Did the Alien Buddha Destroy the Economy?
By Jeremy Blizard
As new foundations were mastered
Handcrafted from cracked concrete
Where the dying world
Tried to touch to the sun
We need no wax wings to determine
That we reached too far this time
We question and claim
But never again
Will we have the chance to sing
So we screamed:
David Icke knows the truth!
The serpent men have infiltrated
Freemason, Illuminati, governments abide
Lovecraftian Cthulhu conspiracies
We all know about the Denver airport!
YouTube fed the truth into my third eye
Inculcated cataclysmic ideations
We just can’t turn it off
Yellowstone is about to blow
Bitcoin has destabilized the central banks
They’re afraid of a decentralized idea
Anonymous will take us home
Back to the beginning of time
Where screens don’t couch us
Alien intruders, not visitors
Borders built in space
To pat our xenophobia on the back
From rigged elections, Iran Contra
Steal the oil or destroy the world
The government creates all disease
AIDS to kill the gays
COVID for the poor and black
Half a billion to paint the wall
Sixty times that to save the post
But freethinkers roam too freely still
Allowing more critical thought
Or is it…
Maybe fueling the fire
Another media conglomerate
More fake news to force compliance!
Report the false flag operations
Interview the fathers of the slain
Claim they don’t exist
What mockery is this?
9/11 was an inside job
Alex Jones knew the truth of Sandy Hook
Or are these right-wing nutjobs
Just a consequence of a world
Built on fame and social stature
Collecting millions of portraits
Of The Eye of Providence?
Stories told in endless loops
Espousing self-proclaimed wisdom
And then there are the other ones
Who seek no fortune nor fame
Who turn the world upside down
Just in a different way
When we offer time for free
The most valuable currency
Are we killing the economy?
Should we kill the economy?
Is the Alien Buddha contributing
To the change the world requires?
We can only hope.
Isolation Poems by Heather Pease
Heather Pease, believes herself to be a writer and poet. Better known as a fighter, a wise soul, and smart ass. Some would even say a funny chick, definitely a girl with a bite, and a goof. he recently published her first book of poetry ‘Out of the Weeds’ and has had work appear in the San Diego Poetry Annual. She lives in Southern California, sheltered in place with 2 cats and her family.
Soon we will count
the dead by who we
know or knew.
Soon it won’t matter if
your backyard is full
Life will be recorded as
and I don’t know which
statistic I will be
part of, or how to prepare for
anything — except breathing.
Monsters in closets don’t seem
as scary. At least they
are home, and safe.
Each night a survival, but
the clock ticks on. I’ve stopped
setting the alarm.
Is anyone ever really
prepared –when the end
could be tomorrow? These thoughts
are now rational.
So is admitting
fear, as we shelter in place;
reminiscing about hugs
we may never
There are people we
will want to reach
out to – but don’t.
Even in a pandemic
things will remain
Regret will be a list too
long. Nothing will ever
be the same. Soon
we will stop
being in denial
of what is our own
who am I kidding? We’re
Plague lingers where we
breathe, waiting to take
hold of your lungs
spread like the heat
of an oven on a cold
day — stealing breath.
Outside the warm sun begs
to kiss skin.
I don a mask before
opening my front door, drive
with the windows – up.
I see people who — don’t.
I wonder if they
do not have one.
If they know risks or
deny science. And when they
touch their cheek, nose or…I
No one wants
in the face.
Words fall through me,
bouncing around in the
pit of my stomach.
The lump in my throat
will not — go away.
I am no renegade – now;
that was mostly talk
Rebellion is forgetting my mask,
there is no make-up that
can cover the fear in my eyes.
Give me your strength;
I’ve lost faith in
The sweetness left on
my tongue is stale,
bitter are my ears.
I stopped adorning them,
preferring a noose meant for
Stop me from stealing my
own breath – shake my shoulders
slouched in despair.
I put promises in print
I don’t know if I can keep.
When was the last time
I found my mind?
I never remember dreams.
