not one of those things qualify it as cheese. Real cheese takes time, patience, and the love of cheesemaking.
A lot of people today obliviously walk around in a daze of misplaced aggression going “fuck, american cheese is not even cheese anymore!”, but american cheese was never cheese and deep down they know it. American cheese has always been disgusting and whorelike. It was gross 10 years ago, it was gross 100 years ago and it gross now too. Nothing has changed.
A south korean entertainment studio in the near future pays american contestants one thousand united states dollars for every pound of fat they can gain, all the way until they decide to cash out. The south koreans document the house win eighty-eight percent of the time, as fat greedy assholes kill themselves trying to get to three hundred thousand dollars. south korea makes deals with all the companies behind the sugary, greasy, deep fried foods being consumed. The advertising alone pays for the twelve percent who go on their fat and happy ways.
Ben Shapiro, but
with the ebola virus
DESTROYING his ass
If you
call racism
on all
you hate
then defend
prolonged
military strangleholds
in the cradle
of civilization
You’re the real
racist.
Words
could never
archive
genuine
mayhem
without
a little help
from their friends
“Let me explain something to you junior, in the real world we need to drop bombs on Syria to protect Syrians from the Russians.”
Folks note
the cops in
amerikkka
would slaughter us
if we all put on
yellow vests
and fucked the system.
Begrudgingly,
I agree,
but only
partially.
They’d shoot us
They’d kill us
but they wouldn’t kill
all of us
they couldn’t kill
all of us
their masters
wouldn’t allow them
to kill all of us.
Their game doesn’t load
If their dogs kill
all of us.
So the question is
how many
are ready
to finally
live free
or die.
Will the real middle class please stand up? I see twenty million foreclosed houses and everybody I know is just one ride in the back of an ambulance away from fucking poverty if they haven’t gotten there already. Al Bundy used to be funny before moving into a mcmansion with his modern family. Peggy got to keep the kids and the debt. A raised ranch with a white picket fence used to cost seven grand; now that won’t even buy you a used Mercedes from 1980 with no breaks. Superstores have absorbed the mom & pop shops. Some fucking scumbag with a bowtie lies through his teeth on both of the 24-hour news stations. He says that anybody who wants to raise the minimum wage is greedy. So will the middle class please stand up? It seems to me that if you’re not all extinct you’re a severely endangered species.
1000%
This
is a message
for the left wing
establishment types
as I will soon
find myself
reluctantly
in your corner
by default
When you ask questions like
“Do you really think
that the CIA
and FBI
would lie
to the public?”
Those types of questions
really irk
everybody
who knows
one thousand percent
that they would.
The Audacity of Politely Suggesting We Stop Using Plastic Straws & Other Creative Ways to Hold The Moral High Ground Over Smug Vegans Who Think Their Outrage is More Important Than My ShitFuckingGodDamned Outrage.
War is a cancer
and there’s no profit
in a cure, so we
attack the symptoms
and vindicate the
DISEASE
What I loathe most about him
is that he stole something beautiful.
An absurdist attack on the status quo.
Sending in the clowns.
A rebel without a point.
Fake news equivalency.
A fuck you too.
Standing for nothing
Is better than
standing for giraffe rape.
Pussy grabbing
Xenophobic fearmongering
Kim Kardashian
and drone strikes
on to the disenfranchised.
It’s an ambush.
They stole
a moment
of clarity
and gave us
a Nazi.
Now you hate him
and he’s calling
Liars
liars
so the liars
he’s calling
liars
must be telling the truth.
Two hundred thousand
Vietnamese rice farmers
Did what they had to
I’m carefully selecting my words, rather than my stances. I must defend asshole strangers, carefree of my existence, up until the next election. I can’t use words like “war”, because they just don’t understand why it’s okay when we do it. Freedom isn’t free. Sometimes you just gotta kill brown people. But, it’s not racism when we do it. Racism is a white man with dreadlocks, eating Pad Tai. Racism is killing those same brown people, and then giving all my money to rich people. God Damn you sons of bitches for not seeing the difference. What do you people want? Money? It’s simple economics! If they give the money to the middle class, we’ll use it to help you peasants eventually! Instead of pointing out my affiliations several glaring atrocities, and hypocritical similarities to it’s counterpart, why don’t you have some compassion, not be such a racist, and vote for Michelle Obama in 2020? Together, we can make systematic genocide not only acceptable, not only profitable, but fashionable.
