All Over the Place: Evil Is Not Personified

By Michael H. Brownstein

Evil is not personified – the masked painting – the human flesh of face behind a human depth of pain

Explain it to me with numbers – the number blue – the knot on the hemp colored sixteen – a gash as red as seven and twelve.

Visualize it as if you were air – a stinginess in a lack of oxygen – the poison breath of monoxides – a layering of carbon bricks – the thick scent of mustard on sulfur.

Why is it you cannot understand any of this? – the spit in the eye – the lurch of the hand – the half-naked man ordering me to sic my dog on her, the one he loves holding his first born three-month-old gently in her arms.

Copyright © 2021 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else and How Do We Create Love?, were published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018 & 2019, respectively.

From “The Scratching Post”: Interview with a gadfly

By Ken Marks

[Originally posted on The Scratching Post, May 13, 2021. Republished here by permission of the author.]

It’s been a long time since this blog hosted an exclusive interview. The Covid pandemic probably has had a lot to do with that, as it has a knack for shutting things down. But now interviews are back, and coincidentally enough, the topic of this one is the Covid pandemic. The interviewee is a highly placed official in the CDC who insists on concealing his identity. He acceptance letter was signed “M. A. Gadfly,” a whimsical pseudonym.

Moristotle is slowing down

Siegfried slowed down
too . . . before the end

And doesn’t
expect to
speed back up

By Moristotle

You may not have noticed that we have not published something literally every day this month, perhaps because we almost did. But the truth is, from here on out, there will be more and more days without a posting. I just don’t have the energy any more.
    But I continue to get a lot of submissions, which actually helps me, because working with Moristotle & Co.’s fine writers helps energize me and keep me going.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 53. Homecoming

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Blake was in his SUV. “Peter, we have him. He’s a teacher at Aline High School. I don’t have a first name but his last name is Thacher, T-H-A-C-H-E-R. Get me all the information in the world you can find on this guy. I’m moving my people to the high school; we’ll use it as our staging location. Oh! Let June know what’s going on. I’ll need warrants, both search and arrest – and ASAP.”
    He made a group call and had everybody assemble in a parking lot of the high school. A large oak tree provided shade as they awaited Peter’s call. Wayne asked, “Are you sure this is our guy? Is it possible the kid could be wrong?”

Highways and Byways: A Father, a Son, and a Game of Fractions

By Maik Strosahl

Birthdays have a tendency to put me in a melancholy mood. I know that is not an earth-shattering revelation, as many do not enjoy the aging process for a variety of reasons. My reason is really just a game of fractions.
    My father is eighty years old today. I was born two days before his 27th birthday.
    When I was young, I told him I would someday catch up with him. In elementary school, as I learned fractions, I told him that I could prove this fact. When I was 9, he was 36 and I was a quarter of his age. I explained that when I reached the age of 27, I would be exactly half of his age. Then, every year that passed afterwards, I would be gaining until I would eventually catch him. Even then I understood it was just a joke, yet it was a laugh we shared together.
    Due to his religious belief, my father has not celebrated a birthday since I was born. Even so, for many years, two days before his birthday, we talked. Many times it was just a phone call, yet he always remembered my fractured reasoning and would update me what the current ratio was.
    I also did not celebrate my birthdays, but as life happens, I had to make changes in my belief system – some of them not so popular with my parents. And while I respect them for holding to their convictions, I could not continue to follow that same path.
    My father is eighty years old today. I have not heard his voice in years. Oh, he still lives in the house I grew up in, but we are distanced by something I cannot repair. Yet, I know that he knows I am catching up with him.
    He would not appreciate me wishing him a happy birthday, but I will share that the current fraction is 53/80.


I love you, Dad, and I miss you very much.

Copyright © 2021 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 52. Last Tango

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On Monday afternoon, with the artist’s sketch in their phones, Blake, Tony, and Wayne headed to Cary to join Shelley and Taylor. June had chartered a small jet to fly them, because time was running out, and they needed to get to Cary before the killer. Blake wanted to find out who he was and where he lived before he learned they were in town looking for him.
    But there was a potential problem. Taylor had posed a question that had been in the back of his mind: “What if the killer ran for home after the encounter in Dallas? That would mean he is already at home, or packed and gone.” Blake had no answer.

