THE CONGRESSMAN IN NEVERLAND

by Diane Elayne Dees


Congressman Vitter and wife Wendy
stare down the cameras in a conference room
in a suburban hotel. To forgive, Wendy says,
is not an easy choice. But she forgave,
and, her husband says, so did God--he thinks.
He thinks his enemies are out to destroy him,
and the assault stings. Vitter understands battle:
Gay marriage, he once said, was worse than Katrina.
How gay marriage kills, destroys property,
wrecks the economy, and rips the spirit
of a city is unknown, but--God willing--
will be made known in time. It is already known
that Congressman Vitter had another Wendy--
a professional woman in a house on Canal Street.
That house is gone, and Vitter has no Wendy
House to hide in, even though, it appears,
he cannot grow up.Wendy Darling liked to fly
with the lost boys, but even she
grew tired of swordsmanship.


Diane Elayne Dees is a writer in Louisiana. Former publisher of the progressive blog, The Dees Diversion, Diane is a contributor to the Mother Jones MoJo Blog, and she publishes Women Who Serve, a blog about women's professional tennis.

HIGH GAS PRICES HURTING RODEO COWBOYS

by Rochelle Ratner


It used to be just as the song said--long, lonely nights, raging bulls, lingering bruises. And when he was new on the circuit he got used to that. But the last few years, he's brought his family with him in the truck. Now he rides with four other men. Even to fly is cheaper. Fifth in the circuit, and still his winnings just cover expenses. So he drinks a bit too much, saddles up Hendrik, rides straight on in to half a dozen pubs, requests one last shot of gin, straight, and an apple. Or a sugar cube.


Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Leads (Otoliths Press, 2007), Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.

KEEPING THE FAITH

by Jeremy Deutchman


My friend, Bren, drank way too much cola. She slurped through the morning and night. It’s a kind of addiction, this cola. But for Bren it made everything right.

What could have been wrong with my friend, Bren? Why did she need nurture and care? How could she heal, my friend, Bren? And what gave her such a big scare?

Her stories of love lost were legion. Her medical woes stacked up high. It’s not like she had lots of money. And then there’s the thing with the guy.

They met at a dive bar called Shooters. Threw darts, talked a lot, shot some pool. And then Bren became slightly daring. She asked him to call her at school.

My friend, Bren, taught first graders music. The trumpet; the oboe; the flute. The sound, over time, made your ears hurt. But Bren found it funny; a hoot.

And sometimes she’d find someone gifted. A boy or a girl with a flair. With a smile stretched real big and a toss of her head, she’d say, “Honey, you’re good; something’s there.”

This one student named Bram bowled her over. His talent just jumped off the page. From the moment she met him, Bren told him: “You could play with kids two times your age.”

My friend, Bren, gave him extra attention. Private lessons at lunch and the like. Bram played ‘til his fingers would stiffen. He was one quite determined young tyke.

There were times when his discipline wavered. When he wanted to splash in the rain. And play soccer, use crayons, eat pizza. Build sandcastles with his friend Jane.

But Bren made him feel inspiration. Helped him strive for the best he could be. Made him know he could turn into someone. The practice was merely the fee.

So this one day at lunchtime they practiced. Little Bram blowing hard on his horn. As he struggled through show tunes, Bren wondered: Why on earth did she feel so forlorn?

She was artsy and not unattractive. Her work was fulfilling and good. She had parents and siblings who loved her. They thought she was great, as they should.

But she always felt something was missing. A joie de vivre she just never had. She had jumped from a plane, been out clubbing in Spain, but still she was empty and sad.

With this guy at the bar, it was different. It was brief, but their time had been nice. They had talked and laughed and shared stories. She felt cozy and snug with this Bryce.

As Bram played my friend Bren recalled this. And wondered if it was a fluke. Had their connection been fleeting, a moment? Her face fell; a silent rebuke.

And suddenly there was this feeling. A quaking right down near her knees. Was she hungry and hypoglycemic? Or was something just jangling her keys?

