Three Poems

Jake Cosmos Aller

It Can’t Happen Here

The pundits and talking heads
The chaterati classes

All assure us
That it can’t happen here
Fascism will never happen here

Our democratic system
Superior to all others
Check and balances
Power of the media

Will prevent fascism
From taking root
In the American soil

They laugh
And talk amongst themselves
And laugh some more
Convincing themselves

Meantime the darkness
Continues to descend

As our President becomes more erratic
And frankly shows signs of insanity
The fascists supporting him
Gather strength

And one day
They strike back
With furry

When the powers that be
Try to remove the President

He mobilizes his army
His army of deplorables
And they mobilize

And his fascist supporters
In the government
Demand law and order
And restoration of the Leader of the people
As they have started calling the President

He comes back into power
And demands
Unspecified emergency powers

And so, the cycle ends
And fascism wrapped inside a Christian flag

Comes to America
Full vengeance
As they take charge

And the chaterati classes
Are all arrested
The first to be rounded up

America has fallen
The media stars
All comply

The leader is great
America is great
And all who oppose him

Must be terror sympathizers
Or Tersymps for short
And deserve to be rounded up

Public protests are forbidden
Muslims must register
Atheists must be fired

Alt media is shut down
The internet is censored

And I weep
As I see the once great American nation
Descend into a fascist nightmare

And I wait for the midnight knock on the door
Knowing that I am on the list.

Knock Knock knock
Open it is homeland security……


Masters of the Universe

The earth has been invaded
By hideous blood sucking vampires
Disgusting vile alien creatures
Devoid of all compassion
Lacking any human empathy

These so-called Masters of the universe
These psychopathic monsters
Are everywhere
They even took over the White house

And to these vile creatures
Everyone is nothing but a commodity
These alien monsters
Worship the god of the market
While proclaiming that they serve Jesus

Jesus would turn over in his grave
To see these people in action

The airlines in Florida
Facing the worst hurricane in world history
Decided that the expeditated thing to do
The MBA approved thing to do
The profit maximizing, screw the public thing to do

Was to raise prices 600 percent
Without prior notice charging 3,000 dollars

Instead of doing the right thing
The compassion thing
The human thing of offering free flights to all

These executives, these so-called Masters of the Universe
thus, demonstrated that they are no longer human

But greed driven monsters
As are all the other soulless automatons
Who have taken over the world

Perhaps some day
Jesus will come back
And smite these motherfuckers
Send them to the hell they so richly deserve

We can only pray
For our deliverance from such evil
From the soulless evil masters of the universe
Who have taken over the planet


Idiots in High Places

Many years ago
I was amazed to find
So many idiots in high places
All over the world

Senators, congressmen
Office directors
Corporation CEO’s

All were idiots
Completely stupid

People who should have known
A thing or so
because they should have seen a thing or so

and yet these idiots in high places
would reveal their total ignorance
every time they opened their mouth
or tweet or email their profoundly wrong thoughts

and it never ceased to amaze me
that few ever challenged these idiots
few ever said but you are wrong
or you don’t have a clue

and these idiots caused so much damage
to those around them
to the country and the world

and now we have the idiot in chief
in charge of the richest most powerful country
the world has ever known

and I wonder how in a country of 350 million people
we ended up with such an idiot in charge

But the idiots in high places phenomenon
Exists everywhere

Corporations made stupid decisions
Countries make incredibly bad decisions

All traced back to idiots in high places
And these idiots in high places
Can’t hide their ignorance and pure stupidity

They can’t pretend anymore
In a world of 24/7 constant news
The idiots every pronouncement
Fills the airways 24/7

And the only people who know better
Are too afraid to say what they know

That the idiot in high place
Is an idiot
and is destroying the world

and so, we doomed to die
due to the idiot in high places


John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and former Foreign Service officer having served 27 years with the U.S. State Department in ten countries – Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, Korea, India, St Kitts, St Lucia, St Vincent, Spain, and Thailand. Prior to joining the U.S. State Department, Jake taught overseas for eight years. Jake served in the Peace Corps in Korea. Jake has been an aspiring novelist for several years and has completed four novels, (Giant Nazi Spiders, “the Great Divorce” and “Jurassic Cruise”, and is pursuing publication. He has been writing poetry and fiction all his life and has published his poetry fiction in over 25 literary journals He speaks Korean, some Spanish and Thai. He grew up in Berkeley, California but has lived in Seattle, Washington DC and Stockton California. He has traveled to over 45 countries and 49 States.


Two Poems

John Grey


A mirror serves a purpose,
strives to remain constant
despite the changing faces –
sometimes someone new,
sometimes the same one
but a day older.

It’s not just
the one gray hair,
the blemish on the chin.
It reflects everything.
It’s up to us to pick and choose.

A mirror is okay with lake water
doing the job for it,
rippling a face
like a snake casting off slough.

Or even a window,
both in the glass family
even if the unwitting pane
can only accommodate parts of people
and, even then, its accuracy is disputed.

