it’s one thing…


i want to love Meredosia–it’s my hometown.

It’s one thing to come home to visit and find the town decimated as if a war or the apocalypse happened while you were gone. Were the residents sleeping? Are they okay? Is there anyone left? ..recalling though, oh yes–it’s just the ramp coming through, access to the new bridge.


The new bridge, necessary, crossing the Illinois River. but there? They took out the village park, the Veterans’ Memorial, the grocery store folded… everyone goes to Dollar General on the edge of town now for in between the absolutely necessary out-of-town shopping. There is no chicken salad special or $5 crackers anymore. DG won’t run a tab for you and your family. The old Lutheran Church behind the park where my folks were married, gone some years ago and now the rest.. along with other resident’s homes on Main Street, gone.

How much can you relocate? Can you relocate the heart of a community? I’d really like to know because I’m trying to find it.

This time I come home to see not just more destruction but a sick, irreverent blow at the very roots of this village. There are so many things you may be looking for in a modern life that you will not find here. We can still assure you a few things. There will be more churches than bars but we’ll keep it a stiff competition. I believe we will always be able to boast people dug into their eccentricities, perhaps without neat labels maybe, but still–there is a certain freedom in all the peoples knowing your dirt for generations going back. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Family, history–and there is where my list both stops and gets complicated.

No longer can we offer a park, a fish market or grocery, the bandstand is next they say. There was a town doctor once but that was over long ago. Still, we have the funeral parlor where each one of us, I dare say, has likely sat still to mourn loved ones and ruminate on our own mortality. We will always have that, so long as there’s anyone left to care…

as well our little cemetery. Oakland Cemetery on the south edge of town.


I have to wonder though, thus the piss and vinegar of this visit as Mom takes me over to the cemetery to see Papa’s (my grandfather) trees, all marked up for removal and yet still brilliant despite the spray paint.

those two lovelies together off in the distance

those two lovelies together off in the distance

See, the committee of town board members responsible for the upkeep of the cemetery has seen fit to crudely mark not just trees for removal on these personal burial plots but also to remove or damage, without warning or consideration, other markers and memorials throughout the cemetery. There is no rhyme or reason that I can note. The trees are not all dead and/or dangerous, the memorials and markers not all old and decrepit, certainly not unsightly and who gets to judge that anyway.

My understanding is that through an ordinance passed by the village, new trees and shrubs are not to be planted. I’m not even going to argue that one. It’s for another day. Thing is, these trees were planted a long long time ago, quite before the ordinance. I can’t speak for the rest of the trees marked up, but those on my grandparent’s plot were planted by my grandfather when his wife passed in 1975. I was less than a year old. These trees have grown with me. I recall first my grandfather and later my mother taking great care of those plots, the trees, tending potted flowers, placing grave blankets of pine needles at Christmastime…


As I’m walking the cemetery, I recall a poem I wrote some years ago. I spent a great deal of time standing on the border of the cemetery looking out while at the babysitter’s.

How do they care for their dead? Important to ponder don’t you think?

Flowers, Mostly Plastic

in the back yard
I had a big mound of sand
two times, maybe three, my height
supposing to play in
sometimes I even did

building castles, forts and things
more often than not, I sat on the edge of the yard
where there was a plot of concrete
planned once for a basketball court, I think
there I would sit
on the cool cement among the abandoned,
rusting metal toy cars
and watch

I was watching the wind blow
and the shadow fall
I was watching every tiny distracting sense
of the moment
as it passed
in the graveyard next door

I watched the people come, though not often
I watched the flowers, mostly plastic
I watched them fall and tumble
I watched them scoot, almost play
one day here, another there
among the gravestones
I watched the seasons change
the leaves on the trees to the ground
and the man working
I would hide then, behind the shed
watching in secret

how do they care for their dead?
(I did not think of that then)

Maybe part of the problem is contracting out the upkeep of the cemetery to the lowest bidder each year who could care less other than a paycheck. Get the job done and quick—less trees and markers, less things to mow around. Hell, maybe we should just pave it! Get rid of the gravestones while you’re at it… very unsightly.

