Museum Of Poetry Archive

the Christians and Republicans all pray and pray for the second coming of Christ to occur; and what they received? the second coming of der fuhrer, old Adolf himself – vacation cancelled, civil liberties rescinded, that’s ICE knocking at your door, that’s DOJ & FBI & DOH knocking at your door – he wants to lift the travel ban, get back to work, fix the economy, make Amerika great again, kill us all in the process - and once we are all dead, the ones at the bottom, the ones with the minimum wage, slaves to consumerism, slave to mortgages and rent and the spend, spend, spend; only the rich will remain, but who will serve them? who will be down on their knees, face deep in rancid asses? we are beaten and poor, tattered, torn and wasted away, stimulus for the rich; the end of the blade for the working class - I wonder: when will we ball our fists? when will we raise our voice? when will we wake up? pull our heads from the sand? when will reason and sanity return? I’d rather die by...

I. dust a blanket of dirt covers old streets that bleed with the memories of the downtrodden the smell of petrol resting itself in the arms of the city like a lover refusing to bury her dead II. the intoxication of old world beauty mingles with the eroticism of the feminine form chiseled into marble statues brought to life and wondering into your senses like a drug slowly robbing you of your will each day a new heartbreak fragments your sanity until you become one with the cobblestone walkways broken into a million pieces III. The body of a dead cat sleeps at the foot of a car suffering from the cancer of rust and decades of hard driving progress has been trapped in a house of discord the path forward angled in new directions reality charmed by the mantra of a gypsy praying to a picture of the virgin Mary laid at her feet while her words are stolen by the innocence of a girl too young to understand the rhythm of the beat she's moving too Sean Sanneman - LA, Ca

I like to wash my truck  in the middle of the pouring rain  I take books to gun fights  I hate seeing unarmed people engaged in a battle of wits Life is hard so I only eat soft tacos now  Let’s be honest  none of us want the economy  to ever be so good  that all the graffiti artists become extinct  America,  how in the fuck did we elect W. over John Kerry back in ‘04? Am I the only one that ever looks around  and wonders where all of  the guerrilla poets have gone?  America, why do we allow our country to arrest people for giving out water? When did human compassion become illegal?  America, we gotta stop comparing Presidents to the second coming of Christ  Sometimes when I daydream about  what true freedom must feel like  I wind up drowning in sadness,  because most of us will never know  Has the American Dream ever been about happiness? or has it always been about complacency?  America, how...

I can't stop touching my face. I can't stop peeling dry skin off my lips. I can't stop peeling flesh off my body, tossing different pieces of me into a body bagged casket. My thoughts have been replaced with frantic video games in which every other person dies. Will this video game suck the life out of you and you and you and me? How will I make my way through this and score enough points before the final scene, in which deadly clichés fill each screen? I mean, every time I try to fall asleep, he starts chasing me again. He screams, "Wake up and choke on this!" Walking to pick up my seizure pills. A car drives by, spits poison from the window. Either I explode or I keep on walking and pretend I'm still alive as I turn into a coughing zombie, then pass the virus on to the next character. Hacking so hard stumbling legs break down into broken limbs. Trees fall into sewers disguised as giant swimming pools in which every other body hides inside a red bathing sui...

The face of the future, sweet cherub , beaten to a pulp like Rocky Balboa after Apollo Creed, but rather than ice smoothing out the rough spots, the raw beef allowed to turn rancid as the victim becomes the perp blamed for the audacity of being in the wrong place at the wrong time despite being shepherded into the slaughter house by those in possession of the fire and lead. Tony Pena - Beacon, NY

Sradeja’s got a hot hand. “There’s blank space in here,” he says, showing where the white of the page meets the black of the text. He’s scribbling, filling up contributor’s copies, god, I hope he’s sending shit out. Dan’s putting it all down: the roving trove of backalley wit, resplendent one-liners, the panoply of Grover, Matthew & me, he’s our historian, dutiful & sober. Seeing what we miss. Grover’s here. He’s here, man. Sick with heat & the years on the skid; a culmination of a spring time --because what is 50 years but a spring time?-- slapping feet on street, spraying words like rain--a summer reprieve--and maybe that’s what he’s leaving us, the breeze, sometimes gentle, often not. A frenzied fever dream. Me? What did I bring? Leave?  Weed, a guitar &, maybe, a poem. A.S. Coomer - Kentucky

Addicted to trances, do you ever feel like a transient ghost passing through a misty dimension? Look behind yourself, I walk into your dream and see you there, pacing the streets − Your life is just so much better in altered states, you know this − The 7-11 sign spreads out its neon peacock feathers, drawing you deeper into dark lucidity, throwing rainbow light on night’s thick oil − It feels like you keep walking here over and over again, through endless years, hooked on pressed and packed little candies − The fumes drift from your basement apartment as you melt into surrealism, and the world begins to shimmer splendorously… Jack Dempster - Toronto

My perpetual starvation bellows, burning, Gaping open for more piles of humans. Shove more bodies! Feed my bottomless desire! Shovel in more naked fresh screaming flesh! Yearning night and day I roar, devour All the Jewish meat you cram into me! I crave blood by truckloads, trainloads. Feed me! Bring communists, Jews, gays, gypsies, deviants, All dissenters to my flaming abyss! My conflagration crackles bright orange With an unending hunger surging To roast, char, ,sear, broil, and scorch them all. I am the connoisseur of annihilation. Let my churning smokestacks mark my power. Let the glowing sparks I belch torch the night. Use the ashes and billion bits of bone To make new roads that shall last forever. Some wonder why I haven’ been dismantled, Demand I commemorate consciences ‘chasms. Years later, I wait, poised mausoleum. Some visitors shudder, strangely chilled. A few grin, nod approval; My emptiness reflected in their eyes. In their clenched hands my potential gathers. Ernie Bril...

When she washed her hands, it was a struggle of smells. Simple soaps like Ivory to combat the sweaty nickel scent of fingers, which always reminded her of whiskey breath and stubbed toe midnight curses, his hand over her mouth, over her nose, the tin dirt of him feeling for his lost heart with dirty fingernails in the cavity of her eighth year. Simple soaps, so that after she washed her hands she could pretend all of her smelled so clean. Jonie McIntire - Toledo, Ohio

Dear Loser, From Anonymous. Some are born to hate. Some are bred within the plastic box. Technology-based concealment  reveals quarrels with those they’ve never seen. Manifested as wild wrath, to harsh anger, to burdening rage. IP addresses camouflaged, a deep plague immersing a frightful army  of copper wires, fingers, facelessness. An audience of watchers, set mute, a great bargain of entertainment with no good sights. The anguished apprehension of targeted prey, really worthy of charity. Target’s bewilderment dreamed  in the nightmare of tears wrung. Linda Imbler