BUST

by devin wayne davis


our forefathers were
incredibly long-winded
but, never-the-less,
prominent; & such
eloquent figures.

so that is why
we use an ellipsis,
whenever we remove--
from one of their various
remarks--the context.


devin wayne davis, once called "ink (or inc.)" in a seaside vision, has written well-over 2, 000 poems. His work is printed in the Sacramento Anthology, 100 Poems, Sanskrit, Dwan, Poetry Depth Quarterly, and 17 chapbooks. Selections can be found on-line at Del Sol Review, Perihelion, Pierian Springs, Locust Magazine, Kota Press, Octavo, Jones Av., Pig Iron Malt, Great Works, La Petite Zine, Stirring, Offcourse, Rio Arts, Wandering Dog, Whimperbang, Kookamonga Square, and Split Shot. Both Barnes & Noble and Tower Books featured readings by davis; he has addressed citizens and lawmakers on the northern steps of the California State Capitol.

LET A {neoTeX@N} RUIN OUR HOUSE

(from unLerner/beLoewe’s My neoTeX@n)
by Bill Costley


Well, after all, Dubya’s just an ordinary neoTeX@n
who desires nothing more that an ordinary chance
to live exactly as he likes & do precisely what he wants;
a sub-average neoTeX@n he is, of Napoloeonic whim,
who likes to ride his bike while commanding strife,
doing whatever he thinks will most amuse him,
a perfectly ordinary neoimperial neoTeX@n.

But once we let a neoTeX@n run our House, our serenity was thru!
He bankrupted our home, from the Gulf to Arctic Dome,
& then went on with the enthralling fun of overhauling the whole World, too!

We let a neoTeX@n run our House & now we're up against The Wall!
After each new war we've found he had another war in mind;
rather than negotiate, do something nobody really likes at all,
talk of John Maynard & Milton Keynes, he only wants to talk of War;
avoid the U.N. & Europarliament, engaging in yet another War.

We let a neoTeX@n run our life & invited eternal strife:
He sought WMDs with his anxiously sweaty hands...why,
I'd be equally as willing for a Nazi dentist to be drilling
than to ever again let such a neoTeX@n run our Life!

I'm a very gentle man, even-tempered & good-natured,
who you never see complain, who has lactic acid by the quart in every vein,
A patient man am I, down to my chilly fingertips,
the sort who never could, never would,
let an insulting remark escape my lips.
An habitually gentle man.

But once we let a neoTeX@n run our life, such patience had no chance.
He solicited advice, our replies were concise, he grinned very nicely
& then went out & did exactly…what he’d just already done!

I’m man of spit & polish, who never speaks above a hush,
but I find I’m using language that would make a TeX@n blush!
Once we let a neoTeX@n run our life, he plunged us into strife,
now members of our House tie slip-knots 'round their necks,
volunteering for his edition of a neoTeX@n Inquisition!

I'm a quiet-living man, who prefers to spend the evening in the safety of
his rooms,
where the atmosphere’s as restful as undiscoverable WMD bombs,
a pensive man am I, of philosophic joys, who likes to meditate, contemplate,
far from neo-insanity’s madly inhuman noise; a quiet-living man.

But once we let a neoTeX@n run our life, our sabbaticals from War were through,
in a line that apparently never ends came a covert army of his friends,
secretly planning & plotting to alter everything in & around & about the U(SA);
once his secret whispering cabal studied us under microscopical glass,
his secretive Master’s rage shattered our protective plexiglass!

We've let a neoTeX@n run our life, we've let a Bush run our life, we've let
Dubya run our life!
How much longer will it take this neoTeXan to ruin our House & Nation?


Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.

ROAD MOVIE XMAS 2005

A NEW VERSE NEWS SUNDAY FEATURE
by Brendan Somers


It's too far to Bethlehem
far too far with all this sand
in a clapped out car
and Mary moaning in the back
while a so called king
says a cheap cotton sack
contains a gift
and a map
on the best way out of here.

I had a friend back in Nazareth
pitching a deal on crosses
my wife's sister's miracle torn son
is causing a fuss in the desert
while our unborn child
is already too large for this car
broken axled cooler shot soggy tyred
the man who sold it to me
infested with boils
and the busted temple in Jerusalem
spoiling my sleep.