Just the deep breath I
take when I close my
eyes waiting for
another chance to breathe
Zero Jones by Mike Zone
Vibin’ amongst the madness
Of the bed of bullet casings
we wallow comfortably of rolling body language
rhythms of piercing kisses through Kevlar
we’re splitting the surrounding elements to display our burning uranium
our flesh peeling to reveal our naked most inner feelings
I remain inseminate
the cycle of Life
for a rebirth of a better nation
of a humane society
my sobriety for a deeper intoxication
unlawful pubescent figures
that impose cereal Saturdays of consumption
pay attention, to my gumption
I just taxed the government on their poaching behavior…
Steal not on what the populous
has genuinely created
Zero Jones awoke, he had his boots on. The only face on the gallery (that was not ancient) was a crescent moon stain left by a coffee cup, possibly the night before.
Zero didn’t wonder about that, really…
he looked around the tired old room with its handcuffs attached to the dented radiator from the tenant before, at his crate of no nothing books that did him no good, and realized, he had his boots on.
Only his boots and red flannel shirt.
He looked at the digital time reader which governed his life on the thrift store nightstand he found on a drunk moon melting acid night attempting the great escape.
But that had nothing to do with the coffee cup stain nor the near nudity, scratches along his chest and think layer of musk drenched alcohol sweat over his skin and the sweet sickening smell of lily and dead eggs.
The outside silence stunned him, sun shining through the handprint covered bourbon glass, nary a bird singing.
TIME TO WORK
All seemed calm but none of it felt right.
Remembering the night before, wasn’t there a virus? Something like spreading contagion and rabid discontent? People angry smashing windows, stealing toilet paper, butter and processed meat sticks to wipe their ass and trade for sex in order to end hunger?
Somehow returning home from the plant…getting all caught up…
Or was it the tavern or the from the plant to the tavern onward excelsior into civilian savagery?
TIME TO WORK
That scent? Who was it attached to?
Was it a dream? Or backlogged memory unsuccessfully erased?
About to fuck on wind and rain saturated street, riot cops with shields and clubs bearing down
calm inside his tomb
newspaper clippings on the walls
a vision of HER flashes
behind his eyes
this is why he leaves
his safe place
hands working to the bone
gotta keep the slave pace
Zero compares it to selling his soul
You must save face
Was it a dream
or did he really witness
whatever the cause, he’s still trading hours for dollars
it will always be his life
his name a number
yet he’s more than less
after hours journey
money on the minds
but the opportunities are empty
blackhole of despair
I did a swan dive off the edge and ended up right back here…
Zero Jones, head foggy could still recount last night’s events, a trip into the unknown he chose to forget about conversations with god in the mirror. Found a couple ducks in the ashtray after years in and out of prison, lived in the last cash camp in the state for a brief time, he knew it would be better to break apart and re-roll with Bible paper which was the only thing thin enough on hand to do the job.
waking up outside
A handheld mirror held the face of the supreme deity, a sparse statement as he was concerned waking up hungry. Puts his boots on, thought about clinical depression anxiety, pills and no one knows why the brain tricks us into mediating our own capacity and consideration of consciousness.
Remembering past hallucinations, dressed and ready for a positive experience, long lasting realness if only anyone knows what that means. Remembers reading an article about a Canadian scientist who invented a god helmet or the Koren Helmet after it’s inventor Stanley. Zero laughed to himself “a lot of influential intellectuals named Stanley, bet his ideas are banned in many states.”
“Where’s the chipped beef and eggs?”
Downs a shot of whiskey followed by a red eye without wincing, years of practice to develop this maneuver akin to a poker face except this “face” looks within towards a kind of inner strength that few have to begin a day this way. Once again thinking about chipped beef and eggs, butter and toast, coffee, and hot sauce, hotter the better. A mantra that follows, whistling into the wind sometimes singing especially if anyone is paying attention. Left in their debt jumping up to touch the sky and directly upon impact touching toes, so above so below is an outlaw’s mantra loose interpretation interpersonal as this new day begins.