Today is INTERNATIONAL MEN’S DAY
So, watch football
Drink some beer
Ride a motorcycle
Personify God
Slap your wife
Erode the atmosphere
Deny climate change
Make a dolphin live in a bathtub
Mass murder
Steal land
Amplify your farts
and have a cigar
Because men kill themselves sometimes, and that’s a problem for some reason.
The only person who can stop a bad Hollywood sex-offender with a gun is a good Hollywood sex-offender with a gun.
I pledge allegiance to myself, amongst a united society of life-forms.
With respect for the planet which we all inhabit.
One love, with God running through me.
An individual for the liberty and justice of everybody.
TONIGHT ON INFOWHORES
Some jackoff with a fake british accent sticks his iPhone camera two inches from his face, and pontificates about how respecting the government makes you a rebel, while protesting corporate fascism makes you a complaint sheep.
THEN
Some nasally blonde tart complains about how anybody who disagrees with her dad is a snowflake.
AND FINALLY
A clickbaiting baked potato goes over how Donald Trump’s fifteenth meeting with Henry Kissinger will DESTROY the globalist agenda, before advertising some bullshit male enhancement supplements.
YOU ARE THE RESISTANCE.
(Your racist grandparents would be so proud of you)
Heidi Blakeslee
Poop-ageddon
I want to gather the shit
of ten dog kennels
put it in grocery bag sized
paper bags
throw them on mitch mcconnell’s
front porch
and light all
that shit
on fire
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
Worn Out Lies
The worn out lies
go on living.
They come and go.
Who has not heard them?
They know they are lies.
Who has not heard them?
They go in and out.
I never believe them.
I still hear them,
the same old lies,
at all hours.
The worn out lies
that have hardened America.
Work Under The Sun
The pay is okay for someone that has nothing.
The hours are fine for someone that needs to eat.
The boss is not seen, and the boss likes it that way.
Time goes on as the sun dissolves your bones.
Life is stacked against you. Sisyphus’s rock
flattens you, tosses you aside at the end of the day.
Your hands are the working tool that toils against
death’s inequitable clock. If you rage against this
machine, the machine will dispose of your body.
Time takes its turn with the sun. You work hard
as raw hands ache. There are no medical benefits.
You are a mere object to the one in charge, who
does not see you as a man, just someone who is
there, a machine that works. The unseen boss
steals your time and your life without losing sleep.
Scott Thomas Outlar
Rush Hour
The oil fields
are on fire
in an Apocalyptic blaze,
but the gasoline
still flows freely
from a million pumps
into a billion cars
that suck greedily
upon the teat
of a black gold feast,
guzzling petrol by the gallon
to serve rush hour need
in a fast paced world,
before belching
the acidic fumes
into an increasingly cloudy sky,
poisoning the atmosphere
with a haze of smog
that hangs heavily
over all our heads
like an ominous bomb
ready to drop
its load of doom at any minute
to prove the theory
that nature
always gets the last laugh;
and fools
only quicken their pace
toward an already yawning grave
that doesn’t need any help
but sure as hell
won’t turn down the assistance
in filling the plot with bones,
covering them over with dirt,
and spinning the next cycle
in a give and take process
toward a fossilized future
laid to rest and waste.
This Little Piggy
How many ways
can I say
that the bankers are crazed
and their system is insane
so should be slain
and buried in a twelve foot grave?
Well, if the dirty derivatives
created from the filth
of their fraudulent machinations
carry the key
then I suppose the answer
is several trillion at least.
Ten fingers
and ten toes
can’t carry that load
so maybe it’s time
to start smashing
all such calculations
until the digits
return to a zero-point.
A clean break
from the Beast
might save us all
from the heat
of this fresh hell
that has begun to rage
exponentially
out of control.
