The Alien Buddha Contracts Covid 19 Act 6: Essential Work

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In the rust belt by Jay Miner

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They want us all dead

 

the upper one percent

 

the politicians

 

the bankers & other

 

greedy elitist cocksuckers

 

they want to

 

make us all heel

 

make us lick their boots

 

replace us all with robots

 

so they can have more for themselves

 

and their fat cunt mistresses &

 

their underaged love slaves

 

in the rust belt

 

we were already

 

dying as it was

 

choking on exhaust

 

running on fumes

 

spitting out loose teeth

 

as the gears of industry

 

came to a grinding halt

 

in the rust belt

 

they told us to adapt

 

which meant to be grateful

 

for minimum wage &

 

less hours & no benefits

 

& now that is gone too

 

as people are told

 

to stay inside &

 

eat shit & worry

 

in the rust belt

 

this new virus thing of theirs

 

is the final nail

 

in a discount store coffin

 

double mortgaged

 

on the backs of the

 

blood, sweat, tears and cum

 

of the ghosts of our dead relatives

 

many of whom were too goddamn dumb and proud

 

to tell us to get the fuck out of dodge

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Conversation with Corona Virus 2020

by Walid Abdallah

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Walid Abdallah is an Egyptian poet and author. He is a visiting professor of English language and literature in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Germany and the USA, his poetry includes “Go Ye Moon”, ” Dream” and “My heart still beats” And has several translated poems which won prestigious prizes in the USA like “Cause”, “Egypt’s Grief”, and “Strangers’ Cross”, his books include Shout of Silence, Escape to the Realm of Imagination, and Man Domination and Woman Emancipation.

 

Why have you come from nothingness?

I have come to cause death and sadness?

 

Why would you like to destroy and kill?

People trade in one another and sell

 

Why do you appear now?

To make savage people bow

 

Are you happy with causing pain?

You created me, I can’t explain

 

Do you know people hate your nature?

People invented every pain and torture

 

When will you leave us alone?

When I finish my job soon

 

Do you come to change destiny?

I come to eliminate every tyranny

 

Why do you kill the innocent?

Every war has victims’ percent

 

What do you really need?

I want to implant peace seed

 

What do you think you can really do?

I already stopped all the wars flow

 

What else can you do to impose quietness?

I made all people equal, I imposed fairness

 

Aren’t you afraid of America, China or England?

I already beat all their troops on every land

 

What about Germany, Russia and Italy?

They are nothing, I am the absolute reality

 

What is your final message?

Make peace your only passage

 

What is your final need?

To end your ego and greed

 

When will you show some mercy?

When good prevails, and evil must flee

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moonlight Serenade by Patricia Carragon

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Patricia Carragon’s recent publications include Bear Creek Haiku, BigCityLit, Jerry Jazz Musician, Live Mag!, Narrative Northeast, Nixes Mate, Panoplyzine, Stardust Haiku, and The New Verse News. She has forthcoming work from EOAGH and The Paterson Review. Her latest books from Poets Wear Prada are Meowku and The Cupcake Chronicles, and Innocence from Finishing Line Press. Her first novel, Angel Fire, is forthcoming from Alien Buddha Press. Patricia hosts Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. She is an executive editor for Home Planet News Online. Patricia lives in Brooklyn.

 

 

Charlie was in bed,

tubes attached to his body,

listened to cartoons

on a nineteen-inch screen,

thought of Sophia,

his “Belle of Flatbush.”

 

When la luna was full,

Charlie used to sing

Moonlight Serenade

outside Sophia’s gate.

They’d slow-dance

to Glenn Miller’s rendition.

He’d relax his rhythm,

hold Sophia closer,

recall how safe she felt.

Her soft brown curls

would drape on his shoulder—

her smoky eyes—

stelle colorate, tinted stars

over a make-believe Brooklyn sky.

 

His protective hold couldn’t save her

from breast cancer twenty years ago,

their two sons from Viet Nam’s death call,

or their daughter from her husband’s fists.

A massive stroke took Sonny,

his last living friend.

His relatives were either dead

or couldn’t care less.

 

Charlie was in bed,

tubes attached to his body,

alone—except for routine visits from

the nursing home staff,

wondered if Sophia would be there for him

when he leaves for the morgue.

He hummed Moonlight Serenade,

but a dry cough cut his tune short.

Sadness, age, and high fever

drained his cognition and will to live.

His memory was of the past,

not the present.

 

He prayed for Death’s visit—

Death would wear a white coat,

walk past the rooms,

make decisions on who’s to come

and who’s to stay.

But Death forgot about him—

perhaps Death’s eyesight was fading

when he came by last week,

took Hector instead.

Tina, his favorite nurse,

no longer visited him—

was in critical condition

due to a new virus going around.

 

He closed his eyes,

saw Glenn Miller and his band

perform Moonlight Serenade

at the Waldorf Astoria.

Everything was in Technicolor.

Sophia,

radiant and youthful,

rose from her table.

She came closer,

her smoky eyes—

stelle colorate, tinted stars

over a make-believe Brooklyn sky.

