Awaiting Wild Garlic by R. Gerry Fabian

(Today we welcome back poet R. Gerry Fabian, with three works running today through Wednesday)

The sunlight comes through

the bedroom windows

at different angles lately.

In the back of the brown yard,

snowdrops show white flowers

while the wood pile is barely hanging on.

Up against the weathered barn

rest various sets of skis

that haven’t been used in weeks.

Somewhere in the house,

a woman’s voice is humming a song

about flowers and young lovers.

Spring’s a long time coming

around here.

R. Gerry Fabian

(Image by DWB)

Saragun Verse: For JB on His 84th Deathday

Genius is fleeting, never breeding
Then the City Times sets the date
It let knives of style cut out the feeling
And leave it for the gulls on the quay

I remember his beauty
Eyes the color of absinthe
It recall it dissolutely
Wormwood verses of another Blythe

Cliches poison poems
They die only one way
Then we must rhyme alone
See how well the dead obey

My emotions were once real
But too fine for high words
So instead of reaching ideal
I’ll fall back into the herd

The Health Care Snare by Frederick K Foote

(Note: Frederick has recently published poetry with us. But  he is prominently a creator of short, trenchant, witty prose, which we are happy to present today–The Eds.)

“Good evening, I’m Mavis Williams of American Evening News. Our program has been preempted by a special message from the White House and President Amanda Jackson.

We now take you to President Jackson.”

“Over the last decade, the United States of America has been on the edge of economic disaster. As my grandfather would say, we are surviving by the skin of our teeth.

To make the nature and extent of this threat clear, let’s look back at our recent history.

A decade ago, our country, regrettably, entered an ill-conceived and unprovoked war with Iran. That misadventure has extinguished over 30,000 lives and wounded over 100,000 others.

The War has cost us over 600 billion dollars to date, and our compensation agreements continue to burden this nation.

And that war has cost us support and friendships with many, if not most, of our past allies. We are still repairing these relationships.

The cost of his War, combined with the rising cost of health care, especially health care under the federal Medicare and Medicaid programs, created an unprecedented budget challenge.

Our honest assessment of our health care systems was that they were the most expensive in the world, but other, far less costly health care systems in other nations had far better health care outcomes.

Under increasing dissatisfaction from the public, the growing frustration of health care providers, and the declining number of private health care insurers, we sought a meeting of all the players in our health care system. The past administrations were open to all approaches to extract ourselves from our cascading predicaments.

And as you all know, we initiated a Manhattan Project-style development that merged the resources of our technology, artificial intelligence, and vast libraries of health research and information.

And with sweat, blood, and tears, creativity, imagination, and dedication, we produce a modern miracle—the Internal Health Care Monitor, or as most of us call it, IHCM, or simply, the Chip.

The Chip is about the size of a quarter, but half the weight, and is most commonly inserted just under the skin layers on the inside of the upper left arm.

The Chip has a living battery that draws its power from the body. Under normal circumstances, the Chip does not have to be removed; it is updated online and sends its information the same way.

All your vital functions are monitored 24/7, 365 days a year.

And this encrypted data is sent to the Department of Health Monitoring Evaluation, or DHME, where robust AI systems evaluate your health status and notify you and your health care provider when necessary.

In essence, you have the world’s most experienced and knowledgeable healthcare provider at your service at all times.

This health care system is the envy of the world.

For the last three and a half years, we have been testing and evaluating this system on members of our armed forces.

Three months ago, our evaluation of this system was completed and is now available online for everyone. I encourage you to read at least the executive summary of this fascinating report.

One of the many amazing results found in this 1,200-page document is that during the first two years of using the Chip, our healthcare services’ military costs were cut by 50%.

And our sick leave absences decreased by 60%.

In 73% of cases where medical assistance was required, no visit to a physician or care facility was made or required. Our AI diagnostic systems worked to a tee, and medication was prescribed and quite often delivered within less than two hours of diagnosis.

I found the results of this report absolutely incredible, and I would like to give my thanks and appreciation to the thousands who worked tirelessly to make this vastly improved system available to everyone in this country.

Now, we are ready to make this remarkable system available to all Americans. No one in this country will be denied access to this Promised Land of quality care for all.

Understand that billionaires and fast-food workers will receive the same quality of care.

Those who have no income will have the same access as everyone else.

I know you wonder if this program is safe. I don’t know if I have the words or knowledge to convince you of the safety of this system; however, I have Dr. Lisa Limbaugh, who is an expert on this system and will provide any level of detail required, and she will be here to answer your questions, from the very technical to the very basic.

However, in this particular arena, I believe that actions speak louder than words. My husband Godfrey and I both have Chips, and we have had them for 18 months now. With no adverse experience and have recommended the Chip to our children. That’s how safe they are to me.

Now, I’m turning you over to Dr. Limbaugh to answer your questions and explain in more detail how the Chip works.