Mendes Biondo
Never Write About Politics
never write about politics
elena said to me once
and catfish told me too
that shit will drive you mad
write about sex or something else
even writing about a fridge is better
than politics
I’ve always followed their suggestion
I know politics is the death of our spirits
a bad vibration
a cancer growing in our worst nightmares
but there’s something I need to do now
while people are fighting all around the world for a cause
while I’m watching the news at the TV
eating a cold sandwich and drinking beer
I don’t care if they’re right or left
I care if there’s a bit of madness in what they’re doing
those people are trying to set
another way to live
they are running mad like bulls
into pamplona’s street
they are crashing our heads with choirs
they are showing us the blood of society
I ask sociologists
politicians
political experts and brokers
to shut up now
those masses are a poem
they are not able to understand
a toi charmant guillotine
and the world changed
and the people changed
peace and love
and the world spun again
and the music of different cultures played
another song
it’s the revolution baby
it’s a poem made of flesh
now please listen to their bodies
to fire burning
to glasses exploding
hurray motherfuckers
hurray
we are alive
again
Dustin Pickering
d.t. (45)
we held him in our arms
we hid in the fleece of our forefathers
he claims to have witnessed everything
he was here when the foundations
were erected,
builder and cheap embezzler
wicked starlet at his side
smiling, ridding the air of doubt
after all, he’s innocuous
his demons are in her shadows
listen to the quaking of our resolve
hindered from forward contemplation
the night is long and scattered
bled of its possibilities
given a wall
erects a statement
that we will not tolerate the refugee
we will deny the tattered raiments
their alms, driving out with gas their cries
enslaving them to histories they won’t experience
blind
i am blind
as a prophet
seeing distant lands
but dark to the hand
in front of me
as i write interiorized worlds
muses vindicate,
salivating over meanings
fleshed from circumstance
as poems are empty of everything
terms are set
borders of language
doesn’t insulate meaning
don’t make safe zones
in ignorant heads
the fear resounds
like an echo in the mountains
terrorists hide behind the pronouns
as they bark out orders and demands
i am blind, i am blind
the victims can rest assured
Jennifer Dunford-Roskos
resurrection insurrections and situational absurdity
mayday ghost of phil ochs roams chicago
while some providence friends are
tagged in facebook mugshots
banging marching drums and chanting
on the mall escalator
they are arrested
and banned from shopping
for a year
fearing a black mark on my permanent record
my rebellion is reduced to signing
change.org petitions
i checked the boxes
to halt the geese genocide
legalize gay marriage
and demand the release of
jailed insurrectionists
while snow
falls
on homeless foreheads
in tent cities
Jeff Weddle
MAGA
Listen, I eat nails for breakfast
and keep mountain lions for pets
since tigers are hard to find
and a hair too prissy.
I can whip any three men in a fair fight
and five if I hit low.
My heart is as hard as coal, and blacker,
and I can’t begin to remember
how many women whose love
I’ve used and cast aside.
I’m meaner than Genghis Kahn
and twice as ugly.
I can’t decide if I should fuck your mother next
or your daughter
but I can tell you your wife
is a decent lay,
even if she can’t suck dick for shit.
I’ll be at your place later on,
just to kick your ass for fun.
You know me, brother.
Don’t act like you don’t.
Listen now.
Hey, where do you think you’re going?
Did I say you could leave?
Okay.
All right.
I see what’s going on.
Forget it.
Forget that stuff.
Dumb shit can’t take a joke.
Hey, put that down.
For God’s sake stop hitting me.
Sweet Jesus. Stop.
Can’t we just make America great again?
THESE MOST PRESSING THINGS
It is easy to give in:
The poverty of the aged;
youth with slender chance;
lost love, or no love, or love unrequited;
hatred become fashion;
reason stuffed in a box to die;
addled men;
women consumed with rage;
children left in ovens;
starving dogs in the road;
cats plotting our death;
overpriced dreams,
and nightmares ten for a dollar.
It is easy to give in, and if you don’t
you will be punished,
but your scars will bear glory.
Your wounds will comfort the infirm.
Your weariness will shine on the darkest night,
the night foretold as the end of things,
and the world might blossom anew.
Or maybe not.
Maybe you will simply resist
and no one but you will know.
Either way, it is agony.
Either way you will be misunderstood.
Reviled.
Either way, to someone, you become the villain.
It is easy to give in. So many do it every day.
Dave Roskos
TRICKLE DOWN ECONOMICS
How’s this for trickle-down economics?
Hang all the rich mother fuckers
upside down by their feet
so all their money falls
out of their pockets.
Welcome to Amerika
Welcome to Amerika.
Take a number
& go to the back of the line.
Don’t mind the uniforms
with automatic rifles,
they are here for you
Protection
& all them police in the streets
in armored tanks…
well, you have only
yourselves to thank
& the cop who ran over
all them children
in front of the Indoctrination
Building, he’s real sorry
& is being held accountable,
suspended for a week
with pay!