Her cell phone was ringing, on vibrate. She fumbled as Bram played “Brigadoon.” “Hello?” she said, timid and careful. And the voice that she heard made her swoon.

“Well, hi there,” said Bryce, smooth and dreamy. “Been thinking we might grab a meal.” They’d meet at a restaurant that evening. “It’s a date,” said our Bren, “it’s a deal.”

Her black shirt hugged all the right places. Some turquoise stones gleamed in her ears. Her skin glowed from pumice and loofa. She’d scrubbed clean her doubts and her fears.

The magic was still there between them. Conversation flowed easy as wine. Bren spoke of her fibromyalgia. Bryce told her he thought she looked fine.

They went back to her place quite giddy. Bren put on some coffee and jazz. They looked through some old family photos. Bren laughed; she had been quite the spazz.

Their hands touched, and then they were kissing. First tender and gentle and long. And then Bryce stopped, yanking his shirt off. His muscles were well formed and strong.

The tattoo on his chest might have warned her. The big cross should have helped her prepare. But she paid it no mind and moved downward. And his foreskin was – gasp! – still right there.

There are moments that clearly define us. Tell us what we believe, who we are. My friend Bren chose that moment and bolted. Made a beeline for her hybrid car.

Later on she returned, trepidatious. He had gone, left a note, saying “Hey.” “Just don’t know what went wrong, or what I did. But I sure hope you’re feeling okay.”

My friend, Bren, wasn’t overly Jewish. Didn’t wear her beliefs on her sleeve. Couldn’t read from the five books of Moses. Wouldn’t know to sit shiva and grieve.

Still some things she found to be sacred. Like blintzes and bagels with lox. Ending up with a tribesman was crucial. It didn’t matter that Bryce was a fox.

But the next day he texted her handheld. “Had fun; I M so hot 4 u.” And Bren, against all better judgment – Wrote, “Let’s make it soon; I M, too.”

So started their dating, their romance. Nice dinners, the movies, the park. And then there was life in the bedroom. Their coupling all passion and spark.

Bren’s parents had started to worry. Their daughter was wild for the boy. Her future was so full of promise. Would she throw it away on some goy?

And Bren was completely conflicted. Love grew like some beautiful fleur. But she still felt the tug of tradition. Wanted children who knew Yom Kippur.

Could the two coexist, asked my friend, Bren? Faith in God and the love of a man? Were these questions she’d know how to answer? Was it all part of some divine plan?

She struggled with how to move forward. Decided to make her best guess. And when her guy Bryce popped the question – She knew that her answer was “yes.”

Their wedding was done by a rabbi. Then a homily from Bryce’s priest. “Two bodies alone are like matzo. And now you’ve discovered the yeast.”

The party was joyous and soulful. Little Bram did a hora that killed. The unity candle burned brightly. The cola was bubbly and chilled.

Friends toasted the shining young couple. To a love that would surely endure. Bren threw her bouquet and her garter. Their future seemed set and secure.

It’s not that they never had problems. There were so many things to work out. Like Christmas and fancy bar mitzvahs. There were moments of crisis and doubt.

But together they met every challenge. Rose above all the bumps on the way. In tandem they built a strong union. One that still makes them happy today.

As time passed, Bren realized something. A lesson she’d thought was taboo.
That you can go marry a Christian. And still be a plenty good Jew.

Your children can still have menorahs. And sing every Passover line. It’s just that they’ll also have Easter. And learn to sip Eucharist wine.

Bren knew that the path would be daunting. Bryce saw that the road would be steep. But with hard work and honest commitment – They felt strongly that their love would keep.

Their relationship just goes to show you. The affection they have, hers and his. It may not be perfect or easy. But tell me: In this world, what is?


Jeremy Deutchman is a writer and essayist based in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Los Angeles Daily News and Tikkun Magazine.

YOU DON'T KNOW SQUID

by Robert Dunn


MONTEREY, Calif. –Jumbo squid that can grow up to 7 feet long and weigh more than 110 pounds are invading central California waters and preying on local anchovy, hake and other commercial fish populations, according to a study published Tuesday.