 

By the entrance,

a man in a white coat

checked his clipboard,

greeted Charlie with a smile

and opened the gate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tribute to the Viral Deluge by Jeremy Blizard

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Jeremy Blizard is from Morgantown, WV. He enjoys writing, making music, reading and improv

 

We moved from cancel culture

To a canceled culture

Metamorphosis straight

From Ovid’s lips

Erect a cordon around the potential

Covid populace

Crown the worlds elitists down

At old camp coronation

Another inward facing razor fence

For safety in this corona nation

An easy out

A blessing from on high

Street preachers chanting eighty four

Lines in this brave new world

The collapse was best left

For sci-fi tv series and Hugo gilded books

No riots needed for a structure fire

Just trying to stay warm

Olive shimmering linen

Doesn’t burn as well in reality

Have you paid your

Dear old doomsday prepper

To show you how to cover sticks

With leaves and loss?

Have you packed your brain

With every zombie flick

Before the internet is sparse as gods?

Internment cages in the headlines

Of foreign border crossers

Changed to safety implements

And approved by the people

Can’t you see you’re all blind hypocrites?

That fever is just shame

You’re infected with the truth

It doesn’t go away

You’ll never be immune

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lust in contagion by Carrie Magness Radna

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Born in Norman, Oklahoma, Carrie Magness Radna is an archival audiovisual cataloger at the New York Public Library, a singer, a lyricist-songwriter, and a poet who loves to travel. Her poems have previously appeared in the Oracular Tree, Tuck Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, First Literary Review-East, Mediterranean Poetry, Shot Glass Journal, Walt’s Corner, Polarity e-Magazine, The Poetic Bond (VIII &IX), and The spirit, it travels: an anthology of transcendent poetry (Cosmographia: published August 3, 2019) and will be published in Nomad’s Choir, Jerry Jazz Musician and Cajun Mutt Press. Her first chapbook, Conversations with dead composers at Carnegie Hall (Flutter Press) was published on January 18, 2019, and Remembering you as I go walking (Boxwood Star Press) was published on August 23, 2019.  Her upcoming poetry collection, Hurricanes never apologize, will be published by Luchador Press. She won third prize for “The tunnel” (Category: Words on the Wall: All-Genre Prompt) at the 69th annual Philadelphia Writers’ Conference (2017). She also won 12th place “Lily (no. 48 of Women’s names sensual series)” by the 2018 Writer’s Digest Poetry Awards. She is a member of the Greater New York Music Library Association (GNYMLA), and is a member of the New York Poetry Forum, Parkside Poets, Riverside Poets, Brownstone Poets and Nomad’s Choir. When she’s not performing classical choral works with Riverside Choral Society or New Year’s Eve performances with the New York Festival Singers, or writing art song lyrics with her choir buddies, or traveling, she lives with her husband Rudolf in Manhattan.

 

His heart was carved

out of modern cowboys.

 

She smiled her pirate grin

under the mask,

hoping both of them

wouldn’t disappear—

 

but their bodies did

under blue cotton bedsheets

rivaling horizontal clouds.

 

(They were not causal visitors;

no worries. They lived together

for many years)

 

but in these times of

#AloneTogether,

boring couple routines

should be suspended—

 

The living room

shouldn’t become another law firm;

where does the poetry go?

 

She grabs his smart tie

after the last virtual meeting of the day:

“There’s more work to do…in here…

 

Outside clothes are shed,

gloves are peeled off;

a sexy, communal hot shower

before the big event—

 

“And when we get

behind closed doors”

we’ll let our hair hang down*

 

 

*–From Behind closed doors (1973), written by Kenny O’Dell

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pharaoh By Mark Bruce

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Mark Bruce is a lawyer in San Bernardino. He won the 2018 Black Orchid Novella Award for his story “Minerva James and the Goddess of Justice.” He’s had pieces in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Writers Digest, Rattle and other magazines. He is a disabled Vietnam-era Vet.

 

Pharaoh tells us

That it’s all

Under control,

That nothing

Will harm us

That our animal gods

Will protect us.

 

Pharaoh says

Not to believe those

Who say the sickness

Is coming like

Purple clouds

Before a stinging rain.

 

Pharaoh says

It’s all false,

What the Hebrews say

About the coming

Plague, and how

We will lose

Our first born.

 

Do not smear

Lambs blood

Across your doors,

Pharaoh says.

That will only show

You are gullible enough

To believe the foolish

Alarms of the Israelites.

 

Don’t worry about the dead,

Pharaoh says,

They would have

Died anyway.

 

Believe me,

Pharaoh says,

Believe that we’re

All safe and that

Pharaoh and his advisors

Already have a plan

To stop the Sickness.

 

Believe me,

Pharaoh says,

I’m the only one

Not lying to you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quarantine Poems by Kirsty Niven

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Kirsty Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland. Her writing has been published in several anthologies including Heat the Grease: We’re Frying Up Some Poetry, Nocturne: Poetry of the Night and From The Ashes. Kirsty’s poetry has also appeared in numerous journals and magazines, such as Re-Side, Monstrous Regiment and The Poet. She can also be found online on sites like The BeZine, Voices and Prachya Review.

 

Coldside in Quarantine

The vacant sun gazes into the distance,

absent-mindedly turning the heat up.

Leaves fade to leather,

empty streets sigh as everything withers.

The stack sleeps standing upright,

stuck in a stoic stance.

It accepts it is alone,

isolation just another phase.

Static air suffocates,

insufficient ventilation;

the street a still life painting.

 

 

Lull

The sunlight outside is hissing, hissing,

and the clock’s tick slows to a snail’s pace

as I wait for the drone of the phone,

its dark screen a black hole that sucks.

Rays slide in, swiping across the floor;

the vase in the window becomes a sun dial.

Shadows pass over me in jail cell bars

and I stagnate in the stalking silence.

The sunlight outside is hissing, hissing.

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