groping for heaven
Jack T. Marlowe
i've never
taken
god to
a cheap
motel, but
i've often
heard
his name
cried out
in the
dark, the
sounds of
fleeting
lovers
fugitive
saints
testing
each
other's
faith
in the
mad and
soulless
night
groping
for
heaven
among
dirty
sheets
become
strait-
jackets of
desire
each of us
paying
the high
price of
cheap
thrills
spent
hearts
and
empty
bottles
a pauper's
charity
in this
the holiest
of gutters
_______________________________________________
Class Warfare
David S. Pointer
The empty walletologists
understand class warfare
as-all-you-can-eat-employee
or unemployed running
around like interplanetary
transients needing tissue
paper in the homeless camp
until December when the
offending classes clean
their consciences’ by
giving Christmas gifts
to the children of the
people they have helped
to economically exploit
all the past lean year long
_______________________________________________
summer something
Jack T. Marlowe
no stray dogs
prowl in
the alleys
no women
sway down
the boulevard
no clouds
rain pity on
the sweltering
asphalt
the mercury
riding high
even as
the sunset
pretends
that it makes
a difference
now a single
shadow falls
on the street
corner
as Toothless
Ed leans
against the
bus stop
but he's not
waiting
for the bus
and he's not
waiting
for Godot
he's not even
waiting
for death
but he's sure
waiting
for something
to happen
sometime
before the
Thunderbird
loses its chill
_______________________________________________
the painted lady
Jack T. Marlowe
this city
wants to
hold you
with her
arms of
concrete
and
steel, her
painted
promise
and
polished
wiles, so
tempting
with her
cancer
tan, her
boardroom
eyes, her
novocaine
lips, her
well-
trafficked
freeway
curves, the
delicate
scent of
ozone
smoulder
a hint, an
invitation
to her
poisoned
womb, her
tarnished
heart, her
staggering
ego, now
see her
backward
dance, her
downward
glance, as
our lady
of the
unwashed
ass crack
bends over
and clamors
for a kiss
_______________________________________________
Douche Canoe Express
Theo Anthony
The Press referred to it as 9/11+1 and the label stuck, but the actual date of the attack was June 23, 2012. The dirty bomb was supposedly being transported to Manhattan when it prematurely detonated on the New Jersey Turnpike, just across the river from Delaware. Within twenty-four hours half a dozen Islamic extremist websites took credit for the bombing and an equal number of sites claimed to have YouTube proof of a government conspiracy behind the explosion.
It wasn’t until the first “pieces of evidence” were leaked to the national media and cable television press that the Muslims were rounded up and relocated to the camps. Mosques became parking lots, prayer mats became bath mats and the small knitted hipster friendly skull caps became a Class B Felony. The Governor of Alaska (by this time, the Tea Party had emigrated North in an ill-fated attempt at succession) offered up the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge as the primary location for Muslim Internment Camps (MICs as they were referred to by Fox National News). It was at these camps that Muslims, suspected Muslims and those in support of anything Sharia related were relocated and documented.
It was the Halliburton subsidiary Industrial Invisible Fence Company (IFC) that won the bid to fit each internment detainee with a subcutaneous receiver which worked in conjunction with what was at that time the world’s largest invisible fence. From the project’s start technical glitches plagued Industrial IFC and those towns that skirted the perimeter of the fence. Odds are you or your parents probably remember the commercials that ran on FNN and its affiliates during that time:
Were you or a loved one raped by an escaped dirty Muslim? Did this detainee wander off the reservation due to a faulty battery? If so, the Law Firm of Grossman & McDougle can get you the compensation you so justly deserve. Call our professionally trained Islamic Rape Specialists and let them help you wade through the Government red tape and paperwork needed to collect your compensation. Please dial 1-888-BAD-RAPE and let our firm help you receive a structured settlement. And if there comes a time in your life when your post traumatic stress becomes too much and you need cash now? Call us again to liquidate your structured settlement. Call us! Call us again!!
