In the rust belt by Jay Miner
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
Alien Buddha Press 
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