Paul Hellweg
My Life as a Short Poem
sometimes just making it through the night
is miracle enough
sometimes just making it through the day
is miracle enough
I’m always caught off-guard
whenever I encounter someone
who doesn’t believe in miracles
Life in the 21st Century
Fast food
TV movies
rock & roll,
a plethora of excess
seduces my soul,
never hungry,
never cold,
never me,
gone
gone
gone.
previously published in Poetic Diversity
Tom Blessing
It Ends in a Cloud of Dust
We stood in the center of the town. Perhaps a thousand of us. In the center of our circle stood an older woman, Naakkanna. Her daughter, Saatta, sat with a drum between her legs. Only the wind blowing between the buildings and rustling the leaves on the trees could be heard. As we stood, we knew more were watching from the windows of the surrounding apartments and buildings. Others stood in smaller circles in the parks and at the gates.
Saatta began to slowly tap the drum. Naakkanna bowed her head and began to sway in rhythm to the drum. She raised her head and began the Habbittata chant. All of us were swaying to the beat which began to speed up. At first we chanted quietly. But, soon our voices were loud enough that the pigeons on the rooftops flew off. Throughout the town the same ritual was being performed. The sound rose like a cloud and hovered above the us. The watchers from the hills around the town could hear the Habbittata. It shook the trees, dust rose from the roads, and small pebbles rolled down the hillsides.
The volume and speed of the chanting picked up. Other drums from around the town were joining in. Soon other instruments joined. People were standing on roof tops joining in the chant.
And then Saatta stopped drumming and the other drums and instruments went silent. The chanting slowed and quieted until only Naakkanna’s voice was left as she turned and walked toward the main gates of the town. We followed and were joined by others from around the town.
We began to march in unison. Step Step StepStep The cobble stones began to vibrate with the rhyme. The gates were swung open and we marched out, spread out in front of the town walls and then began to march toward the hills where the enemy stood watching from the hilltops.
A quarter mile from the base of the hills the long line stopped and silence became a cloak that covered us. Naakkanna and Saata stepped to the front facing the hills. Saata slowly began the beat and other instruments in the crowd joined in. Naakkanna stepped forward and began the chant. All of us joined in and slowly to the rhythm of the chant and dance began to walk slowly toward the hills. On the crest of them the enemy raised their shields and swords and began beating them together. The volume of the chant had risen and we couldn’t hear their yells or clashing. As we neared the base of the hills we stopped moving forward and stood chanting, drumming and stomping in place. The hills began to move. Sand flowed down the side at first slowly and then faster and faster. The enemy lines suddenly found the soil beneath their feet begin to move and collapse. Soon the army that hadn’t moved back quick enough found themselves enveloped in sand flowing like water out onto the plain A cloud of dust rose around the collapsing hills and we continued until the flows of sand were too close for safety. We turned and to the beat of the drums retreated away from the loess hills. The wind was picking up as it usually did this time of year. Sand was rising in a curtain of cloud. We wrapped scarfs around our noses and mouths and turned back toward town our objective now completed. When the wind quiets we will go out and honor their dead and bury those we can find.
Ammi Romero
The
slave masters
require
blood.
The heads
of my brothers
and sisters
bleed in the shadows;
the geoengineered
night calls out
to my bones.
The breaking skies
whisper,
close your eyes,
look inside,
love thy neighbor
and sin no more.
Tax payer bombs
free fall
like limp arms,
the land flows
with nose bleeds
stretching a river
of sacrifice
from the east
out to the west.
Let nations
rise rebellion,
the empire will fall.
The Body
I walk out,
look up
to chem-trails
blanketing
a simulated sky,
rays of radiation
penetrate
the blood,
cells convulse
In veins.
Brain birds
feed nervous
system wires,
they regurgitate
lymph nodes
to the bustling city
cries of traffic.
My sisters
rejoice in the kidneys,
my brothers
In the liver;
the organs are theirs.
The illusion of day
plays like a little
child.
Our people
Is the skeletal;
the muscles
and ligaments
their
home.
Honey nuts in your Cheerios
The breakfast of champs
GMO certified
Carcinogenic pesticide
guaranteed to collapse your B’s.
Zombie Hive Consciousness
A civilization of cadavers scatter the land, I crucify the world dangled inside god particle; Swallow me daughter of the day, creep your moon under the destruction of the gatekeeper, your grievance falls on holy war, slithering down The Mount of Olives. The tongues of your martyrs shed the valley of the shadow of death like my umbilical stub.