Those post-explosion years were dark and ones where fear drove all social consciousness. It wasn’t until Congress got the message and passed legislation directing the formation of the Federal Bureau of Islamic Investigation (FBII) and official adoption of the color coded Islamic Advisory System (created by FNN). At that point, people began to better understand when to be worried and when to be tolerant. Congress and FNN were smart enough to realize the general public was better when they were told what to think and when to think it. In dangerous times, Joe ‘the’ Plumber could not be expected to act or even think rationally. That is where the joint collaboration between FNN and the FBII came into play.
My name is Brooklyn Stanton, and I am a Senior Islamic Intelligence Security Specialist with the FBII and former fact checker with FNN. On the upcoming 10th anniversary of 9/11+1, I will be assigned to the largest MIC in Alaska overseeing the Islamic-American Tolerance Weekend Celebration, which will also be taped for editing and future broadcast on FNN. Here’s hoping Jesus Christ, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, and Sarah Palin hear my prayers to make it a quiet one.
#
My name is Wilma Lee Bunkins and I hate those raghead motherfuckers. Oh how I prayed with the holy men on the television for my righteous revenge. I cooked up plans and plotted schemes to make my pain go away, to get back at those bastards. The past ten years have been the worst of my life. I was lost but now I am found. This here is my story (as written by my cousin April’s son Delmon cause I don’t write no good).
Wilma done lost her common law husband Earl Ray on 9/11+1. Well she didn’t actually lose him, ‘cause if she needed him right this here minute she knew where he was (six feet under at United Methodist of Windber) but you get the point. Old Earl was drivin’ an unregistered and uninsured semi over loaded with illegal cigarettes and fireworks bound for the Chickopeka Indian Casino in upstate Jew York, when both he and his load were smoked at Exit 2. Gubment told us he never felt a thing when the bomb went off. Wilma didn’t believe it. None of us did. Can’t trust Osama Obama to tell you nuttin’ but what he wants you to hear. All that was left of Earl Ray’s truck was the orange powder coated oil pan Wilma got him as a present to celebrate his being patched into the Lords of the Confederacy biker gang.
Those days following Earl Ray’s funeral, Wilma didn’t have two nickels to piss on. Earl Ray left her two things, jack and shit. Earl Ray carried no life insurance and Wilma blew through the three eight-balls of shitty low grade meth that the Lords gave her at the funeral in lieu of real biker pension. Wilma knew she was fucked and she was going to lose the trailer if she didn’t find some cash money soon. Plan A was to step on that shit she got from the Rebels and put it back out on the streets of Paducah to make some quick bank, but then she realized she and April snorted it all the night they done got it and so it was on to Plan B, whatever the hell that was.
Wilma had to face reality, Earl Ray not coming back. She was a forty-five year old slightly rode hard and put away wet cougar, with an 8th grade education and failed career at the Waffle House. After some serious thought Plan B came to fruition, but it was actually more like Plan 1-A. Wilma jumped in her pickup truck and headed out of the trailer park. A visit to the Lord’s club house and a few acts of desperation later, Wilma had some shit to put out on her own and start making money.
It wasn’t long after that Wilma learned drug dealing isn’t all just sitting back and letting supply drive users to you. Hidden expenses were everywhere; advertising, security and transportation (not to include trips to the bank for deposits). It wasn’t the glamorous life basic cable made it out to be. Hence her excitement when the Western Kentucky Tea Party came a knockin’ on her trailer door.
The Tea Party’s anti-raghead agenda rang true throughout most of the western part of the state. It was something that Wilma could relate to and it gave her a support group that cared about her, not just about how much weight she was holding. Wilma’s self medicating soon slowed to twice a day and semi-regular Tea Party meetings (used to rail against the Government, Muslims and the lack of solid proof that we actually went to the moon) soon gave Wilma the social structure she had lacked since Earl Ray’s passing. When the National Tea Party launched Operation Birther and began the mass migration of members to Alaska (and subsequent failed attempt at succession), Wilma readily hitched her house to the back of her 2002 Chevy Silverado and followed the 21st century wagon train as it convoyed North.