Please ask your questions, read the Report, and check with service members and women about their experiences with the Chip.

I hope you choose to join Godfrey and me in the greatest healthcare revolution in the history of humankind.

Good night, and may God bless America and this endeavor.”

***

A conversation in a secure room in the White House between President Jackson and her Chief of Staff, Bong Yee, immediately after the President’s message to the nation.

“Damn, Bong, I need a shower. I feel like a used car salesman. How did we get into this mess?”

“Ms. President, the Democratic Party followed State Craft, our AI’s suggestions—”

“Shit, more like directions.”

“—on developing the Chip and on selecting you as our candidate, and here we are. One happy family.”

“Yeah, I still wonder why you came along on this unjoyful ride.”

“You asked me to, and we have been friends since law school. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to peek behind the stage and see what is really going on.”

“You know curiosity killed the cat. Any new info on the fucking Chip?”

“Dr. Limbaugh and her stiff-lipped crew of medical grand masters believe the Chip is performing as designed, and we should trust the magic of AI and move ahead with implanting the chip worldwide.”

“Damn, Limbaugh scares me worse than that fucking AI. So, what are our reckless scientific rebels saying?”

“Well, they are performing their test beyond the scope of AI, and they have evidence that the Chip has abilities well beyond what Dr. Limbaugh claims.”

“Do they have any proof of their claims? As if that would make any difference. We have to move ahead with this, this questionable fucking experiment, or be in debt to China. When I was giving my sales pitch, I had a strong, almost irresistible desire to cancel the Chip and take our chances with China.”

“I, too, would rather deal with humans than AI, but if our rebels with a cause are right. It might be too late. We have already implanted the chip in the military. And the rebels believe the Chip can impact bodily processes, not just monitor and report on them.”

“What a mess. What a fucking mess.”

“Well, AI was right about you, you have that combination of warm grandmotherly caring and steel African American determination that made you appealing and electable.”

“Yes, but I wonder if my main attraction to AI was that I am controllable.”

“Amanda, I think they may be wrong on that one. The rebels will be here in a few minutes with their evidence. How do you want to play it?”

“We listen and learn and ask every damn question we can. We do not accept or reject the validity of their information at this time.”

“We leave them swinging in the breeze.”

“For now.”

There is a knock on the door.

“Bong, I hope that’s opportunity knocking.”

They smiled and bumped fists before they opened the door.

Poetry Is by Frederick K Foote

Sometimes

Poetry

Seems

To be:

A hammer, a stiletto

Pretentious, modest

A mummer, a scream

Propaganda, the gospel

Fucking and sucking

Gorging and fasting

Ducking and dogging

Slick and slimy

Profound, profane

Soulful, senseless

Ass kicking, ass kissing

Soft days, sick nights

Hallow ground, wasteland

Nigger ways, White rights

Blind insight

Wasted words

Tidy turds

Null, void

Dead

and

risen

again

Frederick K Foote

(The image is Mr. Foote)

Two Poems by Frederick K Foote

She Is by Frederick K Foote

She is

square blocks

of white

marble

Substantial

in every way

Riding a

prancing pony

of pride

Hiding

a dark

nag of

doubt

Love in a Modern Time by Frederick K Foote

It sneaks ashore like light leaking under a doorway

It has the magical mischief of effortlessly joining the family

with a handshake, a hug, a kiss, a fist bump, a cough, or a sneeze

It loves the lonely, the incarcerated, the institutionalized,

the suffering, its love consumes them, banishes them, and It

is restless even in Its domination and seeks authority over nations

It humbles science, the military, politicians, and commerce

the world dances to its tune of isolationist separation

It alienates our affections and laughs at our insurrections

It will not accept our peace terms or unconditional surrender

It will love us where it finds us until it finds us no more

Frederick K Foote

(The image is of our friend, Mr. Foote)

Two Poems by Frederick K Foote

(Ed note–We are extremely pleased to present the first five poems submitted to us by Frederick K. Foote. Fred is an esteemed writer, poet and social critic. He has published over a hundred short stories on Literally Stories in the past ten years alone, which is but a small portion of his literary canon. He is a many times honored author and we are pleased to run his poetry: two today, two tomorrow and a single one to conclude this what we hope will be the first of many runs to come on Saragun Springs–The Eds.)