– Associated Press, July 25th, 2007

Having mopped up the local anchovy and hake,
The jumbo squid are ticked off and turning
Their attention to California’s human flakes.
(Suddenly, my ears are burning!)

They’re objecting to old sea monster flicks,
Prop 13, the border fence …
Worst of all, our taste for fish sticks
Provokes their inky incontinence.

It won’t be long before they conclude
That, be it billionaire or beggar,
The human critter’s swell fast food.
(They want a piece of Schwarzenegger.)

And when they do, we’ll have to coax
Them to Lotusland, where sushi bars
Abound and, if you’ll stop making jokes,
We’ll audition them for Fishing With the Stars.

With that, we’ll have them in our power!
Then, we can razz them about their flab
Until we send them to the showers
With Paris and Lindsay in rehab!


Robert Dunn is the editor of the soon-to-be-released journal, Asbestos; former Editor of Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, the erstwhile host of the Poet to Poet cable television show, and has appeared in such publications as Krax, Imago, Mobius, Art Times, Rattapallax, Nomad’s Choir, Critical Perspectives in Accounting, and Pegasus. His full-length collections of poetry include Zen Yentas in Bondage, Guilty as Charged, Cannon Fodder (Cross-Cultural Literary Editions), Playing in Traffic (Founders Hill Press), Sunspot Boulevard (Xlibris), and Horse Latitudes (iUniverse.com).

ACACIA SPEAKS IN DARFUR

by Brenda Varda


Underneath my dark
dry spread of flowering branches
old ones hold small ones,

tender thin saplings
shivering in absent wind,
bodies' naked stalks.

Frail flailing runners
refuse to root for nourishment,
fleeing violent storms,

wither without water,
while thunder growls in dust clouds
made by stones on wheels.

Others of their kind
slice and chop in summer heat:
grove and bones in flame.

Sunlight cannot help -
severed limbs refuse to sprout
in red-soaked soil.

Long ago my wood
framed the arc of covenant,
shaped a crown of thorns,

now but brief respite -
bower for broken blossoms
clinging into night.


Brenda Varda is a playwright, poet and performer in Los Angeles, CA. Her works have been performed at The Met, The Evidence Room, 24th Street Theatre, Unknown Theatre, and she is the founder of Wordspace, a writer’s studio, providing classes and workshops for the community. She is currently in the MFA program at UCR.

TAMMY FAYE'S TEARS

by Earl J. Wilcox


There is no order to it,
the reading of the Sunday papers.
I begin with sports, sometimes.
Other times, the comics come first.
My wife dawdles with the Section 1A,
finishes it between sips of coffee,
bites of buttered rolls,
the taking of morning meds,
with tiny gulps of OJ.

On days when the news is bad,
I prefer travel or weddings,
both seem preferable to war
and crime and malice and greed,
topics of great interest to mankind---
and me.

Today, Tammy Faye’s face is splattered across the front
of our local papers,
as she and PTL were our neighbors
for many years, here,
before preachers’ tears
about sin and sex
were commonplace
in the Sunday papers.


Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

WE ARE MAKING PROGRESS

by Marguerite Bouvard


Suddenly the power goes out
in the very last art gallery in Iraq.
The temperature rises
to 100 degrees Fahrenheit.
There will be no exhibit
today. Just a few artists
have gathered, those
who have not fled.
Noori al-Rawi cries out
I haven’t picked up
a paintbrush in two years.
I want to burn my art history archives,
rip my heart out.
Hasan, the self-proclaimed
curator of what remains,
is one of the last to believe
in tomorrow. There are no more
hallowed spaces; golden domes
where hearts once soared
are shattered, neighborhoods
and villages are shuffled
like cards, a whole country in exile
within its own borders.
Here even the clouds bleed.


NOTE: Mr. Rawi, one of the pioneers of Iraqi modern art,is also a curator and art scholar who founded four art museums in Baghdad. -MB


Marguerite Bouvard is the author of several books of poetry as well as books on human rights and one on grieving. Her latest, Healing, is available from the University Press of New England. She is a resident Scholar at Brandeis University’s Women's Studies' Research Center.

