Annual Fundraising Appeal

The US Geological Survey recorded a minor earthquake this morning with its epicenter near Wasilla, Alaska, the probable result of Sarah Palin opening her mail box to find the latest issue of CounterPunch magazine we sent her. A few moments later she Instagrammed this startling comment…

Palin2

The lunatic Right certainly has plenty of problems. We’ve made it our business to not only expose these absurdities, but to challenge them directly. With another election cycle gaining steam, more rhetoric and vitriol will be directed at progressive issues. More hatred will be spewed at minorities, women, gays and the poor. There will be calls for more fracking and war. We won’t back down like the Democrats. We’ll continue to publish fact-based critiques and investigative reports on the shenanigans and evil of the Radical Right. Our future is in your hands. Please donate.

Day10

Yes, these are dire political times. Many who optimistically hoped for real change have spent nearly five years under the cold downpour of political reality. Here at CounterPunch we’ve always aimed to tell it like it is, without illusions or despair. That’s why so many of you have found a refuge at CounterPunch and made us your homepage. You tell us that you love CounterPunch because the quality of the writing you find here in the original articles we offer every day and because we never flinch under fire. We appreciate the support and are prepared for the fierce battles to come.

Unlike other outfits, we don’t hit you up for money every month … or even every quarter. We ask only once a year. But when we ask, we mean it.

CounterPunch’s website is supported almost entirely by subscribers to the print edition of our magazine. We aren’t on the receiving end of six-figure grants from big foundations. George Soros doesn’t have us on retainer. We don’t sell tickets on cruise liners. We don’t clog our site with deceptive corporate ads.

The continued existence of CounterPunch depends solely on the support and dedication of our readers. We know there are a lot of you. We get thousands of emails from you every day. Our website receives millions of hits and nearly 100,000 readers each day. And we don’t charge you a dime.

Please, use our brand new secure shopping cart to make a tax-deductible donation to CounterPunch today or purchase a subscription our monthly magazine and a gift sub for someone or one of our explosive  books, including the ground-breaking Killing Trayvons. Show a little affection for subversion: consider an automated monthly donation. (We accept checks, credit cards, PayPal and cold-hard cash….)
button-store2_19

or use
pp1

To contribute by phone you can call Becky or Deva toll free at: 1-800-840-3683

Thank you for your support,

Jeffrey, Joshua, Becky, Deva, and Nathaniel

CounterPunch
 PO Box 228, Petrolia, CA 95558

We All Die of Our Nightmares in the End. ( R ) by BRENDAN McCORMACK The trains are darkly packed in the station, Hundreds of carriages Brooding next to each other Upon tracks leading nowhere. We are underground. A black heat smothers What air that hangs around. There are millions of trains That wait underground. […]

McCormack and Larrea

by POETS' BASEMENT

We All Die of Our Nightmares in the End. ( R )
by BRENDAN McCORMACK

The trains are darkly packed in the station,
Hundreds of carriages
Brooding next to each other
Upon tracks leading nowhere.

We are underground.
A black heat smothers
What air that hangs around.

There are millions of trains
That wait underground.

They’ll breach the earth
When the clocks arrive at the departure.
Humming up out of tunnels
Into that bright glass sky.

Father forgive me I am original.

My double helix reverts to the end
Of the strands,feeding fires with black coal,
Skin blisters ,
The wet pus under skin bubbles up.

Red hot. White hot.
There is one woman alone on the platform.
She is naked.
I can see her body. She has no face.
She does not speak.

I am a ghost who does not trust the voice anymore.
It is not me that is making these words in my mind.

I long for the barking of dogs.
Asymmetric sounds.
I long for knowing.

Animals leave the carriages next.
The station is full of anumals leaving the carriages.
Other tunnels take them away.

I have nothing but tears.
The woman comes past me.
I see her naked body.
Covered in sores.
The animals are gone.
She leaves.

We’ll go now says the voice in my head.

We All Die of Our Nightmares in the End. ( R )

Press play to play again.
Press play to play again.

 

 

Scrambling
by BRENDAN McCORMACK

Air shimmering as heat rises –
I don’t know.

Soft salads trailed with balsamic vinegar.
Half eaten eggs,
Yolks dripping
Onto white morning plates.

I am shaking.
I remember a song.
Iggy Pop screaming with his canine jawing voice.
“I’m vibrating.”
Oim Voybrating.

Death is on me.
I am vibrating.
7 and more on the Richter scale.
These are 8 or more on the Sphincter Scale.

When was it fear
Set up house inside of me?

(
A basket of white eggs carried
Through the graveyard on shining spades,
Or shovels,
To the great feast.
)

My thoughts fall off the shelves.
Identities tumble from wardrobes.

Buddha, Jesus,
Buddha, Jesus,

I can see the wound,
Bleeding
All over a Dublin street,

Buddha, Jesus,
Buddha, Jesus,

I broke bones before,
Sat for days
With the pain
And a grin,
Knowing bones were nothing.

Now
I am shaking
As life breathes into me
And death exhales

I am changing
From everlasting
To mortal,
From King
To Pauper,
From font
To pencil.

I look around and see
People like me.
I am terrified.

Terrified.

The eggs will be on the plates
Again
In the morning.
Sunning themselves.

While I sharpen
Myself
Once more.
Shavings
Littering the floor.

 

Brendan McCormack is a 42 year old poet living and working in Dublin. He has had his work recently published online in the following publications: Street Cake Magazine, Primal Urge Magazine, Bone Orchard Journal and Outburst Magazine. He first collection of poems, Selling Heaven is available soon online from Amazon.

 

 

Killer Mind
by PHILLIP LARREA

Killer mind
Profiled ill
Since third grade.

No permits
To work here.
‘Go west’, gone.

Unsexy
Sick bastard.
We’ll fix him.

 

Phillip Larrea is a syndicated columnist, and has been a widely published poet in the U.S., U.K. and Eastern Europe. His first chapbook, Our Patch (Writing Knights Press), was released January 2013. Phillip’s first full-length poetry collection, We, the People (Cold River Press), released April, 2013.

 

Editorial Note: (Please Read Closely Before Submitting)

Poets Basement is now on Facebook. Find us as http://www.facebook.com/poets.basement.

To submit to Poets Basement, send an e-mail to CounterPunch’s poetry editor, Marc Beaudin at counterpunchpoetry@gmail.com with your name, the titles being submitted, and your website url or e-mail address (if you’d like this to appear with your work).  Also indicate whether or not your poems have been previously published and where.  For translations, include poem in original language and documentation of granted reprint/translation rights.  Attach up to 5 poems and a short bio, written in 3rd person, as a single Word Document (.doc or .rtf attachments only; no .docx – use “Save As” to change docx files to “.doc”).  Expect a response within two months (occasionally longer during periods of heavy submissions).

Poems accepted for online publication will be considered for possible inclusion of an upcoming print anthology.

For more details, tips and suggestions, visit http://crowvoice.com/poets-basement. Thanks!