Stuck hands in pockets after inventorization of dreams a pigeonhole stuck on visions of pedagogy 40 days wonder 40 years in the desert, found a hole there where change should be. Found a dragon lurking in the distance and a princess to be found and freed but always waking up alone in a wilderness juxtaposed to reality. Acutely aware of every shadow.
washing one’s face is close to anointment
Waking up alone is a guaranteed way to be civil with a society always at odds. Zero walks down to see his mother, the river, wash and watch his face clean grow long. On knees feels vulnerable yet knows of power in hunched haunches and the overlap of biology and void left untamed in symbology, could make this mystery one piece at a time out of manna. Breaks down his camp for the weekend, he has a home and wonders sometimes how many people think in images or words or both and in what resolution.
He remembered her before the city burned in dreams. Hair kissed by fire splintering the mind’s eye corner vison, blink and you’ll miss that opportunity of never having to wake up alone rather than being furthered fractured by reality…but weren’t you really alone sheltered in the mausoleum of it? Life being work and varying bouts of distractions, one long wake until the funeral a day or two later after you really died, when consciousness flickered back into the magnetic field streaming recycled back into another virus of the mind within another hapless meat-junk electromagnetically mutant searching for depth in the empty absurdity of it all?
He went after, knowing full well this could the chance, the chance of her not being like the rest of the shark-mouthed women who would do the predatory circle dance waiting for your blood to hit the water before devouring…fuck it, he went for the ladies room…
Someone grabbed his wrist.
She smiled. Pulled him out the door.
Dressed in denim and black.
Corneas searing, bones aching, atoms fragmented from their nuclei.
She answered his questions without asking. The answers getting lost in the translation of her body.
Something heavy fell from the sky, crushing the car down below as the rain began to pour.
He forgot about the people dying not getting what they needed and how what needed to keep growing was like a cancer different from the real contagion spreading, it was a sickness of a different sort based on numbers with no real meaning yet if enough believed the planet could be altered.
And she laughed pointing…something about a bushwhacked piano…dead keys…great earthen locks…
A horde of enraged bodies hoping to be antibodies erupted into the street…
The lions began to roam as lizards roars from underneath the skin of dead droid babies drooling at the door of depravity blocking heaven’s gate but wasn’t that just the state of it all?
The lions began to roam as lizards roars from underneath the skin of dead droid babies drooling at the door of depravity blocking heaven’s gate but wasn’t that just the state of it all?
“Take me down to the river, I want to go where I evolved from in order to really die!” shrieked a man ripping his shirt and then his skin to expose wiring and circuitry struck by lightning- sparking up the night Zero Jones awaken again in another time and place dead office despair, talking to this celebrity skin plastic doll skinned ex wife whom he stilled lived with sleeping on couch, playing with their four kids, was her name Venus or something more Saturine? Diamond eyed robotic beauty bombshell blonde, talking about his grubby jeans and hoody look as he’s about to disembark on some zany spaceflight mission to who the hell knows where, giving her schematics on how the new ship he engineered really works fueling off cosmic rays in outer-space…
But wasn’t he at some point hosing down floors saturated with exploding BBQ sauce somewhere or assembling office furniture on a concrete floor crunching already broken cartilage but those thoughts couldn’t blind him to how he really felt about his phantom children and doll house ex-wife who he still wanted but lived with along with her new husband who could make any kids of his, so he stayed in the kitchen all day, barefoot not needing a car because there was no road between the kitchen and bedroom…laugh out loud, everyone admires the intellectual scientific giant Zero Jones shuttling off into space…
FINGERPRINTS by Brian Rihlmann
the alarm sounds
and I awaken
to the infected world
I snooze it, ten minutes
and close my eyes
pull the covers
over my head
far too soon
the sound, again
I sigh and begin
the inner scan
of nose and throat
nothing is good
I do my routine
and go out as normally
among the vapors
the furrowed brows
of those in their cars
those still working
at the office
and back in the warehouse
invisible fingerprints appear
surfaces seem covered with them…
countertops, cardboard boxes
pockmarked with fingerprints
like the surface of the moon
lots of boxes
boxes from everywhere
is there one in here somewhere?