Mike Zone
Mona in Amerika #1
In the shimmering emerald rain
of the inhuman dawn
the man in the yellow hat
hunchbacked- weasel featured
almond eyes crossed toward a mauled cashew nose
flits and limps around- fleabag motel
HOME- 35 dollars a night
scraps of chicken wings, beef shreds ham bone
bundled in newspaper and twine
friends with the butcher’s assistant
they play checkers and drink
belt out dead love songs on a busted six-string
labor ravaged, soul maddened, tragic comic dynamos
too old to live too young to die
slow mutants of inevitability
rooms 206 and 209
where the unwanted go to die
a tinge of disappointment
whenever day breaks or night descends
eggplant child on tricycle
pisses near the swimming pool
indeterminate sex- locked out from the room
of determined sex and food stamp paydays
Mona turned to me and asked “…is this Amerika?”
The Fugitive
The fugitive put down his hat
he sat on the crate
vintage discarded Unity Produce Company
“I’d like to explain a few things.” He said
brushing off his yellow fedora
slicking back what remained
once raven, now gun metal gray
sprouting from crisped scalp
a purge by fire, baptism by acid
liquid gold by sweat of men’s hands
blood bound for the land
via the formulation of brotherly bonds
soul in the dark dwelling of human bondage
men of dust and ashes unto flesh
he sighed
that was all that needed to be said
in unknown intimacy
at once confession and proclamation
the visitor got up to leave
carefully parted the blinds
through slits and slivers of moon
the necropolis of exiles
shined on
awaiting daybreak air-sirens
and manic tragedy
Mona in Amerika#2
She’s thinking of meeting
the man in the yellow hat
in tight cut-off denims and butterfly tank top
she needs a job
enter Hamburger Joe’s
nearly a trillion served
deep fried burgers, slaw fries, bacon topped ice-cream
at lightning speed
a stupid hat, $40 uniform fee
must be available: days, nights, weekends, holidays
7 days a week
expect between 9 and 24 hours
starting pay25 cents above minimum
it’s within walking distance
saves on bus fare
allows for minor contemplation
on the receding homeland and Sisyphus boulder
mom’s at the axis of it all
which is really the crossroads of delayed death
or immediate death
walking in front of a bus as factory doors close
a dollar over minimum cashiering at the mart
a circus of value and conflicting time changes
Mona fingering Baltic curls, gazing at her sister
back from daycare, sores on her mouth
still hungry but refusing to eat
macaroni hotdog, sloppy-joe sauce surprise
call it “Tidy Joe” on a bun
in her uniform before work
tighter pants for job security
appease the manager with wolfish eyes
light on make-up
so as not to signify
instant give-away
Mona sighs and asks, “is this Amerika?”
Outside the bathroom window
The man in the yellow hat
stares down his rusted toilet
swirling- pondering death
he knows better
having chances after chance
to shuffle the mortal coil
while still a fugitive
poisoning poets
pointing murderers to friends
once upon a time dissidence meant resistance
instead of a bargaining chip for dying lives
outwardly scarred, internally deformed
awaits the butcher’s assistant strumming his blue guitar
soon she will be dead like her mother, sister, father
(an old country woe)
next time he’ll use the service station bathroom
across the street- it’s less haunted
it’s inherited
the owner is royalty
Mona in Amerika#3
“Deer hunting with Jesus,
no other reason to be.”
What Shane said to Mona
with his rabbit crucifix tattoo
Mona in a complex mood
rethinking them all too important taboos
first one being incest, then cannibalism followed by something
akin to death
or was it truth smacked by god
with a lack of god, being you?
in the truck waiting for Shane
not exactly a country boy nor a full-on suburban lad
mostly just a kid
getting cigarettes and soda
pretending to be poor
there’s the one-armed man with haunted eyes
with his dead movie star looks
wearing green polo, in love with his girl
silver highlighted face
like she just soared the space-ways
reflecting his death and her’s
right there in painted face and done-up flashing eyes
Shane’s out the store with a smile
a bottle of sparkling pink lemonade and condoms
admires the glowing cherry of his cigarette
fixated on Mona’s cherry glowing- possible moaning
Mona doesn’t exactly want that
doesn’t exactly have anywhere to go
looks to the couple
considers a tub of bubbles
with the three of them inside
they look
at her
“is this Amerika” she asks
For the fuck’s sake of security, and good will, and patriotism they will protect you from the truths, and the falsehoods, but mostly the counter-lucratives.
- Nicholas Redf (Facebook user)
Alien Buddha Press 