It's always been too far
this sleepy village amongst the stones.
No-one ever makes it here
except by an error on the road
I said it was my birthplace
this dream of warm stables
and Herod's fear
bleeding like hate amongst the stars

But I have never arrived here
never triumphant pealed my silent
entry through the iron door
my wife lost within her sky blue robe
my child lonely on his golden cross
and I?
soft desert soil
and the time pocked stars
the empty purse
and the garden's agony
toll the willing bell.


Brendan Somers has performed in repertory, radio, TV and film in the UK and Northern Ireland; toured in his one-man plays Hess and The Raven Returns; and written, directed, and acted in the plays Wake and Knife, staged at the Latchmere Theatre. His controversial play Bloody Hero was staged at the Battersea Arts Centre, London and gained rave reviews in Time Out, Big Issue, Guardian, Irish post, The Times and The Evening Standard. He wrote the screenplays for Crimetime and The Commissioner as well as films for German TV (Murderers and Skitour). After six years living in the wilds of Scotland and France, Somers now lives in Rye, a medieval smuggling village in Sussex, UK , where he teaches drama to dyslexic and autistic children and lives with adored wife, the sculptress and raconteur Deborah Somers and severely eccentric cat, Mimi.

BREAKFAST ON SPECIAL K STREET

by Mary Saracino


On the street where the lobbyists live,
the money-hungry grab
a breakfast of political clout
and belly up to the table. They laden
their Special K with pork-barrel fat,
pour on greed — the whole-cream version,
not the wimpy 1% — sprinkle on
a heaping spoonful of cronyism
and savor every morsel of sugary nepotism.
Corruption rots their teeth;
spilled milk soils their hands,
but still they fish through the box,
the pilfered prize clinging
to their sticky fingers.
A promise puddles the milky dregs: when you
pay to play, you get to lick the bowl.


Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet who lives in Denver, CO. Her newest novel, The Singing of Swans, is to be published by Pearlsong Press in the fall of 2006.

cam·paign (n.)

a canzone dedicated to BushCo,
manifest destiny, and pre-emptive strikes

by Elizabeth Pietrzak


On the west side cascade forests along
The crusted river banks of snow
Covered rabbit scat they drafted a long
Term unalterable plan to run along
Side the spiral studded milkshake
Moon. Majors and generals feigned deep longing
Try to understand, leave a few stickers along
The way, don't ask don't tell helped
Delay inevitable foray with stray help
Full timber gods. Social activists have long
Understood the true desire of the pale
Misty mountains, sky demons so pale

Would descend to snowcapped peaks to impale
Selves through heartless soul, well met to a long
Standing partnership of veiled empty pailed
Trial and error. The blushing moon paled
Against the clouds without neon glow
Worms gathered again in convention pail
Unknowingly awake await for ugly pale
Crust of dried and devoured milkshake.
History denies the fact of the milkshake
Tale how the righteous balled faced pale
Male tail crack team of commandoes help
Keep the ignorant in line stacked neatly help

Deferred and de-burred and in the process help
The salmon fill the bellies and the pails
Of the lonely fisherman asleep. Only help
Can collect the remains. Only then can help
Invigorate dead deserted downtown long
Time scholars discovered evidence that helped
A local board of blind brats ultimately helped
Determine the fate of the fox glove long ago.
Understood that beginning ends in the status quo
Mildly awakened. Fools only fought to help
Arrange another round of milkshakes
To appease the hungry homeless milkshake

Deprived minions. In a struggling milkshake
Economy where the desire and intent is to help
A pressured city by providing a milkshake
For every daughter, success lies in taking the milkshakes
Out of the claws of the righteous pale
Faced conquerors. To allow them milkshake
Control or segregation of milkshakes
Of all colors and sizes, sets in motion all along
To nullify the dream milkshake freedom stream prolong
The inevitable outcome that any divisive milkshake
Management team will ultimately undergo..
Deadly conception doomed forever to forgo

The shaft of the knife deals the strife of long ago
Before the first coming of the singular milkshake
Which crawled from primordial slime eons ago
A parting gift linked from traced through ufo
Divided family guided missile implants helped
Imagine the strength of the lowly idaho
potato to crush the fresh flowers dewed eau
Below the tinkling droplets of the pale
Lesser ape leader inferior actions make pale
Der führer atrocities all who come thither and fro
Before ever and always wasn't a reliable long
Term solution. Simply did not belong.

