Cold Rambler

 1: Celebration The fascists in my hometown of Alpena are holding a parade in honor of Trump's second inauguration.  ...laughing at everyone freaking out over Elon's Nazi salute. ...hoping police can now get even more brutal towards the homeless and people of color than they already were. ...pleased that the January 6th rioters have been freed. ...delighted that immigrants are afraid of themselves and their children being kidnapped by Trump’s gestapo, ICE. ...patiently waiting for food and gas prices to go down, and for their careers and small businesses to reach new heights of prosperity, in our newly energized Capitalist economic system. ...glad that student activists are going to be deported, and their protests promptly shut down. ...relieved that Christian America has *once again* been saved. ...looking forward to the woke public school system being demolished, and the public library being shuttered. ...optimistic that the long, painful fentanyl epidemic is finally about t...

A cold rambler broke my heart. The horse I rode in on can’t be found. When the dust blew in from the prairie, I knew a storm was coming. There were only a few tracks  on the horizon.   Mary Bone has been writing poetry since childhood. Her poems can be found at Cold Rambler Blogspot, Literary Revelations, European Poetry Journal, The Academy of the Heart and Mind and other places. Upcoming poetry will be featured at eMerge Magazine.     

Tariffs, graft--BALLROOM! Epstein, greed, shootings--BALLROOM! Fuck the damn ballroom.

When empathy died the soldiers could dance in the streets they’d cracked wearing the underwear of the women whose homes they had destroyed. And dance they did with pride. When empathy was dead  the soldiers could take children’s toys from the rubble of their bombed homes and repurpose them as tank trophies mascots to be flaunted with pride while the street cracked under the weight. When they had killed empathy  the soldiers could shoot babies in the head or gut - they chose, and someone’s daughter 200 times,  or 300 - they could choose. And they filmed it with pride from the street’s rubble and cracks. When empathy was murdered the soldiers could capture children and imprison them in cages, one metre square, or whatever they chose until they told them  what they did not know and then laugh with pride in the smooth Israeli streets. When empathy was dead and buried deep down below the streets’ cracks and only silence could be heard Israel was supreme, a supreme being,...

The concept of a fountain of youth is one that has crossed the centuries, as well as the globe. Yet, nobody  can agree on what it is, where it is and who has it, for sure. I step forward today  to submit an answer  to settle this ongoing debate— for I personally have tasted an elixir that has  shaved years off my life, in more ways than one.  Good people, hear  and believe me now! If, in fact, a fountain of youth flows somewhere  in our wide  and fucked-up world, I would bet  my last dollar that it tastes like cold beer from a freshly-tapped keg. But not  Bud Light.    Jack Phillips Lowe resides in the Chicago area. His poems have appeared in Cajun Mutt Press, Clutch 2025 and Bold Monkey Review. Lowe's selected poems, Flashbulb Danger (Middle Island Press, 2018), is available from Amazon. His most recent book, Brautigan's Blue Moon (Instant Oblivion Press, 2025), is available from lulu.com.