The MICs sounded good, looked good on paper and initially had good support among the front line Tea Party supporters. After the long drive North, Wilma settled with the rest of her Tea Party friends in the small town of Stevensville. Life was good, things were quiet and quality meth was available at a reasonable price. It was for all intents and purposes, Redneck heaven with a cold as shit winter. The winter part never changed, but the heaven part did once the Deadliest Catch Free Range MIC (Sponsored by the Discovery Channel) opened up for business on the town’s outskirts. Not that Wilma or her associates disagreed with the overall concept, they were just of the “not in our backyard” mindset. It wasn’t long after losing that battle Wilma realized if she had a problem with Muslims prior to her move, she absolutely loathed them once the town’s economy began to revolve around them.
Stevensville went from a sleepy little town dreaming of NASCAR ovals, to a thriving metropolis overnight. The town soon existed solely to house workers at the Deadliest Catch Free Range MIC and provide them with various opportunities to waste their pay checks. Wilma’s part time job at the Ice Blue Consignment Shop went away as soon as Mega-Lo Mart broke ground. Hurt, dejected but full of Tea Party spirit, Wilma looked long and hard for employment where she didn’t have to “look at a towel head or smell one a football field away,” but those jobs usually required a steady supply of clean thongs or buying condoms in bulk.
Sucking off the Government tit was the number one no-no in the Tea Party rules and regulations so Wilma’s previous conditions on employment soon went the way of Ice Blue. She eventually came across a newspaper ad in the weekly free shopper mentioning that Big Crabby’s Shop A Lot was hiring. What the job didn’t mention was that Big Crabby’s was located smack dab in the middle of the DCFR MIC. It turned out to be a two pump gas station convenience store combo type of deal. Free Range Muslims had to get their junk food and Slurpee on too and when you can’t leave the reservation the only option is a damn good one. Wilma swallowed her pride and soon found herself manning the register, having to subject three of her five senses with each transaction and a fourth if the Free Ranger paid by cash, instead of scanning their implant.
Wilma soon learned to hate the first Monday of the month at Big Crabby’s. It was the absolute worst day to work and as the last hired, she was always on the schedule. That was the day direct deposit hit the Free Ranger’s banks accounts. What really burned Wilma’s ass was that it took the Righteous Right four years to get them all rounded up and invisible fenced in and the fucking Liberals less than one to make sure they were properly compensated for the inconvenience. The Free Rangers lined up around the block to stock up on those tasty capitalistic goodies their brothers and sisters back home demonstrated in the streets against. Charleston Chews, Sour Patch Kids and Twix Bars went first, followed by anything coated in salt, to include pickled eggs. Big Crabby’s did some serious damage on those days.
Stevensville was quickly becoming Paducah in Wilma’s eyes; once belovin and now she should be leaving. Things in Stevensville would have to undergo great change and change soon, or else the old homestead would be hitched up and towed back down to the lower forty-eight. From what she’s heard, things there were just as fucked, but at least there would be no MICs for as far as she could see from her plastic folding chair.
#
The wind blew hard this late August Monday, as Wilma parked her truck around the back of Big Crabby’s and made a bee line for the rear door. The employee entrance doubled as the delivery loading dock, so empty boxes and crates littered the area. As Wilma reached for the door handle, her eye caught a flyer taped to a stack of boxes piled high next to the door. That wasn’t there on Friday; she recalled and naturally started to read:
Islamic-American Tolerance Weekend Celebration
September 10, 11 & 12 @ the DCFR MIC Picnic Area & Soccer Field
Come Celebrate and get a better understanding
of our Islamic-American Brothers & Sisters.
Camel Rides, Quran Corn Hole and many other fun games for all
Open Minds Welcome - You just might learn something
Hosted and Security provided by the
Federal Department of Free Range Management & Culture
* No Alcohol Permitted*
Wilma’s blood began to boil long before she reached the point about no alcohol. Tolerance, she thought? Fucking tolerance? Earl Ray got no fucking tolerance and she for one wasn’t going to tolerate this horseshit anymore. Wilma knew just the folks that could help her put an end to this kumbayah charade. She yanked the flyer free from the masking tape that held it to the empty Fritos box and shoved it deep into her pocket book. Aggravation rising, she opened the door and headed in for what she came to know as her eight hours of community service. God help the first one of them she couldn’t understand.