A mirror is not devious.
merely holds to the two dimensional doctrine:
return all that it is given
perfectly intact.
It has no interest
in where we go, what we do,
after we’re done looking.

For a mirror has no inner life,
is content to stare at a wall
until we return

A mirror can’t tell ugliness from beauty
though it assumes, on some level,
that, if we stare into it long enough,
we’ll make our own judgment.

A broken mirror, they say.
brings seven years’ bad luck.
But only if it’s the seven years’ bad luck
we already had coming.



The lady is idolized.
Forget the accomplishments.
Her perfect figure
warrants preserving after death.

Love the fantasy.
Skin stops at the edge of our inquiry.
Her eyes say
you’ve come far enough…
wallow in the color.

She had a child,
She wed a man.
She even has a delicate scar
beneath her skin
from a minor car accident.

But her breasts don’t believe
in life stories.
And her hips have nothing to gain
from how she pays her bills on time.

The lady is in our heads
posing for our thoughts.
She can’t be in her head.
Her face won’t allow it.


Blame the lack of stimulants in the air.
Call me an effigy made of stone.
But my blood refuses to be wooed
despite your come-hither gesture.

The moonlight lies like a sheet
on your spotted body.
Your language is a brighter shade of pink.
Lamp tries to warm

but the background music is frozen.
It’s your leopard-skin that’s at fault.
It prods my sensibilities like a pistol barrel.
What’s next? An ocelot coat?

You’re pushing a rock up a hill
if you imagine I can love you in that.
No, make that fighting a big cat bare-handed.
My ideals are clear on the subject.

I‘m so like the leopard,
searching for that justice we seek
but will never find.
And, despite your sexy winds blowing my way,

I will not waver.
For necrophilia, bestiality –
that is the love and sex you offer.
So here we are in the living room –

a man and a corpse
that’s embalmed by pretty green eyes
and a flash of shoulder-length black hair.
But the shadows under those eyes are pits.

Those tresses are a form of tallow.
Really, your insinuations arc beginning to sicken me
Sure, you insist your leopard-skin is really a fake.
But a fake’s the real thing in this light.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Field of Vision

Stefanie Bennett

“Everyone knows that the dice are loaded,
everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.”

(L. Cohen & S. Robinson)

He said ‘I lend you love’
which meant – lease:
the aftertaste
of lips
on spent tourmaline.

The attache of indifference
doesn’t come
to terms
with chancery.
Doesn’t see
the meteor fall

or how she aggregates
the delicate


Stefanie Bennett ex-blues singer and musician has published several books
of poetry, a novel and a libretto and worked with No Nukes – Arts Action
For Peace. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was
born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s been nominated for the Pushcart
and Best of the Net.

Three Poems

Matt Dennison


I ran away because my
parents told me that
I needed to do better
in school and I wanted
people to know exactly
what I wanted to do
with my life. I wanted
to be a professional
wrestler and I wanted
them to know that
my life was out of their
hands. I ran away to
make them miss me, and
when they did,
I was the one to
determine whether they
saw me or not.


He takes a back hand
and he grabs the rope
praying that he’ll
get a few minutes rest.
He gets that rest,
and it’s exactly at
that moment that he
pokes his opponent in
the eye.


He dreams of the day
he touches her. His
eyes only ever look
at her and he thinks
about the day he gets
to touch her and hold
her and he dreams
of the day she’ll be
his and he dreams
of the day she’ll
kiss him.


Matt Dennison hails from Florida. His work can be found in numerous journals, but he really wants you to read the work he submitted to The Miscreant first.

Three Poems

Gabriella Garofalo

Beads bags bonkers–
She bites off souls, doesn’t she?
Oh, she’s that scared ever since
They told her snakes and monkeys
Are the appointed guardians of hell –
Well, they’re not,
Those ladies grinning among crags and wrinkles are –
Beware, my soul, she’s hiding in the corners,
Safe behind the doors of your mind
When the brightest air roused in you
The blazing frenzy of time torching
The ages, the green –
Look, she may be preggo with truth,
She may be preggo with lies,
But feel not guilty, my soul,
As your only sin was
Gorging on primal colours,
Just go lost in a faraway cease-fire,
The silence of moon,
Shelter beyond clouds, nights,
Beyond God’s sighs when he squints
At some crippled light
You unashamedly called bliss –
Or time.


Dead men walking? Ok, we might discuss it,
‘Cept there’s a little problem:
They thrust out from the shelters,
Cling to the breasts, stop hunger –
Ever seen them in that trendy café
All white and steel?
Babies with mothers, red and blue stains
All over the street, a dead bird –
It augurs hope, right? –
But they don’t possess that much those spring flowers,
Only the red and blue you gave them –
At night or dawn?
Come closer, soul, those hands you don’t trust,
At dawn they spin, at night they tear asunder –
While grass and dashing stalks
Dream of leaving time black and blue,
Him and his darned skin,
Trees and moon just grow their light old –
Are you by any chance insomniac? Don’t blurt it out,
Set your breath ablaze when the oh-so-pure air
Warns you’re bit more than the taste of limbs
Or greenwood scent –
The blue keeps still waiting in the cold,
So be careful if light strikes down:
You game, word, for sticking to her in this bloody foul mess?
And don’t you hide my soul, God, ok?
Don’t, just tell me my house got ablaze,
So I’ll inherit the wind and the werewolf’s howls
We two can hear from afar.