, . ; !

by Charles Frederickson

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

War is a dirty joke
        Rated X-ray abdominable belly guffaws
                Ononongoing pain in the colononon
                        V-Vertical smile crackup smug grin

…………………………

Polyp Greek meaning many feet
        Stuffed up hokey-pokey okey-dokey orifices
                Shrunken heads out of sight
                        Mindless barium bury’em worry warts

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

Show & rectal CCC Catty-Cornered Colonoscopies
        Follow-up progNONONOsis misdiagnosed foul-ups
                Bottom-line nothing to laugh about
                        Then again neither is War

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai pragmatic optimist, idealistic visionary and heretical believer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com/. This maverick e-gadfly is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 200+ poetry publication credits on 6 continents, such as: angelfire, Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, bc supernet, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Decanto, Eclipse, Flutter Magazine, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, International Poet, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, Planet Authority, Poetisphere, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poetry Stop, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sage of Consciousness, Stellar Showcase, Subtle Tea, Sz, The Smoking Poet, T-zero, Ya’Sou! Ygdrasil, Zafusy.

COLONI@LISTS

by Bill Costley

for Dr. Worku Negash

They came up our rivers with gunboats,
renaming everything in our country after
their gods, heroes, generals, politicians,
adding those names to their new titles.

We were a pretext for their new glory.

We still called ourselves what we had,
but never within their hearing, never
in our own languages, because they
made us learn theirs. Who are we now?

We are still who we are, but renamed,
re-languaged, reinvented as their pupils.

What are we actually learning? Them!


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

MARIE OSMOND AND THE REST OF US

Image by Jeff Crouch
Poem by Christopher Woods


At your mother’s estate sale
People looked at this and that,
Whatever had accumulated
Over eighty years.
Some bought.
Others drove away
Without a word.

Best of all was the old couple
Who bought the antique
Windsor chair.
They inspected it,
Taking their time, even
Bringing out a tape measure
So they might know
How high the seat
Was from the floor.
Their eyes brightened.
They were gloriously happy,
And paid for the chair
Without a bit of bickering.
Afterwards, I carried the thing
Out to the car for them.
We’re so pleased, the woman said.
I’m glad for you, I said.
We’ve looked for this chair
For years, the man said.
It’s for our collection, she added.
Collection? I asked.
Oh yes, the woman said.
For our doll collection.
This will be Marie Osmond’s chair.
She’s waited so long. So very long.

After they drove away,
I thought about the old couple.
I thought about all of us.
How we with so much
Are doomed to collect more,
How it gets worse with time,
Until we find ourselves entombed
With all the lovely things
That somehow seemed to matter.


Christopher Woods is the author of a prose collection, Under a Riverbed Sky, and a collection of stage monologues for actors, Heart Speak. His play, Moonbirds, about doomed census-takers at work in an uninhabited desert country, received its New York City premiere at Personal Space Theatrics. He lives in Houston and in Chappell Hill , Texas .

Jeff Crouch is an internet artist; he lives in Grand Prairie, Texas . Google “Jeff Crouch” to see what he currently has on the internet or go to: http://www.blueprintreview.de/6jeff_crouch.htm.

BANANAS

by Nin Andrews


I heard on the BBC the other night
that banana farmers in Latin America
are becoming sterile
from the pesticides used on the fruit.
Research is now proving the case.

The corporations already knew this
fact, but they figured
it was a reasonable cost to pay
to keep the bananas bug-free.

Linda heard the news too.
She said her husband, Jesus,
lived on banana plantations
first in Hawaii where she met him

and later in Nicaragua.
His sperm have been killed
as if they were aphids or worms or thrips.
Thrips, for those who don't know,
have sharp mouths that can penetrate
and suck the life right out

of a banana flower or fruit or leaf.
I keep thinking about this story.
I wonder how they calculated the costs.
Healthy bananas vs. sterilized men.