When the shift whistle blew, Wilma was out the door and the truck was soon down the road. The Teas of Anarchy met every Wednesday night at the Founding Fathers Tavern, prior to the start of Lady’s Night. Lately, turn out wasn’t quite what Wilma and the others had hoped for, but she was sure tonight’s discussion would be looked upon in the future as the night the tide began to turn in America’s favor.
By the time she arrived at the tavern, Wilma was late for the meeting as usual. But with times like these, a helping of paranoia went better with a big side of dog piss bathtub meth. She was dead broke as usual, but Big John was always open to negotiation and one open blouse handy later, the first line was laid out on an old Steve Miller Band cd case. No sooner had it disappeared then the drone of the helicopters overhead filled her head. It was go time.
“I’ve got it,” Wilma exclaimed as she came through the tavern’s front door waving the flyer she tore down earlier. The other three on-time arrivals were sitting around a small pub table, nursing what appeared to be cheap domestic beer.
“What? The clap? I could have told ya that,” Walrus shouted across the dance floor loud enough that the regulars sitting at the bar turned and looked over.
Wilma ignored the comment and made her way across the dance floor and joined the three stooges. Prior to Wilma joining the Teas of Anarchy, the founding fathers of this splinter faction likened themselves to the three musketeers. Most times though, Wilma thought her nickname for them was a way better fit. Up until this point, they were a misfit group, but after tonight, she would rise up as their leader and take back what was rightfully theirs.
Up until tonight, Barry was the defacto leader of the group and the so-called brains of the outfit. His current agenda was the search to find the next big idea which would bring both visibility and new blood to the Teas of Anarchy. It had to be big. Previous to residing on this evening’s bar stool, Barry’s claims to fame were as an unemployed work oil field worker, resident bathtub tweeker and that he once shared a post coitus habanaro Slim Jim with Bristol Palin.
The clap cracking funny guy at the table was Walrus. Walrus claimed to be full blooded Eskimo, if there was even such a thing anymore. But his size alone stopped anyone from questioning him. Installed as the group’s sergeant at arms, Walrus’s main duty was to do whatever Barry told him. Walrus joined the group because he saw it as a vehicle to rid his countryside of the Free Rangers and once they were gone, Teas of Anarchy be damned, Whitey was next.
Lastly there was Joanie, common law wife and number one whore for Walrus. Actually she was his only whore, since someone in this relationship had to work and he was too lazy to go out and recruit more women. Her earnings kept him in beer and her in Revlon Colorsilk Luminista #150. Oil men had a thing for red hair, who knew? But much like Barry and Walrus’ relationship, Joanie did whatever Walrus dictated and hence her bar stool warming this evening.
Wilma’s ass had yet to make contact with the stool when she pulled out the flyer and flashed it in Barry’s face. His facial expression didn’t change as he reached around it for his pint. Bitches had to know their place, or so his mom’s boyfriend had instilled in both of them through numerous beatings.
“Look at it,” she exclaimed and the waving grew more frantic.
“I have, those damn things are plastered all over town. My old fucking lady brought one home yesterday and wanted me to go up there and find out if I could man the funnel cake booth or some shit. Fucking funnel cake, you see the kind of shit I have to put up with. There’s a good goddamn reason why when she comes home, I come here.”
Walrus and Joanie nodded in agreement, not so much because they actually did, but more along the lines of trained behavior over a long period of time.
“No, no, no,” Wilma said, putting the flyer back in his face. “I think this is our big chance to make a statement. Give this movement some legs and then some. If we can pull something off during this event, something that will get people talking, it will be a big fuck you to the powers that be and who knows how many minds we might open. Especially if the State Tea Party actually is in bed with the feds on this deal. And you know how those two love to fuck.”