Lusty Religion

Cedar-wood skin
Sinful full lips
Halo round ass
Full paradise thighs
Bible bright eyes
Gospel singing hips

Revelation to disrobe
salvation to explore
Damnation to lose
no resurrection
in sight

Terminal Romance by Frederick K. Foote

My heart skipped a beat when you appeared
arrhythmia, with rare ventricular couplets

My eyes respond when you are around
glaucoma abounds, the pressure astounds

The sound of your voice is music to my ears
tinnitus echoes a siren’s timpani song

The sight of you snatches my breath away
emphysema squeezes my air to a trickle

The touch of your hand is more than I can bear
your shingles spread to my face, hands, and hair

You are my everything, always and forever
my affectionate end-stage affliction of choice

Frederick K Foote

(The image is that of Mr. Foote)

Will the God of Mercy Show Mercy to Me by Eric Huff

(Note-Today we conclude a three day run of Eric Huff’s poetry–technically, a three days in four run. Regardless of the schedule, we look forward to seeing his return soon–LA)

what struck me most was not how the pothos was planted in a sort of geometric pot affixed to the cerise wall on the side of the bathroom nearest the door but rather how its one long tendril worked its way back and over a tarnished, white-framed mirror and a small, caged light with the softest golden glow – warm and unexpected – to turn the corner again along exposed brick and finally rest in the white light of day filtered through a frosted courtyard facing window. seven or eight viridescent leaves just reaching out as if in holy worship crying praise be to a merciful god we will never really know or understand. I remember washing my hands and thinking in what ways am I this pothos plant, strung out in this coffee shop bathroom in the RiNo neighborhood of Denver, Colorado?

Eric Huff

(Image is of the poet)

I Had A Dream by The Drifter

I had a dream

that I was

cremating myself.

My body was there,

lying there,

on the unlit pyre,

in the way

the Native Americans

and the ancient Greeks

used to do it

or so I believed.

But I didn’t know

if anyone

had ever

cremated themselves

before.

We were on ancient family land,

and my father was there, and

my whole family was there.

But nobody was really paying much

attention.

Because this seemed

like the (“the” here sounds like “thee”)

most natural thing in the

world.

And I wasn’t scared.

I wasn’t scared – at all.

(Nobody was scared).

I remember/ed what Jesus

said.

He said:

“The one they crucified –

it wasn’t me.

It was me, but it wasn’t

‘ME.’ It wasn’t

The Real Me, Myself.

Because the real me, myself

can never be killed!

He can never be killed

and certainly not

by them.”

I remembered his words.

And I knew this was what I should do

now.

I stepped back and threw

the flames

down

onto my body

and it was okay.

Because I

was finally free.

And I watched

what doesn’t matter

burn

away.

And it burned

it burned

it burned

without pain

away.

And I couldn’t believe

(but I could believe, too)

that I was still

here, there,

nowhere,

and everywhere,

too.

Still here!

Still here!

The Drifter

Two Poems by Eric Huff: It’s not bullshit to feel sad; Recognition

(Note: For those of you who have enjoyed the past two days, we suggest you return for another by the same writer on Monday–The Eds.)

and when you pulled that guitar off the wall, what did you know of callousness or of evening hillsides soaked in shadows with silence buried beneath? we saw each other one time on honey earth, in neon buzz with September stars just hanging over our heads. I knew all the words just about and you did, too. blue light mornings and coffee. fractal breath. what will take root here in the body of your work? and I’m left just bluestem and duckweed, game trail and stillness. what is your name, gray sky? who is this in me again? this present moment is a cold stream poured over stone and mud. my reflection is all distorted and for a second, I am you and you are standing under the elm tree saying something I can’t hear. just take this time and space for yourself. it’s not bullshit to feel sad.

Eric Huff

Recognition

by the time it was over the rain had started in earnest. from the window I watched as the sky broke into pieces like a shattered mirror. the violence sudden and then just a moment where we recognize these empty spaces. you saw this in me, too, I think. we both were standing in the river again, just about up to our bare knees. I told you this is the only way I know how to heal myself because I didn’t want to admit to each time I’ve leaned over the guardrails just hoping to catch myself in the movement of that breath, one and then another. you were a shade tree, the name of which you didn’t know, didn’t need to know. you called spirit into that room. you held my breath as your dog pulled against its leash. with wide eyes you saw me. you saw me standing there waiting for the torrents of rain to stop, for it to ease up some.

Eric Huff

(image is of the poet)

Two Poems by Eric Huff: The western motel on the river road; Rivulets

(Nore–Today is the first day of three featuring the poetry of Eric Huff. He will appear today, tomorrow and Monday. We feel the readers will like his stuff as much as we do–The Eds.)

I want you to call me by whatever name you want. call me the river road. call me the western motel on the river road. listen to me tell you about my scrap metal dreams, about my literal scrap metal dreams and berry bramble night terrors. you have a sleeper in your eye again. start unfolding each of these paper cranes so I can get a better look at the printed patterns. more than half of these are just black and white photocopies of my face but with one or two subtle differences. look at this one, my eyes are closed. and here, the part in my hair is mirrored. the record of this day is being played back in reverse and it’s only now that I can hear your voice – like a cactus bloom at 1am this is something I have waited for. please say something lovely. say something right. breathe in all this moonshine.

Eric Huff

Rivulets

my dream? bluestem moves in rivulets.

winter cress, wild ginger, the cattail –

when I die, I want you to open all the

windows and drink cold water right from the sink.

Eric Huff

(Image is of the poet)