As the morning sun quickly became long
Endless night, as the spirit did long to go
Far, far away from any calcified milkshake
Dream stray, as the last possibility of any help
Dwindled away, all that was left was an empty, rusted pail.


Elizabeth Pietrzak, Claremont, California, is a mostly-vegetarian poet who spurns the meat of global over-consumption in favor of a sustainable, locally grown lifestyle. She works in the theatre program at the University of La Verne and is pursuing her MFA at Antioch University, Los Angeles. She is working on her first novel as well as a collection of poetry, and has published two chapbooks, The Scent of Kisses in the Dark and Room in My Suitcase.

EXTRACTION

by Ed Webb


This may hurt a little
But please try to relax

He smiled

As he began to drill into my country


Ed Webb is a Brit who lives in Philadelphia. His checkered career includes diplomacy on behalf of a faded imperial power, a soon-to-be-finished (no, really) doctorate in politics, and a serious science fiction addiction.

CHENEY DEFINES THE NECESSARY CHARACTERISTICS OF A SUPREME COURT JUSTICE

by Anne G. Davies


Once Harriet Miers was flushed down the tubes
Cheney said: no more Texas rubes.
This time we'll choose a male Ivy Leaguer
Whose fervor for civil rights is meager.
Who thinks women must ask their husband's permission
To end even a dangerous pregnant condition.

He should work toward the gradual dilution
of privacy rights in the Constitution.
He'll believe access to contraceptives
Should be subject to government directives.

Sam Alito's a model of right-wing perfection
Conservative Republicans cheered his selection.
They know he'll take an unflinching standa
'Gainst the protections embodied in Miranda.
He's for hawking machine guns in public places
And the role of the vice squad in private spaces.
The rights of families, gays and minorities
Don't appear on his list of judicial priorities

In hearings he dodged leading questions
causing Democratic indigestions.
There's no doubt about his confirmation
Scalia and Thomas can't hide their elation.
They're all for greater executive power.
This could be the Supreme Court's finest hour!

He'll forge ahead and not be hesitant
To sweep away inconvenient precedent.
With this arch-conservative from Princeton and Yale
We know our kind of justice will always prevail.


Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts. This poem is one of a series called Vitriolic Verses. Email Anne Davies.

BROOKLYN SIBERIA

by Alex Galper
translated from Russian by the poet
with Igor Satanovsky and Mike Magazinnik


I live in Siberia
In the very heart of Southern Brooklyn.
In the mornings people are flocking to the taiga of Wall Street
Returning in the evening barely alive, frozen, stock-bitten,
Bleeding from computer-bug wounds.
Some disappear forever
Mauled to death by the bears of big corporations
Or buying houses in New Jersey.
In the spring I see their corpses
Inviting me to follow the same path
From the pages of respectable publications.


Alex Galper was born in Kiev, Ukraine and emigrated to America at the age of twenty. In 1996, he graduated from Brooklyn College majoring in Creative Writing. (His professor was Allan Ginsberg.) Alex Galper's poems have been published in many Russian magazines.