lying in wait
like a poison seed
in a vast, fertile field
like a microscopic cougar
on a branch
waiting for passers by
I see fingerprints…
Judgment Day Poetry by Jay Passer
Jay Passer’s poems and prose have made the rounds in the small press and underground lit community since 1988. He is the author of 10 books of poetry and his work has been included in several anthologies. Passer lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth.
it’s all coming to pass, all those horrible predictions
all us spawn of the frivolous 50’s and unmentionable 60’s
the culling, inevitable, the swelled population fueling
big industry’s flagrant disregard for the environment
it’s coming to pass, this too shall pass, I should know
my last name is Passer but I was named after Jay Gatsby
up in the citadel
let down your hair
auburn like the molten core
as a memory
or an armory
fling those stones across the river
catapult those boulders over the walls
a boy becomes a man after he first kills something
and man is a monster
in the back garden
tea is served and grandpa sneaks a snort
they used to say snort
when they meant a drink
nothing really changes all that much
first we kill off most of the indigenous tribes
forests and animals on the planet
now we’re complaining that it’s
all of a sudden the apocalypse
you can take your virus
your trellis of ambrosia
and go elope in some hellish place
up in the frozen mountain
decomposing in the scorching desert
noble ways to
While walking by Carrie Magness Radna
The assholes on Amsterdam
& the big-balled walkers on Broadway
smiled wildly without masks.
The old, dirty men with naked noses,
the young women, sporting tank tops,
featuring their fillagreed, tatted decolletage
while riding their bikes—
(Did they slurp a Clorox chaser before going outside?)
Yes, we were all magnetized by
the perfect April weather,
but we, uptown, downtown, wherever…
should wear a face mask!
NYC is congested beyond belief.
We are piled & stacked in tiny apartments
so viruses can come & crash the party too easily.
Thousands of people have already died—
So what’s the problem with these
“nothing can ever touch us”
assholes & big-balled walkers?
Do they fucking care
about anyone else besides themselves?
I do it right with a mask:
Bluetooth headphones blasting Fiona Apple’s
Fetch the bolt cutters, a la iPhone
(excellent album, btw),
under a zipped-up, cute hoodie; clear vinyl gloves;
a breathable, cheap denim, drawstring jumper
with wide pants, long socks;
Sketchers shoes that makes its wearer
feel like floating—
Sure, I look like a nerd,
but I do give a shit
about the people around me & myself
(don’t wanna be tagged “You’re it!”
by the big, bad virus)
UWS might be bewitched
with some idiots,
but the buses driving by are MOSTLY empty
(their customers now enter in from the back door)
& the lines at Fairway
(& any damn grocery store)
start, with line-goers spacing 6 feet apart,
with smokers congregating at the back door—
Still too many people
in the streets trying to maintain
So, assholes and big-balled walkers,
put on a mask!
It’s not going to kill you.
QUARANTINED by Titiksha Singhal
Titiksha Singhal works in the film industry as a Director, Writer, and Creative. She has studied Development Communication and English Literature and has also worked as an editor and content developer with a publishing house. Few of her poems have been published in different anthologies and journals. She has done a couple of stage plays and street plays. She loves traveling, hiking, dancing, doodling, writing poetry, letters, and philosophising about life while floating upon the sweet waves of her reveries.
I’ve lived my days on earth enraged
Rolling past the terrains of disaster
Bowing seeds in the farms of melancholy
And holding onto the person it was a pain to see.
I was dismayed with non-enchantingness of wildfires
I’ve hunted down animals on roads with screeching tires
I’ve lived by the screaming cries coming out from another room
And then I’d waited to see my future in bloom.
I’ve learnt to ignore and stay in bliss
I’ve deafened my eyes and yet the luxury I’d see
I’ve unloved the love and smashed the virtues
I felt I was a true bird in sky, apart from the other few.