All Over the Place: The Druids and Amesemi

By Michael H. Brownstein

At the crossroads, Hectate was always the one who entertained us.

Latin was never spoken here. How strange.

Yes, we always left gifts, quite a few,

enough to satisfy wild dogs, selfish men jackals,

and Rhiiannon who flew here to satisfy me

watching through the open bathroom door,

the shower curtain missing, shampoo coursing through my hair,

Saturday night, late. (Perhaps it was Sunday morning, early.)

Thunder Down Under: Payback

By Vic Midyett

Here’s another story from Down Under. The events recounted occurred while I worked for the state airlines in Tom Price, Western Australia. Rarely have things worked out so well.


Our town of Tom Price hosted the annual dart-throwing competition for the region. The event is always held, like most things in Australia, at the pub. About 20 men from another town won the competition and celebrated heavily, partaking far too much of the amber liquid.
    It came time for them to be given a ride to the airport to fly home. It was my job to get them to the airport on time, so that our “flight on schedule” record would remain above average.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 51. MIA

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Blake called June as his bus pulled away from its next stop, but it went to voicemail. He told her to call him back. He still hadn’t heard from her at the next stop, so he got off and called her phone again – three times in a row, but no luck.
    He called Peter. “June is missing in action. I need you to track her location.”
    Peter hit a few keys on the computer. “Blake, I’m getting a signal almost two bus stops back from you. The signal is stationary, not moving.”

Highways and Byways: The Death of the Aerialist

By Maik Strosahl

A recent post by André Duvall sent me back to read his first “Father’s Art” column, about his father, Billy Charles Duvall, and his art. One particular piece caught my attention. Originally titled “The Death of the Aerialist,” “The Last Man” depicts a man falling from a wire. It reminded me of a movie I watched when I was young.
    In 1978, Lloyd Bridges starred in the made-for-TV movie The Great Wallendas. I was ten, but I still remember the tragic tale of a family of tight-rope walkers who were driven to keep going high.
    The father, Karl Wallenda, died that same year, falling from a pretty standard walk, high up, between two buildings in San Juan, Puerto Rico. His wife has been quoted since as saying: “All Karl thought about for three straight months prior to the accident was falling. It seemed to me he put all his energy into not falling – not into walking the tightrope.”
    To this day, a new generation of Wallendas still perform on the high-wire.
    Here is my tribute to Karl, with thanks to both André and Billy Charles Duvall, whose painting “The Last Man” inspired it.

“The Last Man” (originally “The Death of the Aerialist”), 1983.
48" x 24". Oil on masonite

I dreamed of falling,
a drop of rain from an
empty sky

Being Shot [Part 2 – Final]

By Ed Rogers

The following account is a true story. I have used the real names of individuals who were with me during the time recounted. [Part 1 appeared on Saturday.]


Seven days later, I opened my eyes. A plastic oxygen tent covered the top half of my body. Through the plastic I saw my mother with two girls from my school that she was sneaking into my room because I wasn’t allowed to have visitors. I asked what she was doing there and she let out a holler for a nurse.
    I learned that I had been in a coma for seven days, and the doctor had told her I might never wake up. Two nurses came rushing in and started poking and prodding me. Then the pain hit. My entire mid-section cried out at once. I was given a shot of morphine and soon floated off on a cloud. The following week was like a dream. I got a shot of morphine every four hours but a shot’s effects wore off after three, and the fourth hour was hell.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 50. Killer’s Back

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It had been a long ride from North Carolina and a longer winter, but it was the beginning of his hunting season and he was nervous and excited at the same time. He made his way off the bus in Dallas, a town he was looking forward to exploring. After all, it wasn’t just about the hunting – he was on vacation!
    The number of people on the ground around the buses doubled as another bus began to unload. He fought his way inside the station only to be pushed against the wall. It was then that he saw her across the way, over the heads of the other passengers. He knew her face but couldn’t place it at first.