No. I don’t know what is wrong with the board members, most especially our long-as-I-can-remember neighbor (leading the charge) who has in his lifetime enjoyed more meals at my family’s table than I care to think about right now. Why? Why is this even happening, I keep asking myself. I am really struggling here to understand.

I’m actually a bit of a connoisseur of cemeteries, weird as I am and I’m here to tell you, you are taking out the best parts and you are doing it in the worst possible way.


Zero respect for the dead or their remaining family. It takes a lot to offend me. Words rarely do it. The dirty is in the deed and I am surely offended as such.

Resolution, I don’t know. Even if the fight no longer continues, a great rift remains.

Perhaps what is needed is a caretaker. If there is money for a contract, why not that money for a regular, seasonal position. Much like the one remembered in my poem. I have dug around a little to find out for certain who the man was but to no avail. My best guess is that it was Andy McDannald. It would have been late 70s/early 80s that I am recalling. Though I don’t remember words being spoken between us, I’m certain there probably were a few but nothing at length, mostly just me noticing someone taking great care over there of the graves and the grounds. Even though at that age I did not realize how important that was or why I would think it important to take note of in a poem later, I know seeing that felt right and good and comforting. How a person goes about a thing can make all the difference in the world. Approach with honor and reverence. If you cannot, do not approach at all.


Finally, I will leave you with one more poem, written several years ago as I sat at Diamond Grove Cemetery (beautiful for all it’s old trees, stone angels and benches..), mourning a love lost and out of respect, love and remembering my Papa, his ways and his life.


Far left Violet & Harold “Spud” Bennett

Cemetery Poem (for my love)

i’m sitting here at the
talking to myself
i think i’ll probably
be here awhile
be doing this
wondering all along
if it will be enough

this is where i go
when none of it makes sense
just so you know

where it is quiet
my mind quiets
there is some sort of peace
in the finality

i think of papa
his letters
sent home while
out on the river
or out to sea
for months
and months on end
starting the letter, stopping
and beginning again
if only a sentence or two
in between the work
that keeps him away

how he called her
my love
and still she
drank just a little too much
a little too often

all this i learn from old letters
see in yellowed photographs

how she stared off-center
with a sadness around
the eyes
only laughing in the photo
when he’s seated next to her
and all those years
since she died
he lived on, puttering
through life

i wonder if he
pretended she was there
for the rest of it
for the baseball games
over the radio
the mornings in the garden
the looking out over
what does it matter

today on duncan avenue
in diamond grove cemetery
it does not matter
i talk to myself
i will lie down
in the earth by myself
search for you
in the next life
and hope
it will be easier

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Michele McDannold is the author of Stealing the Midnight from a Handful of Days, a book of poetry available from PUNK HOSTAGE PRESS. She was the Editor-in-Chief at Red Fez Publications for five years and is currently the editor/publisher at Citizens for Decent Literature. She has an extensive collection of flannel and rubber chicken heads. For more, please visit

if you want to go far



back by sometime still called monday

we travel by landmark and compass
an itinerary that
not only includes
but demands
getting lost

what’s needed
highly re-evaluated

we have friends in every port–
some will pull through
and some will
forget what day it is

piss by the side of the road
carry various weaponary
but most importantly
always carry a can opener

you do have to know
a stranger when you see one

be careful out there
safe travels, all that

clues to watch out for are:
and anyone else sunk so low
all they have is
it’s us or them..
look for desperation
never forget crazy
and anyone thinking they
the bloodlust riffs off them
loud as sirens, those ones

sometimes they come with smiles
but still
you usually know.

-Michele McDannold 3/26/15

Michele McDannold is the author of Stealing the Midnight from a Handful of Days, a book of poetry available from PUNK HOSTAGE PRESS. She was the Editor-in-Chief at Red Fez Publications for five years and is currently the editor/publisher at Citizens for Decent Literature. She has an extensive collection of flannel and rubber chicken heads. For more, please visit

Community – Secret Code Sunday (just make it mean something, anything)


today i’m thinking about what did we mean to do when we started out…

dude, i don’t know- it’s been a weird day.

clusterfuck: Related to "SNAFU" (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up") and "FUBAR" (Fucked Up Beyond All Repair). or the damn jeep

clusterfuck: Related to “SNAFU” (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up”) and “FUBAR” (Fucked Up Beyond All Repair). or the damn jeep

Connect the dots… somewhere there’s a manifesto based on connecting dots. it’s a 4-part plan. we’re in phase V. makes perfect sense, right?