NO ONE HAS COME TO CLAIM THIS CAT

by Jan Austin Smith


a cloud of flies announces the presence of the Dead Cat.
it lies on the side of the road, amidst tall cluttered weeds and debris—
jagged wooden boards with rusty nails sticking out of them,
torn
by Hurricane Winds
from nearby houses lying in ruin,
squished cigarette butts that look like skinny old men with gnarled spines
slouching under the weight of many years,
bloated bags of garbage left curbside because the trucks don’t come here anymore,
crushed empty budweiser cans,
shards of glass,
bottlecaps
wrappers
dust
dirt
Mold.
the Cat is a Black Cat. its wispy black fur clings wetly to its rotting skin.
it is sucked down onto the pavement, as if it fell out of the sky from a great distance,
and any more would’ve left it splattered open.
its ribs nearly stab out of its belly.
the flies come to rest once more on the Cat. they bite off minute pieces
of its decaying flesh,
or lay their maggot eggs inside of it to bring
Life,
filthy, disgusting
Life
out of this horrible
Death.
in letters that begin at its neck and end just short of its tail,
someone has crudely, obscenely spray-painted GAME OVER in
White
on its Black fur.
the Black cat has been neglected.
a piece of trash in the tourist-laden French Quarter would receive more
immediate attention,
a speck of dirt doubly so in the rich Garden District.
but here, in the poor Black ninth ward, nothing.
the wealthy and commercial areas of the city
are as beautiful as they were the day before Destruction came,
while in the poor areas, It still resides.
you do the math.
nobody has come to claim this cat, because its owners are in
atlanta or
houston or
one of a hundred other alien cities that might as well be on alien planets for their
Distance from Home.
nobody has come to claim this cat because almost nobody has come to claim this part
of the city.
nobody has come to claim this part of the city, their Homes, because the
necessary supplies
aren’t being made a Necessity.
if a certain kind of Bomb were needed to drop on iraq,
rest assured it would be there by tomorrow.
but here we are, four months after the Chaos descended,
and an eighty-two year old woman is trying to scrub the inch-thick green
Mold from the walls of her
Home Sweet Home
with water,
holding a tattered White handkerchief over her mouth because no respirators or masks
were delivered to the distribution center today.
four months after the Chaos descended,
and down the street a middle-aged white man from
two-thousand miles away is helping an old
old
Black woman dig through the rubble of her
Home Sweet Home,
trying to salvage a few family pictures, and maybe
if she’s lucky
a cup or two.
and next door,
four months after the Chaos descended,
a group of college kids from across the country on their christmas break
are chucking furniture, books, silverware, photograph albums, lives,
ruined from water and filth and injustice and
Mold and
Mold and
Mold
out onto the sidewalk.
all of this because the Government has more important things to be doing.
and no one comes to claim this Cat,
and so the Dead Cat remains.


Jan Austin Smith lives in Southern California and attends the University of California at Irvine. He recently spent a week in New Orleans aiding in relief efforts and taking it all in.

THE ANGELS OF NEW ORLEANS

by Penelope Schott


There is an angel for every minute
but they are all looking away.

There was a twirling angel
riding the eye of the hurricane.

There is an angel for the gash
in the wall of the seventeenth street canal.

There is an angel for the infant
born on concrete between stadium seats.

There is an angel for the dead man
with his head slumped in a lawn chair.

There is another angel for the tarp
nobody spread over his body.

The multiple angels for the government
are busy watching golf on cable.

There is an angel for the old woman
floating face down under her rafters.

There is a special angel for her dog
who howls at the receding helicopter.

There are almost enough angels
that they might have made a difference.

A picayune angel here in Portland
is paying attention. She slaps my face,

she twists the wrist writing my check,
she says angels forbid the word deserve.

She says, Swallow the brown water,
the mud, the rot, the excrement,

the heavenly shimmer of gasoline.
Now go downtown and feed your own.


Penelope Schott lives in Portland, Oregon where Sisters of the Road Cafe does a great job of feeding and training the homeless. Her most recent books are The Pest Maiden: A Story of Lobotomy (2005) and Baiting the Void (2006), winner of the Orphic Prize.

WOMAN HAS NEARLY 3,000 TOLL VIOLATIONS

by Rochelle Ratner


She was going to visit her parents! Do you have any idea
what it's like, her father in intensive care on one side of the
city, on a ventilator and drugged so much he won't know
the tubes are there, and can't pull them out, which means
he doesn't realize she's there either, her mother on dialysis
three times a week in a hospital clear across town, a son
having to get to the gym so he won't be kicked off the
football team, one daughter having broken her braces in
the middle of the night, another daughter who'll absolutely
die if she misses her tango lesson, then the damn tollway
with rush hour traffic in the middle of the afternoon. And
now they tell her she's supposed to pay for this.


Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com.

AUGUSTO PINOCHET DEFENDS HIMSELF

by Phyllis Wax


I have been quoted as saying
not a leaf moves in Chile
without my permission
and that was so.

If anyone was tortured,
if anyone disappeared,
I would know. And I say
it didn’t happen. Those people,
with their accusations, labor
under mass hallucination.

The husbands, the children,
the fiancés they look for
are just figments
of their imagination.