The concepts were changed, the beliefs modulated
Only the things that mattered to me were tolerated
With what I am, I had declared myself best
To hell with the others, I couldn’t care about the rest
Now quarantined — I am stuck, my ego has been burst
Amazed at how the world continued, coming out of its curse
My window literally has got grills to save me from my own form
And in this confinement I peered to see the streets down
With none of myself out there, the world looked more mindful
The birds were hopping around and teasing each other for the food
I saw one crow tip-toeing to see me in my captivity
Catching me amazed, leaving no room for profanity
And then a sparrow hopped to the sill, just two feet apart
Looked me in the eye, and understood my swaying heart
And for that brief moment I felt rather better this way
Let the birds come and greet you in your cage everyday.
Room with no name by Megha Sood
Megha Sood is an Assistant Poetry Editor at MookyChick(UK) and also contributing member at Free Verse Revolution, Heretics, Lovers and Madmen, Sudden Denouement, Whisper, and the Roar, GoDogGoCafe.Over 400+ works in journals including Better than Starbucks, WNYC, Poetry Society of New York, American Writers Review, SONKU Collective, FIVE:2: ONE, KOAN, Kissing Dynamite, Foliate Oak. Visitant Lit, Quail Bell, Dime show review, etc. and works featured/upcoming in 38 other print anthologies by the US, UK, Australian, and Canadian Press. Two-time State-level winner of the NJ Poetry Contest 2018/2019.National level poetry finalist in Poetry Matters Prize 2019, Honorable mention in the Pangolin Poetry Prize 2019 and Finalist in the Adelaide Literary Award 2019. She blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com/ and tweets at @meghasood16, Instagram: @meghasworld16.
The days stark white
numb and mute:
a tattered tarpaulin stretched
across the thatched roof
barely meeting its purpose
Static and buzzing incessantly
like a broken TV screen
waiting for the inspiration to strike
nights with its black teeth enter unannounced.
Moments, like a leftover bowl outside
overflow when left unattended
I watch this intently with grief swirling
in my eyes.
watching with unbroken attention
as seconds split into halves
the days rolls like a spindle
the body like a hamster on a wheel routine
as the sluice outside my house
carries the black grief my town gathers in
their empty hearts
into the dark belly of the gutters
unknown and unacknowledged
I sit here looking at the deaf sky
the mute air with its laughter stripped off
I store my sorrow neatly between the folds
of my even pleated skirt
trying to give structure to my days
Sitting at the edge of the window sill
breaking the skin of the
raindrops from the last night
my fingertips touch the windowpane
longing for the company
in the room with no name.
In Which the Stream Disappears by Marianne Szlyk
Marianne Szlyk is supposed to be on grading retreat, but she is writing poems here and there. She is spending quarantine with her husband Ethan the wry environmental poet and their alarm cat Thelma. Recently Marianne’s poems appeared in Setu: Western Voices, Verse-Virtual, Mad Swirl, Bradlaugh’s Finger, and Ramingo’s Porch. Her book On the Other Side of the Window is available through Pski’s Porch and Amazon.
Last summer reeds and grass smothered the stream
I used to visit. In place of books or travel,
I’d peer into the murky water and look for turtles
while red-winged blackbirds pierced the air
and landed on branches of long-dead trees.
I could no longer trace the slow stream
buried in green without room for water
or turtles. An hour away from D.C.,
an hour away from dusk, the heat rose.
Humidity choked me. I wished
I had gone with friends
to the city of movie theaters
to watch a film set by the ocean.
I tried to imagine the following spring
when the stream would reappear,
its color then matching
the shell of a turtle, the dead reeds
upright on muddy islands
not yet hidden by green.
I could not predict that spring,
the season in which friends
and the city disappeared.
A Final Thought by Alien Buddha
Healthcare workers have always deserved better pay and benefits
Fast Food workers have always deserved better pay and benefits
Jeff Bezos and Bill Gates have always deserved to be catapulted into the sun
The media has always lied, and Trump has always been a cunt
Fear has always been the most effective manipulator
Innocent people have always died
Politicians never cared
Washing your hands, and not breathing in my face has always been copacetic