Vulcan Gang Sign by Bradley Mason Hamlin (Red Fez Publications)

Vulcan Gang Sign by Bradley Mason Hamlin (Red Fez Publications)

The Sunday Brunch Invasion w/ Diana Rose and Frankie Metro FT. RED FEZ ENTERTAINMENT (special guests Michele McDannold & Michael Grover, January 2011)

Diana Rose reads this poem in that ^^^ podcast. She wanted to add “motherfuckers” at the end. What do you think?

America You Can…
by Misti Rainwater-Lites

America of glazed donut eyeballs cotton candy cologne
minty fresh breath brave plastic beauty indomitable
high wire walking smile smug card shuffling hands
& hyper haughty tapping toes you can lick my pretty
pink none too placid mewling ravenous cream greedy pussy.
America I’m making it cheeseburger simple & sloppy with
a pickle spear on the side. America you cartoon carnivore
eat my cunt (you can add ketchup to make it more palatable).
Tell me in your glossy commercials & dazzling magazines & sleazy
school marm voice that oozes irony and pseudo compassion exactly
how much you think my vagina is worth. For America, my darling,
I must confess…the poverty & reality television & throbbing teeth
& the booming bass of consumer whore crap music outside my
paranoid aluminum foil covered windows gleefully conspire to make
this agitated smelly boot cowgirl one more frigid casualty in this
bloody graphic glorious fun zone with soundtrack provided by
Smiley Cyrus and various stoic sporters of apple red leather
& lack of oxygen blue sequins. America, I am drawling those four
precious syllables like the sexy Texan I am to charm you into letting me
back inside the burning building. I’ve got a bag of marshmallows I would
really love to toast. America! God fucking cockroach crunching damn it!
This is, like, a call to action. A plea to revive my zombie clitoris with some
really great fucking multisyllabic zero Jesus zero rabid conservative republican
zero celebrity whore with cock in mouth news! Vary that tongue action, America.
Give me a wiggle waggle I can believe in. Trick this salty treat into believing
you give a good hearty goddamn about whether or not I can climb climb
CLIMB any mountain cross any sea riding the cosmic spasms like Raggedy Ann
on a rocking horse, one hand flopping above my Cymbalta stuffed head, my mouth
a pretty cherry heart crying, “Yippie Ai Ay!”

published in Red Fez Publications, Issue #24

I <3 that poem. also,

How-To-Read-A-Pattern. Simple Simon and Company

How-To-Read-A-Pattern. Simple Simon and Company

Chyfez. February 2012. Brian W. Fugett, Lynn Alexander, John Swain, Frankie Metro, Lindsey Thomas, Leopold McGinnis, Julie McGinnis, Kari Spencer, and Michele McDannold

Chyfez. February 2012. Brian W. Fugett, Lynn Alexander, John Swain, Frankie Metro, Lindsey Thomas, Leopold McGinnis, Julie McGinnis, Kari Spencer, and Michele McDannold

oh yeah. it was something like

Nothing to Lose by Michele McDannold

more than halfway to goal. The artists, poets, musicians of Collingwood could still use some help. hell, just a bit of solidarity and support. where is the noise? i can’t hear you. Residents of Collingwood Arts Center being evicted (DONATION PAGE)

Fundraiser for Collingwood Arts Center Residents


$1000 has been raised in less than 24 hours. 14 people. that’s it. that’s all it took. The goal is $2500. skip starbucks today and if you can’t even afford starbucks like most artists.. maybe you have a blog–write about this, you’re on social media?–share it. if you ever felt the benefits of an arts community, how could you not?

i’ve seen a lot more raised to publish a book about cats. wtf? this is about a place to live. dig?

Funny Cat Meme - Get off the table, You're not my mom


Residents of Collingwood Arts Center being evicted (