Author: Michael Konik

Poem: Invisible

The powerless feel invisible. A ghostly cipher jigs and shimmies, sending up flares, announcing the Annunciation.   The powerful seek invisibility. A malevolent cloud overhangs and shrouds, secreted in cracks, hidden from the light.   We evaporate and expectorate and obviate. No one sees everything.

Poem: Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope

We returned to each other, after a protracted absence of voluntary volubleness. We picked up the thread where it had been dropped, enmeshed in other narratives. The bicycle dance has not yet begun. The delectable debate over all that matters most or least will come. Maybe it has already begun without us talking heads fully...

Poem: Facts

  These are not theories, conjecture, reckless reckoning, supposition, hyperbolic hypotheses crooked as a triangle untangled by Isosceles. These are facts. Yet many of us prefer to pretend instead that the precise contrary is not a fairy tale but a fairly stale debate over which the irrational fantastical religious folks can masturbate. So I shall spell...

Poem: That Time of Day

  It’s that time of day, when military gunship helicopters come out to play supplanting finches, towhees, sparrows with rotors roaring over urban gardeners with hearts-a-soaring, proletariat peasants ignoring our deplorable genetics, our feeble marrows, cryptic codes prophesizing a frenetic fate, a Golden Plate that cannot obviate the sordid truth: few of us will be a Clarence Darrow....

Poem: Our Sober Friend

What’s the point of being sober, he wondered if you still behave like a narcissistic drunk? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone, including him, if nothing really changes or changed? He could stay rooted in the toxic swamp that fed him amply, bloating his self-loathing to inoperable proportions. He should drink, he should be a...

Poem: Runners

When you’re paranoid schizophrenic bi-polar crazy, living by day at bus stops and sleeping at night nobody knows where, getting normal folks to listen, to pay attention to the truth of your Truth, is almost as hard as keeping yourself clean.   Property owners. Cars, houses, purses, devices, wallets full of cards. They’re in a...

Poem: Big Surprise

Didn’t he warn you? Didn’t she scorn you? Hadn’t they found you? Wouldn’t they astound you? You who couldn’t differentiate between abiding love and aberrant hate?   Time will obviate the degradation of your sensate mind and accelerate the assignation of honorifics, burrowing within the fissures of tissue held together by gravity.   Were you...

The Culture High

The handsomely constructed documentary “The Culture High” makes a compelling — and to our mind irrefutable — case that the so-called “War on Drugs” has been a kind of dystopian slow-motion holocaust. Director Brett Harvey has assembled an impressive roster of talking heads, including members of Law Enforcement, to explain clearly and conclusively why drug...