Phyllis Wax’s work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies including Thema, Porcupine Literary Arts Magazine, California Quarterly, Free Verse, Wisconsin Academy Review, and she co-edited the 2002 Wisconsin Poets' Calendar. Wax lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan.

US (AS) CONSPIR@TORS

by Bill Costley


Come closer: I’m writing this against
this ongoing oil-war & warning you
what we’re all really risking here:

writing this is civil disobedience;
publishing it2the world, treason;
reading it, conspiracy. {Stop now.}

Q: Do you want2go on with this? [Y/N?]

You’ve chosen 2read on while being
automatically spooled by NSA ‘bots
scanning for actionable threats they're

making @us as willing conspirators in
writing, publishing, & reading this in
W@rtime. (Don't try taking the 1st.)


Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.

NATHAN HALE

by Wayne Crawford


My friend says she loves U2,
the rock band descended
from the Rolling Stones.
She says Bono has a political
agenda but their music is so good
she can get over it. I wonder

what she would do if she knew
I will not volunteer my life
for my country, not
anymore. I wonder what would
happen if I told her I would rather have
my country die for me. I suspect

she would stop loving me and U2.


Wayne Crawford’s poetry has appeared in many journals, Sin Fronteras,
Las Cruces Writers and Poets, Language Arts, and Aethelon: Journal of
Sports Literature, among them.

ACCOUNT

by devin wayne davis


did i dream
the green of indian summer?
... for this morning is winter--
in the wind, with the rain, & by degree.

a great big register receipt lies
bleeding its thin blood upon the dead
wet leaves.


devin wayne davis, once called "ink (or inc.)" in a seaside vision, has written well-over 2, 000 poems. His work is printed in the Sacramento Anthology, 100 Poems, Sanskrit, Dwan, Poetry Depth Quarterly, and 17 chapbooks. Selections can be found on-line at Del Sol Review, Perihelion, Pierian Springs, Locust Magazine, Kota Press, Octavo, Jones Av., Pig Iron Malt, Great Works, La Petite Zine, Stirring, Offcourse, Rio Arts, Wandering Dog, Whimperbang, Kookamonga Square, and Split Shot. Both Barnes & Noble and Tower Books featured readings by davis; he has addressed citizens and lawmakers on the northern steps of the California State Capitol.

LIKE THE LAKOTA,

by Suellen Wedmore


I count my age in summers, celebrate
sun’s return with dance, gooseberries,
and ripening plums. This winter a crisis:

my son ordered to the desert
to fight a war I don’t believe in
and all I have is his disembodied voice

on my answering machine.
My dream is that quahog shells
deflect bullets. I dream that

because I never taught my child
to tie his shoes,
he could not be deployed.

I dream Sadam Hussein is 5 years old,
in a kindergarten with geraniums
and a teacher who cares.

Unroll me like a fiddlehead;
blister me with July’s benign fire;
end this war so my son can wrestle

with his Weimaraner
in his own back yard,
so the children of Iraq can be free

to despise us,
to despise school,
to despise a Yankee landscape

muffled
with the innocence of snow.


Suellen Wedmore, Poet Laureate emeritus for the small seaside town of Rockport, Massachusetts, has been published in Green Mountains Review, College English, Phoebe, Larcom Review, The Cancer Poetry Project, and others. Her work has been awarded first and second place in the 2000 and 2004 Writer’s Digest rhyming poem contests, respectively; first place in the Byline Magazine Literary Contest; and first place in the George Bush Presidential Library and Museum annual writing competition. After 24 years working as a speech and language therapist, she retired to enter the MFA Program in Poetry at New England College and graduated in July, 2004.

THE PRESIDENT DEFENDS HIS USE OF ILLEGAL WIRETAPPING

by Anne G. Davies


My use of extra-legal surveillance
Has provoked the ire of leftwing assailants.
I’m shocked by the Times’ shameful acts
In widely disseminating covert facts
On how we save our land from terrorist aggression.
They’ve forced me to make a public confession,
To acknowledge activities under the radar
In our zeal to discover who’s trying to aid our
Enemies. I don’t need warrants, I’m Commander-in-Chief
I can do what I want, it’s my constitutional brief.
I suppose I could have worked it out through FISA
But my approach is quicka and nisah.
I don’t need to bother with finicky judges
Who may be literalist legal drudges.
(Cheney will handle librarians who mutiny
At turning over their records to FBI scrutiny)
If you see things differently, you’re not really a sharer
In combating the global war on terror
If you take issue with me, you may well be fated
To have your calls and emails investigated.
For your information: to forestall further crimes
My Justice Department is suing the Times.


Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.

CONFIRMATION STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

by Jen Hinton


They called it a confirmation,
like the ceremony held to appoint children
to the church.

The children go through a process too,
but no child will ever be rejected -
especially the worst ones,

because the worst ones, the most naughty,
the most heinous, are the most deserving
of grace;

and they're the ones you'll see confirmed
from now on.

The ones who've pulled wings off
butterflies, stolen from their mothers'
purses, cheated on math tests, pushed
crippled kids from their crutches;

they won't even bother to recite
their prayers properly or even reply,
because they know they don't have to,
they're predestined.

And once they've been confirmed,
attested to their purity,
after the grand pageantry and spectacle;
it's back to sinning as usual,

cussing under their breath, hating, jealousy,
greed, kicking puppies, stealing from the
collection plate, bullying the smart kids,
laughing at funerals and throwing rocks
from rooftops.

And speaking of laughing at funerals.
New Orleans.
Ha, ha, ha, ha.

And speaking of throwing things from rooftops.
I feeling like throwing
myself off one right about now.


Jen Hinton lives in Schaumburg, Illinois. Her work has appeared previously in The New Verse News, as well as other publications such as Skin Deep and Prairie Hearts.

DECLINE AND FALL

by Ed Webb


In those last days of the Republic,
Citizens clung to their ancestors of course.
The religion of the Republic gave comfort,

(Caesars sharpening knives offstage right)

Confidence in the old institutions,
Faith in the dignity of citizenship

(Muttering in the chorus: old domesticated subjecthood)

For any contingency an invocation,
A mantra for every problem:
Ask not, "What is to be done?"
Ask instead,
"What would Jefferson do?"


Ed Webb is a Brit who lives in Philadelphia. His checkered career includes diplomacy on behalf of a faded imperial power, a soon-to-be-finished (no, really) doctorate in politics, and the odd bit of union activism.

SONG OF EMPIRE

by Scott Malby


America, through the gates of all nations
the wind comes to blow and the sand
to rummage through scraps of glass.
Persepolis, Susa, Parsargadae.
Faded images of glory; bulls, flying
lions, whose halls of a hundred columns
were to last forever, where are they now?
Be humble America, dust is our legacy.
Like a buried tablet you will become.
An artifact. A hollow gourd, blowing at dusk
the end song of empire.


Scott Malby is a frequent contributor to journals worldwide.

SECURITY

by Phyllis Wax


Because we fear the wolves
we lock up any dog
who wanders by. Security
requires it.

We must keep our own dogs leashed,
no longer to run free. We must keep
their papers in our pockets
when we take them for a walk.

We must keep them muzzled
lest their barking attract attention,
lest the authorities think
their barking wolfish.

We must leash our thoughts,
teach them to heel patriotically.

All this to protect our dogs
and ourselves,
to protect our homeland
because we fear the wolves.


Phyllis Wax's work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies including Thema, Porcupine Literary Arts Magazine, California Quarterly, Free Verse, Wisconsin Academy Review. She co-edited the 2002 Wisconsin Poets' Calendar. Phyllis Wax lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan.

SOLDIER'S HANDBOOK

by Martin Ott


War has a mind of its own even as your officers
believe they are in the driver’s seat of a lumbering

mechanical beast. War never sleeps, melting gold
harps from sacked halls, ravishing fertile vines,

tossing children like porcelain dolls in a sandlot,
abandoned or worse. War is a bully you cannot

trust to return to the leash. In your dreams,
it tightens your neck in the collar and yanks

you along elephant boneyards, sunken ships,
coliseum ruins, prayer beads and wailing walls.

War is a prankster, lord of the jammed rifle,
smart bomb turned dumb in mothers’ bosoms,

land mines poised with potty mouths, a salute
with no arms. War is laughter from someone

you love to hate, a well with no bottom
but the missing, a button that causes you

to fumble in breathless youth and old age.
War will wound you whether you believe

it or not, pull the trigger or not, capture it
by the balls or feed it from your plate.