All Over the Place: Daylight

By Michael H. Brownstein

I wake to a thunder from inside,
another clash of infection,
the bank crying about a lacking,
the phone company barking,
the fence degrading, and then
one of our dogs jumps over
and I cannot find her anywhere.
I’ve got to go to work, I have
errands and deeds and paperwork,
but this will need to be put on hold,
The dog is found, safe. One check
to the good, I fix the fence, pull
a few weeds, a beginning tree,
and reinforce the leaning.

Being Shot [Part 1 of 2]

By Ed Rogers

The following account is a true story. I have used the real names of individuals who were with me during the time recounted.


It was 1959 and I had just turned 16 years old that January. We were taking our mid-term finals in school. There was no need to be at school unless you had a test. I had finished my only test that morning and had the rest of the day off.
    As I was walking toward the street, some of my friends called out to me. It was Dudley Jobe, Arthur Cline, and Jack Kerney, who were all in Dud’s Nash Metropolitan. I ran to the car and Jack got into the back. The rule was that the shortest people rode in the back (leg space was limited back there).

Highways and Byways: Eyes, Mind, Body & Soul

By Maik Strosahl

A talented friend of ours recently changed his profile picture on Facebook to show a painting he did way back. Bob Boldt shared “Passion,” created in 1958, and the eyes captured me. I imagine the double reflections he portrays in the pupils showing a broken sun/son as he was executed for the crimes of mankind. A little late for Easter, but thought I would share (with Bob’s permission, of course) the painting and the poem it inspired.

The eyes,
still searching the heavens
for intervention,
still bleeding tears
for the woman who bore him,
the one keeping watch,
bearing his pangs
and the nails
as if they were her own.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 49. Killer in Town

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Saturday morning came and June and Blake were at the Dallas bus station at 5:15, in the waiting room sipping coffee from paper cups. Blake caught himself touching his gun more times than was necessary – he was nervous. He knew that plans on paper could look great, but in real time, shit could go wrong very fast. June also knew what was at stake, and she reached over and gripped his hand every so often.
    The station had been empty when they arrived, but as the 6 o’clock hour approached, two lines began to form at the ticket counter, and a few of the seats were taken by folks waiting for their people to get off incoming buses. A loud bang from behind them caused them both to jump. It was a man opening one of the little shops. Blake thought about going to the bathroom and checked his watch. It was 5 minutes to 6, so his bathroom break would have to wait.

All Over the Place: The Woman from Ecuador Speaks

By Michael H. Brownstein

It’s not that America isn’t a great country,

I’d just rather be home.
In my country, poverty is very real,
but here there is a greater suffering.
Home, I fill myself with poets,
storytellers, those with idealism.
Home, we give honor to the teacher.
Your country breeds a spiritual anger,
a poverty more devastating
than a lack of food, a lack of clean water.

Poetry & Portraits: Bottom

Drawing by Susan C. Price

Bottom
By Eric Meub

[Originally published on Aug. 9, 2014]

Why bother getting out of bed? It’s not
As if we’re here in season: covered pool
And lounge chairs stacked like firewood as a rule.
I say resort, you think forsaken spot.

The Crucifixions

Spread the Word

A Parable of Reversal

By Moristotle

I have revised and retitled the parable “Easter Uprising,” which appeared on April 30, to try to better express my central idea for the poem. A few days after that version appeared, I thought about adding a third stanza, but I quickly saw that some rewording in the second stanza could plant the cross on firmer ground.
    Finally, eight hours before scheduled posting, I made one more change: at the end of the first line of the second stanza, I changed “restoration” to “resurrection.” And then, at last, I saw what my muse may have been trying to tell me all along – the January 6th insurrectionists were, in effect, attempting to resurrect Donald Trump from the crucifixion he seemed to think he had suffered in losing the 2020 presidential election.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 48. Surprise

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After the video conference, Tony got with Wayne, Shelley got with Taylor, and Blake got with himself to begin pulling up their assigned maps on their computers and phones. Every one of the five jumped at the sound of a knock on the front door. It was the first time anyone had come calling.
    Blake hollered at Wayne, who was closest to the door, “See who that is, would you? Probably some drunk who thinks this is still a bar.”
    Wayne walked to the door and looked through the peephole. “Blake, it’s a woman with short auburn hair. You want me to let her in?”