Nin Andrews is the editor of a book of translations of the French poet Henri Michaux entitled Someone Wants to Steal My Name from Cleveland State University Press. She is also the author of several books including Midlife Crisis with Dick and Jane, a book of political poems written after the election of George W. Bush. Her book, Sleeping with Houdini, is forthcoming from BOA Editions.

THE HAUNTING

by Jon Wesick


Little things made me apprehensive: logic books
falling off the shelves, Consumer Reports
shredded in the mailbox, the TV changing channels
to the 700 Club or a Star Wars movie.
An orange, prison jumpsuit appeared in my closet.
There were bloody fingerprints on the bananas.

Dad learned his health-insurance policy had vanished
after hair-growth gel made him sprout breasts.
Most frightening of all were the newscasters
who seemed to grow fangs as they introduced phrases
like family values, death tax, and judicial restraint.

What caused these strange events?
I scoffed at mom’s suggestion of a poltergeist
until I felt a cold spot outside her bedroom.
Inside I found Ronald Reagan’s ghost
poking holes in mom’s diaphragm with a thumbtack.
The Great Communicator grinned, wobbled his head,
and disappeared in a puff of high-sulfur smoke.

Jelly beans did not appease him. Our neighbors
moved from suburbia to the inner city
soon after Congress passed the bankruptcy law.
When pointy teeth protruded from dad’s curled lip,
I barricaded myself behind my bedroom door.

I’ve eaten most of the granola bars
but still have a squirt gun loaded with holy water.
I’ll make a break for it at dawn.


Jon Wesick has a Ph.D. in physics, has practiced Buddhism for over twenty years, and has published over a hundred poems in small press journals such as American Tanka, Anthology Magazine, The Blind Man’s Rainbow, Edgz, The Kaleidoscope Review, Limestone Circle, The Magee Park Anthology, The Publication, Pudding, Sacred Journey, San Diego Writer’s Monthly, Slipstream, Tidepools, Vortex of the Macabre, Zillah, and others. His chapbooks have won honorable mentions twice in the San Diego Book Awards.

EXHIBITIONISTS

by Rochelle Ratner


"Stace Owens has no intention of leaving this world when he dies. He plans to stick around for decades or longer -- preserved in plastic and displayed in a museum or medical school. The 33-year-old Dallas real estate agent is among more than 7,000 people who have agreed to donate their bodies for plastination."

-- AP, April 23, 2007

They lived through two Depressions, and World War II when metal was scarce. Their children's lives would be better. They bought red plastic tricycles and blue plastic wagons. The swing set out back was plastic, as was the slide. They had plastic guns and little plastic radios with plastic belt clips. They had pink plastic roller skates and plastic lunch boxes with Barbie's picture on the front. Foods came wrapped in plastic. They put white vinyl siding on their houses. Plastic pins that could be set in fractured knees or hips delighted them. But had they ever imagined bodily fluids replaced by liquid plastic after death--no formaldehyde, no discoloration, no smell--they might well have slaughtered their children some Christmas morning sixty years ago, hacked up body parts until it was impossible to know which was a son's, which was a daughter's.


Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Leads (Otoliths Press, 2007), Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.

MERMAID PISS ON ICON WAR

by Merry Speece


If I was a mermaid, and a tourist attraction, I'd be glad if someone gave me a headscarf.

Someone very devoted to Little Mermaid vandalism whines why her and not Big Ben? But what, I wonder, do Big Ben and Little Mermaid have in common?

Isn't she more like Manneken Pis, which has indeed been stolen but the last time a hundred years ago and after that recovery a barrier around the little boy was erected?

And now I'm thinking, when was the last time I saw a Piss on Bin Laden decal? Are people ashamed? I wonder at what point the decals started to come down.

And whatever happened to Piss Christ? Don't you kind of miss him?


Merry Speece has published two chapbooks of poetry and been a recipient of a state arts commission fellowship in prose. Her Sisters Grimke Book of Days, which one reviewer called a prose poem, was published in 2003 by Oasis Books (England).