Death was your book, she helped you learn
Young leaves fall, young branches die –
Do souls speak louder than life? –
Yet once you had the seeds of Persephone,
Wild freedom so easy to silence
And love saw to everything else –
Then out of the blue fathers, haphazard births –
You a table centerpiece,
Sometimes a guest among
Chipped dishes, animals, the dead –
But why can’t they see the proper thing
Is to lay the mind with your seeds –
Damn her, who cares if she’s ashamed,
Damn dawn, the fake promise wasting your fires,
A Sahara hissing its green anger –
Thank God they fail big time:
Lovers believe in lovers’ gifts,
Women in flowing sap or blazing pronouns –
Thank God you don’t believe, my fruit,
We both know, don’t we, the real fibre,
The rib of our jarring world is distance –
While you dream she’s feeding on her ice,
Is the moon playing Tantalus?
Don’t worry, I’m asking because
We only get a glimpse of ghost action
When our eyes get worn out on shredded charts
Dreams and a high-strung blue
Who’s got no jaded stars.


Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”.

Three Poems

Jack D. Harvey


King and master of
the queen of morn,
star of heaven had he;
then time’s bony fingers,
forgotten in the boon,
touched the bloom of youth
and trembling old Tithonus
bereft, bereft,
locked in a room,
withering to a cricket,
an insect
chirping endlessly
through eternal mornings
waiting waiting alone;

begging the gods
for the grace of his doom.



The dogs’ code.

Two dogs, one bone,
don’t share the bone.

Watch outside,

guard the yard.

Bark a lot;

bark the bark
right off the trees.

Hate cats.

Love people
who smell good to eat.

Hate the pullers of ears,
the tweakers of noses.

The dogs’ code.



Horace knew what
is winter
what was winter
slow as molasses
by the fire;
centuries and centuries ago

so far across the sea.

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, The Comstock Review, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years, many of which are probably kaput by now, given the high mortality rate of poetry magazines.

The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. He once owned a cat that could whistle “Sweet Adeline,” use a knife and fork and killed a postman.


Three Poems

Michael H. Brownstein


The first nap we took was long and comforting.
You sleep when you can, the noise bad enough,
but I can no longer stand silence.
You learn to eat when you can,
lift the fork to your mouth, your buddy gasps,
lifts backwards, a rose at his forehead,
and you think about physics, the laws of motion,
finish that one swallow, the air smoke and yelling,
the seed of a fruit, a sniper, a puff of dirt.
Later, you help others carry your buddy away.
There is never time to finish eating.
There is never time to take a nap.

This is the weather of crazy men,
word purists, electric company shareholders:
Hell is not fire and steam, blisters and melting skin–
hell is the weather where everything is not enough,
clothing in layers, fireplaces roaring,
inadequacies with the furnace. Every year
we are the madman who live here.
Every year we remain.


My wife was born at the lead of a bridge,
its moat turbulent and full of snakes.

Maidens did not speak to knights.
They had to find light on their own.

Our men not Roman Gods, nor Norse.
They knew the code to the city.

When my daughter arrived, wild flowers
blue and pink leafed, sprouted at the road.

My son studied the naturalness of his world,
slipped into gardens for hours.

If we have bread, if the water is drinkable,
if the castle is no longer full,

my children, my wife, my knights,my maidens,
some years harder than others,

some centuries a hundred year war,
some decades an African Renaissance,

some years years of flower and peace,
flour and trees glowing with leaf.


And so I forgot water, too, has breath
and purple weeds can lift their eyes from the mud first light.
cloud fire covers light with admonition and compliance.
I have forgotten them too, their pattern of speech,
their bright fingers tearing the sky apart.
There is much to forget and much to remember.
In time I will forget this also: the great Missouri
breaking the boundary, its belly pregnant,
its strength a pulse, current, a spread of hands–
rising, rising, rising–its fingers stretching from fist
into mud and design, debris and satisfaction.


Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011). His passion is Project Agent Orange: Project Agent Orange



The Miscreant publishes flash fiction and poetry that challenges social boundaries, makes us rethink what it means to be human–and more importantly, bludgeons us over the head with raw, honest reality.

Submissions are on a rolling basis and responses will typically be given within two weeks.

The Miscreant is a Duotrope listed publication; further info can be found here:

Flash fiction pieces should be no longer than 600 words and poetry should be no longer than 20 lines.

Send your work, along with a short bio, in the body of an email addressed to

Please submit no more than five poems or short fiction pieces per issue.

The Miscreant is an equal opportunity publishing venture. It does not discriminate on the basis of gender identity, sexual identity, race, religious affiliation and/or disability.