“I’m not sure I want to be seen up on that MIC, whether it be waving a sign or selling those goddamn funnel cakes,” Barry replied, with the other two agreeing right on cue. He caught the bartender’s eye and nodded for another pitcher head their way.
“I’m not talking about walking around with a fucking sandwich board around our necks. I’m talking about doing something that shows we mean business; something that grabs attention and headlines. I’m talking something that will blow your fucking mind and bring people running to join us. Need I remind you that interest in our little group will lead to members who may eventually become dues paying members? With some money in our pocket maybe we could actually get some shit done for a change.”
Wilma looked across at the three sets of eyes across from her and wondered if any of this was getting through.
“I’m tired of standing out in front of the Dollar General and handing out paper. That shit don’t work,” she added for good measure.
“Ah, that one guy came and bought beer for us that one night,” Walrus chimed in.
“Goddamn it Walrus,” Wilma replied. “Grownups are fucking talking. Did he ever come back? No. Are you paying for your own beer tonight? Yes.”
Wilma turned back to Barry and continued her hard sell.
“On the drive over here, I came up with a damn good idea. If we could pull it off, we’ll be hotter than shit on a griddle and front goddamn page news.”
“So what’s your big brain idea?” asked Barry.
“In due time, but first who do I have to blow to get a goddamn beer around here?”
#
Brooklyn Stanton fixed his bright red power tie in bathroom mirror of room 210 of the Ted Stevens Motor Lodge, located quaintly in what the locals referred to as the Free Range DMZ. In fact, the hotel was situated on the one paved road between Stevensville and the DCFR MIC.
Brooklyn had to admit, the assignment really wasn’t as shitty as most his co-workers warned him it would be, but dealing with these backwoods fucks wasn’t a piece of cake either. His job was simple. Run the FBII’s intel shop and have his people gather intelligence indicating any attempt at a demonstration, attempted disruption or in worst case scenario, a terrorist attack. Last week, his folks hit the ground running and came up empty on all accounts. No dots to connect here; all he had to do was just sit back and take his time to make sure he colored within the lines.
No storm clouds sighted on the horizon was only the second best news he received all week. After checking in at the front desk, Brooklyn was extremely happy to find the two Halliburton provided honeys resting on his pillow, a much need pleasant surprise, rather than the tired old chocolate mints one would usually find on a business trip. No need to hit the gym for workouts this week. Maybe just some stretching, he thought.
Brooklyn glanced at his watch and saw that he was running the prerequisite ten minutes late. He grabbed his coat and felt his body leaning to the left as he slid it on. The lapel pins were a bit too much, but on a day like today, he couldn’t afford to slight, or upset any of the others in the sandbox. There was the FBII one of course, the American Flag, the Department of Free Range Management & Culture, the DCFR MIC and finally the Alaskan Tea Party one which in fact was just a giant cartoonish head shot of Sarah Palin.
Brooklyn grabbed his VIP credentials and wallet then headed for the elevator. The SUV would be idling at the curb waiting to take him to the site of the weekend’s closing ceremonies and after that it was on to the private Gulfstream (thank you again Halliburton) for the victory ride back to Washington.
Later that evening, the events schedule found Brooklyn seated in the press box high above the MIC’s soccer field. It was the only vantage point, excluding the actual stands, where one could look down upon the festivities. Much like the rest of his week at the DCFR MIC, the closing ceremonies of Tolerance Weekend were cruising along smoothly. In a very relaxed mood, Brooklyn mingled with the other VIPs, important enough to score a seat in the press box, but found his mind actually more focused on the trip back than the choreographed dance number going on below.
As the clock ticked close to the show’s end, Brooklyn pulled his trusty Government issued blackberry out and began typing out his final status report to his boss back in Washington.
