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Build yourself a time capsule. Fill it up with the excess portion of your disappointment and disgust. Stuff it with the nausea induced by their unending, towering lies. Pour in the words you need to remember. You will need these things later, and you will be glad to have them close at hand. They will be buried there, right there, not two inches down. In the meantime, you will need to be strange and find strange ways to fight. Those who can will resist, and those who can’t will persist.

When the time comes—in eight months, in two years, in four years—your capsule will be ready to be unearthed. When you pry it open, you’ll find that the things that you saved have intermingled and coalesced. They have become a monster, a golem at your command. You will unleash it, and it will drag you uphill. You will look down at where you languished, and then, then you will not fail to act.

~Bram Shay, Editor

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The American electoral process is a lot like poetry: it’s an amazing, empowering process that fills one with euphoria and hope, and then it’s over.

But seriously folks. I just want to apologize to all you that follow gloomcupboard.com and its poetry section for not getting a poetry issue to you for October. As some of you might know, I am a full-time college student and I had midterms the past couple of weeks. That’s over with now. Once again, sorry.

In the following issue we have poems penned by some that, by this time tomorrow morning, might very well be behind bars.

Why do so many good poems come from the Midwest? You fuckers just drink, read Upton Sinclair and walk the cold, cultured streets in pea coats all night or what?

Luis Rivas
Henry Ajumeze

Poetry Editors
Gloom Cupboard

Born into this world
By Diane Webster

I never asked to be born.
I was comfortable floating
along with my lifeline
of food and oxygen and blood.
Warm, not a care in my world
except to kick my boundaries
until I fell inside a whirlpool
sucked into cold, bright, noisy
foreign world where I cried
my demands whether met or not
always needing help
knowing I would be kicked out
of this world too for a world
I never asked to be born to. (more…)

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On gray, windy and cold days like this in Los Angeles I think about blowing up buildings, running for president, rescuing all the animals that sit on death row at the local humanitarian purgatory, that some call by their more commonly known misnomers, shelters, and organizing elementary school children for an insurrection (they are the ones most negatively affected in society’s hierarchical web; why aren’t there armies of little kids patrolling the school ground, monitoring the staff, demanding the most up-to-date resources, demanding teachers impart the wisdom of pessimism, the philosophy of skepticism, the art of war). (more…)

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