Look war in the eyes. Gauge its will.
Know it is you on any day you choose.


A Russian linguist and military interrogator during the Cold War, Martin Ott currently works as a writer and editor in Los Angeles. He has published stories in over a dozen magazines and has optioned three screenplays. A finalist for the Bluestem Poetry Award, the Agha Shahid Ali Prize in Poetry and the Carnegie Mellon University Press (Open Reading), Ott’s poetry appears in over fifty magazines and anthologies. His chapbook Misery Loves was published by Red Dancefloor Press.

SOLDIER

by Thomas D. Reynolds


In the photograph,
my father is just a boy,
standing before his brother
dressed in full uniform.

Home for two weeks' leave
before shipping overseas,
he stares into the lens
and his sister's eye.

Undoubtedly, being older,
she realizes this photo
could be his last,
but her hand is steady.

The box camera captures
the gaunt facial lines
slicing across his brow,
scarring his smile,

the insubordinate hair
that defies rank
to taunt his enemy
beneath his starched cap,

the uniform's fresh crease
only a mother could provide,
slashing the air
like the blade of a sword,

the firm set of his jaw
as if biting his tongue,
or gripping a sound
between his teeth,

the measure of all
a soldier might face
reduced to a single word
he dare not utter.

His brother might hear,
who now stands at his feet
like that rumpled black dog
once always at his side.


Thomas D. Reynolds received an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University, currently teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, and has published poems in various print and online journals, including New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, Flint Hills Review, The MacGuffin, The Cape Rock, The Pedestal Magazine, Eclectica, Strange Horizons, Combat, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, and Ash Canyon Review.

enDuring W@R & PE@CE

by Bill Costley


Born during a war,
scared by another war,
scared by a cold peace,
fooled by a warry peace.
Faced with a war,
I beat a wartime draft,
fought against a hot war,
fought for a peace.
Distracted by peace,
distracted by small wars,
I stood against an oil-war;
distracted by another war,
I stood against its next war.
Written during that war.


Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.

NEW ORLEANS WATERMELONS

by Mary Saracino


The TV news guy said watermelons
were rising, spontaneously, from the watery
wasteland of the 9th Ward wilds. Seeds scattered
by Katrina had taken root in the fetid stew.
Faster than government aid, the melons' bloated bellies
were ready for the picking. "Just don't eat 'em,"
the TV guy warned. Every juicy mouthful
brimming with E. coli. Sweeter than a bite
of FEMA Brownie. Oh, parish the thought.


Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer and poet who lives in Denver, CO. Her newest novel, The Singing of Swans, is to be published in 2006 by Pearlsong Press.

NEW ORLEANS ON TV

by Barbara Schweitzer


On the screen
the story pours out
his broken lips
like the river
from breached
dikes two
blocks long
that has buried
his wife in lostness
in vast flat
horizonlessness.


The reporter’s hand
to her mouth
presses words back
down her throat
losing them when
he wanders away
eyes vacant
thoughts unwired
I don’t know
what I’m
gonna do
nubbly sounds
drowning
I don’t know
what I’m
gonna do
in his wake.


Barbara Schweitzer is a poet and playwright living in northern RI. Her work has won numerous prizes including a merit fellowship from RI's NEA allotment. Her first volume of poetry, 33 1/3 (Little Pear Press) will be released in spring 2006.

MESSAGE INTERCEPTS

by Robert M. Chute


In the world's major languages
there are five hundred fifty-eight consonants
two hundred sixty vowels
fifty-one diphthongs
which can form eight hundred sixty-nine phonemes
of which adult Americans use fifty-two
while the Kalahari speakers
use a record one hundred forty-one
so voice mail incepts to the Kalahari
collect in bins at NSA
suspicion untranslated moldering


Born near the Chute River, Naples, Maine in 1926, Robert M. Chute taught and conducted research at Middlebury College, San Fernando State (CA), and Lincoln University (PA) before returning to Maine as Chair of Biology at Bates College. Now Professor Emeritus of Biology, Bates College, Chute has a record of scientific publication in Parasitology, Hibernation Physiology, General Biology, and Environmental Studies. His poetry and collage poems appear in many journals including Ascent, Beloit Poetry Journal, BOMB, The Cape Rock, Cafe Review, The Literary Review, Texas Review. His poetry books include a three language reissue of Thirteen Moons in English, French, and Passamaquoddy (2002), and most recently, a three chapbook boxed set, Bent Offerings, from Sheltering Pines Press (2003). He is currently working on a series of poems based on reading scientific journals such as Nature and Science.

