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Trompe Rational Anthem | A Poem by Stan Morrison

Everything I do is always right
So when I speak or offer advice
Keep you mouth shut, be polite
The losers always hit a dry spell
But my word’s the holy gospel

The word perfection underserves me
No one on earth really deserves me
There’s one thing that I still don’t get
Why hasn’t my divinity caught on yet

Even if you prove I’m wrong
When your memory has gone
I’ll finally be vindicated
Just as I have indicted

While you easily see my lies on video tapes
Some alternative facts provide quick escapes
With endless insults and distortions
I blow the trivial out of all proportion

You’ll never know what I own or owe
You can’t figure out which way to go
impeach, arrest or just surrender
Colliding with me’ll be your worst fender bender

What serves me best as we roll along
I’m always right, you’re always wrong!
I bless the United States of America.

A Prescient Moment | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Melanie was waiting for the light to change
at 12th and Broadway when a large fellow in
a big truck and 10 gallon hat roared up

right beside her. His truck cab loomed
above her old Buick. His stereo boomed
so loud her windows rattled. His truck was

worth less than one of his monster tires.
Melanie chafes when a big truck parks
next to her at Walmart especially if an SUV

pulls in and parks on the other side.
She’s afraid she’ll back out and hit
an oncoming car like her father did.

Minutes later Melanie arrived at Walmart
and had to park between a truck and SUV.
Visitation will be held at 4 on Monday.

Visit Donal at

Tenderness | A Poem by Enyo

The next 4 years will be tenanted by my soul-squeezing attempt at learning
assimilating the theory of taking my losses and naming it tenderness
conjuring spontaneous combustion upon my raw yet designed flesh
until it turns a lambent, ambrosian, and above all perfect medium well.

The heart is a fleshy peach tucked inside the left chamber of the chest
which when set ablaze will drop golden brown caramel
in between others’ teeth it is sweeter than red gum honey
only in my own fangs it is rotten.

I sometimes question the capability of my skeleton to contain it all
the beef-bound frustration, the omnipresent self-dubiety
the slow and agonizing transmogrification into a water tank of tears
the 25/8 sexotheque playing arias and orchestral compositions.

I sometimes ponder about the word “tenderness”
because it indisputably encapsulates my most-of-the-time human presence
it could be a paragon of virtue, a sickening, nauseating kindness
or it could be a deficiency, a weakness, a soft spot defenseless to heartache.

I know it all adds up to something, but I don’t know what
no formula of soul searching can chase the revelation into a corner
these days I’ve been feeling at fault over everything and everyone
be contingent on strangers, be forked tongue with friends
be discontent for the family, be abhorrent to myself.

How painful does it get before it gets numb?
Should I always process or spear depression with a shimmering, radiant glow?
Though I am curious for the next fracture, I am also subsumed with fear
I guess it’s my nature to be my own lion pit, to be my own redwood in a thunderstorm
to be my own poison lacing my bread, to be my own ancient torture device
to be my own stake, and my own pyre, and my own torch
to be as equally imperious as I am tender.