Highways and Byways: When It All Came Falling Down

By Maik Strosahl

I am no philosopher, but I do enjoy a good think.
    I recently enjoyed a post by Valeria Idakieva where she shared her distain for winter along with her autumn photos and a quote from the philosopher Albert Camus: “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.” I too, as I have mentioned before, resist winter.
    The quote led me to chase after information on Albert Camus, who was associated with the philosophy of Absurdism. He believed that life does not have any meaning, or if it does, mankind is incapable of understanding what it is. Yet, in spite of having no meaning, he could not justify suicide as a solution, rather he felt it was our responsibility to rebel against whatever oppressed the human condition, and in this attempt to resist, we must strike a balance between the evil of the world and the evil that many revolts also devolve into, so as not to contribute to any additional suffering on the part of those around us.
    In my own rebellion, my creative endeavors keep me moving forward, even when it all comes falling down. In this piece, I also found a place to use a phrase I mentioned to Moristotle a couple of months ago, one that I think would be a good title for a future chapbook of poetry: “Hobnobbing with the Philosophers.” We shall see how the future unfolds.

In the midst of Winter, I found there was,
within me, an invincible summer.             —Albert Camus

The Plow

Le Roy Plow No 109 – Heirloom or eyesore?
It’s in the eye of the beholder

By Paul Clark
(aka motomynd)

To the chagrin of my wife, and the puzzlement of neighbors, visitors, and delivery people, the rusty 100-year-old plow rests on carefully chosen chunks of rock beside the stone walkway that leads to the front porch of our house. It means something to me – not quite sure what, exactly, but something. To others, it is a mystery at best, an eyesore at worst.
    One day I happen to be in our front driveway when a delivery arrives. It is the woman who pushes the button on our new, high-tech Ring doorbell and leaves a big smile with the message, “Delivery from the FedEx chick.” She looks and acts like a woman who walked off a NYC fashion catwalk, stepped into a FedEx uniform, and for some strange reason fell in love with it. She has phenomenal legs and seems to know it, since she wears shorts almost year-round.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 47. The Hunt Begins

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The party on the lake hadn’t been planned, and Blake was at first put out by the invasion. But the team needed the weekend to bring them back together, and their bonding strengthened as the evening wore on. Blake was happy to see them laughing and joking with each other. He broke out his two big camping tents and everybody crashed for the night.
    On Saturday morning, the very hungover but smiling crew, including Tony, packed up and went home. Blake spent the day drinking beer, fishing, and eating leftovers. On Monday morning, refreshed after a restful Sunday and a good night’s sleep, he parked outside the Hideaway next to Taylor’s car.

All Over the Place: The Science Fair (Part 5 of 5)

Court

By Michael H. Brownstein

Remember the fight during the science fair? I had to go to court yesterday because of it. Not really all that bad. I brought enough personal business for three to four hours. Didn’t even have to take a sick or personal day. Court – school business.
    The girl in mind went for the plea bargain – a year supervision, anger management, conflict-resolution classes, mandatory school attendance, community service.

Desperate Conditions Call for Desperate Measures

Shakespeare as Black Humorist

By James T. Carney

Since the current administration in Washington sees inequality as a great problem, I have decided to put my lawyerly ingenuity to work to suggest some ways to deal with it.
    First of all, however, one has to focus on the real problem. The real problem is not inequality but poverty. This is unfortunate because inequality is easier to solve than poverty. Inequality could be solved by dividing up everyone’s goods based on market value and having the rich follow Jesus and turn almost all of their goods over to the poor. Of course, to make sure that Kamala Harris’ equity is maintained one must take this action at least once a generation since it is the unfortunate nature of some people to work hard and try to get ahead, which by definition means leaving some people behind.