PLAYER TO HAVE WEDDING RING CUT OFF AFTER BREACHING RULES

by Rochelle Ratner


She turns on the tv late and watches the man who's
replaced her husband score a goal. She hurriedly changes
her blouse and the baby's diaper, wondering which hospital
they've taken him to. They've had eleven wonderful years,
she reminds herself. She hears the announcer say
something about his wedding ring, and first assumes it's
his finger they're cutting off. What's she supposed to think?
She's lived in America. She's watched men play with studs
in their ears and gold crosses hanging from their necks.
She's lived in the Middle East, where whole hands are cut
off for stealing.


Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com.

I WISH I DIDN'T HAVE TO WRITE THIS POEM

by ngoma


i wish i didn't have to write this poem
but New Year's was
just like another day in iraq
w/little time for celebration
soldiers marked off another year at war
new orleans citizens
packed into trailer camps
thousands of children missing
while the average american citizen
dumbed down by TV
doesn't realize
that the levee was bombed
and the real weapon of mass distraction
still sits in the white house
trading civil liberties for oil
big brother bush is watching
as the chicken hawks come home to roost
Impeachment--sitting like an owl on a tree limb
going Whoooooo!!!

so i've been looking for optimism
she's been missing since Faith
was found floating in the 7th ward
belly up in the sewage
next to Hope
seems much is needed to keep Hope alive
like more Charity
since FEMA came up
useless as a condom w/a hole in it

see, i wish i didn't have to write this poem
but too many homes lack books
so knowledge of self is absent
like fathers shackled in the criminal injustice system-
a very criminal system of justice
a world wide industry
where Abu Ghraib, Attica, San Quentin and Guantanamo
are just branches of the same tree
the interconnectedness of things
bothers me in my quest to be free
seeking sovereignty

environmental disaster swoops like a buzzard
waiting for the last heartbeat
so like bob -- "u need not be a weatherman to see
which way the wind blows"
Tsunamis and Hurricanes
global warming and acid rain
earth quakes and mudslides
w/no place to hide
soldiers suffering post traumatic stress syndrome
i wish i didn't have to write this poem
as the clock ticks in the brains
of depleted uranium riddled pawns
in this chess game of tyranny
orwellian in the 21rst century
as the cycle spins out of control

but someone has to let you know
there's much more going on
than what they're showing.
they're depending on you not knowing
so listen to this news i'm bringing
i wish i didn't have to write this poem
but your 70 inch, flatscreen plasma TV
murdered the american dream
put video games in the hands of yr. kids
so their finger reflex
and trigger dexterity
is quicker than
critical thought
is it bloods and crips
or the army recruitment office
collecting data from yr. school
be careful chicken hawks
prey on yr. children
send their bloodhounds to sniff them out
send them off to war
but i just thought u should know
the constitution's been kidnapped
by the neo cons
it's up to you to take it back
and i wish i didn't have to write this poem


Ngoma is a performance post, multi-instrumentalist and paradigm shifter based in Harlem, NY, who for over 30 years has used culture as a tool to raise socio-political, and spiritual consciousness. For continued news and updates visit his site Ngomazworld.

FREEFALL

by Renée Guillory


All those grains of sand rushing towards us at 32 feet per
second per second.

They whisper together, inform us that they’re solid:
a barrier erected long ago
well out of memory’s reach
not by hands but by
the coincidental workings of
accident and the Laws of Nature.

I tell you we’ll pass right through
And moving from the realm of clouds
into living stone will be glorious.

We’ll find the vast vacuums of space between each atom of
durable slickrock, limestone, and antimony—slip right
through
not dodging, barely curving our backs.

We’re unmarked.

And we keep falling as though our very lives depended on
it.


Renée Guillory is an author, musician and grassroots organizer: A Citizen Artist, in short. Her forthcoming book is Fishing for Songs at Fossil Creek: Celebrating the Rebirth of America’s Rivers.