Jimbo,
All clear here. Getting ready to bug out and catch some sleep on the plane. Much like the rest of the week, nothing much going on tonight. I’m not sure what your boys back in DC heard about this place, but my guys picked up on no activity all week. Looks like you’re buying at JT McDoogle’s Martini Bar when I get back. And my new office better sit just above that open air spot where all the secretaries go to eat their lunch, you owe me! - BS
It was as Brooklyn hit send, that he noticed the other VIPs moving towards the front window and pointing. He moved closer, turning sideways to squeeze in for a better view. What he could see was a dust cloud spinning up from the grass-less tundra off in the distance. A small vehicle he surmised, perhaps even an ATV. A minute later, he congratulated himself, on the ATV call, as it was clearly a four wheeler, with a sole driver and nothing more. He listened in as the MIC’s internal security people squawked on their radios, planning to scramble a couple of vehicles in order to intercept the ATV before it got to the stadium. Andy and Barney were on the job, Brooklyn thought.
When he didn’t see the response team from the window, his blood pressure began to rise. Damn invisible fence, Brooklyn thought. Fucking thing lets anyone waltz right in, but who in their right mind would want to come into this fucking glorified concentration camp? Where the fuck are the keystone cops?
The gasp from others within the press box brought his attention back to the front window. The ATV had changed course and was moving more quickly towards the parking lot and the carnival type atmosphere it contained. Radios noted the change in direction, multiple voices said they were on it but again Brooklyn failed to see any actual action. As the ATV drew closer, Brooklyn began to notice small descriptors on the driver. Small in stature, black pants, black jacket, but one thing that wasn’t hard to miss was the flowing red locks coming out from under the helmet. Almost like flames.
By the time the ATV stopped at the edge of the parking lot, it had barely missed the Moon Bounce ride, and came to a rest after crashing into the local portable falafel wagon. The driver jumped from the ATV unhurt and pulled what appeared to be a banner from under its jacket.
Fucking protester, Brooklyn said out loud, still wondering where the local security was.
He watched as one end of the banner was tied to what was left of the falafel cart and the other end was stretched to reach the Moon Bounce. Before it was secured, the bomb went off.
KABOOM
Boom went the moon bounce, the falafal cart, its vendor, most likely quite a few free range children mid bounce and let us not forget Brooklyn’s career. RIP.
That was unless he could get ahead of the curve on this one. That office with a view still might be salvageable. While others ran for the press box exit, Brooklyn grabbed a folding chair and began to type an all too familiar number into his blackberry.
#
FREE RANGE INTOLERANCE
SUICIDE BOMBER STRIKES FESTIVAL ATTENDEES
Shannon McGovern
NW Bureau News Chief
September 12 - Three Stevensville residents were killed and twenty-four injured when a radical Free Ranger activated a crudely made, yet powerful bomb during an event that was promoting tolerance between two cultures. The bomber emerged from a side building, with an infant child in her arms. Authorities believe the explosives were hidden underneath the child. Many of the injured residents were air lifted to Anchorage Memorial Trauma Center.
FBII sources tell FNN they have preliminarily identified the bomber as Wafa Lafa Idris-Adoo.
It was reported that Idris-Adoo actually purchased numerous tickets for the Moon Bounce and handed those tickets out, prior to the blast. Her intent was for the ride to be filled to capacity before she brought what has been described as “Sharia tolerance” to those unfortunate enough to be within the blast zone. The United Front for Sharia Law has already taken credit for the blast with a posting on their web site.
It was also reported that around 79 Free Rangers were either killed or hurt in the explosion. Many of those were taken to the DCFR MIC’s free clinic where they were bandaged and sent back to their tents with complimentary funnel cakes from the festival.
_______________________________________________
Theo Anthony is a white collar bureaucrat during the day and a pretty good dad at night.
Jack T. Marlowe is a gentleman rogue from Dallas, Texas. A writer of poetry and fiction, he is also a veteran of the open mic. His work has appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, Tree Killer Ink, The Medulla Review, Red Fez, Camroc Press Review and many other zines. Jack is also the editor of Gutter Eloquence Magazine (www.guttereloquence.com).
David Scott Pointer was the son of a piano playing bank robber who died when David was 3 years old. David later served in the Marine military police. He has been publishing political poetry for 21 years. He lives with his two daughters in Murfreesboro, TN.
