July 5, 2021

“Meeting in the Middle” — Poetry by Alison Jennings

“Meeting in the Middle” — Poetry by Alison Jennings

Meeting in the Middle, Lebanon, KS The center of these United States lies in this heartland space, where love does battle with our hates, where politicians court their base; yet there should be some room for peace: our modern civil war must cease. Lies in this heartland space proliferate, become more lies. It’s something that we need to face or else this fragile union dies. How can we mend the social quilt? Can democracy be rebuilt, where love does battle with our hates? Let’s hope it has the upper hand. The intervention of the Fates may be required for us to stand on principles, but not take sides, to have a chance to heal divides. Where politicians court their base, there’s no chance for compromise. “Dog whistles” emphasizing race – or victimizing Anglo guys –…

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February 20, 2020

“Dimples of Haiti,” Poetry by Mbizo Chirasha

“Dimples of Haiti,” Poetry by Mbizo Chirasha

DIMPLES OF HAITI  Haiti,  stink of sweat smelling millet slavery and the scent of blood revolutions.  Slapped in the face with sanctions mud by hands under the influence  of imperialistic alcohol. A super-concoction of propaganda maize porridge and  Media yeast.  Waterfalls of anger washing away your freedom dimples  Handmaidens and mental epileptic waiters serving political syphilis in ideological cafes  Children smelling stale ideological urine and dirt diplomatic cocaine  Identities condomised with donor culture and sexual myopia  Baboons eating colors of your flag, munching apples of your freedom  Tongues kissing bottom streams of the state under the veil of democracy gospel  Haiti, my pen is a weapon of mass instruction, I see the spreading yellow York of the sun, gently falling over the darkness of your skin, yawning off the old skin of dust, Regaining the lost richness of your dimples.  ** DAWN OF…

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June 25, 2019

Charles Rammelkamp: History, Politics, and People

Charles Rammelkamp: History, Politics, and People

The Crud   My mother called him “the crud,” my brother’s friend Alan. I’m not sure what she had against him, besides his lack of ambition – she was a schoolteacher, after all – Alan destined to work in one of the steel factories after graduating from high school – at least until the steel factories all closed.   The Crud loved cars. He could tell you the make and model and year of anything with four wheels and an engine, sported decals of hotrods and muscle cars all over his school folders.   He did speak vaguely of “joining the service,” as his older brother had, then having all his teeth pulled, dentures installed in their place, the stubby twisted teeth in his mouth, a source of private anguish.   When my brother mentioned…

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