DELOVERLY

PoeArtry by Charles Frederickson


DEbate dangling from rusty hook
    Squirming worms champing sound bytes
        Big fish eat small fry
            DEvouring lines & sinkers swallowed whole

DEcoy shysters lame duck quacks
    Almost Live Larry King DEvotees
        “I may not always be
            Right but I’m never wrong”

DEbrief Obamama bananana split bikini
    Topless baby oil massage message
        DEbunked mud wrestling off-key slingalong
            Who’s taking dirty dancing lead

DEcay to tell the tooth
    False dentures stale breath Hillarytosis
        Flip-flop foragainst DEbacle true lies
            Double-faced coin supporting both sides

DEfrosting chill-out heat turned up
    Halliburton riggers siphoning off gas
        Oily motive foul-ups spin-off follow-ups
            Attention to budget DEficit disorder

DEfeat Bigfoot shoes to fill
    Wonky donkey party feud wannabes
        Sock it to DEfamed GOP-GAP
            DEliberating DEciding DEmanding DElivering D.C.


Dr. Charles Frederickson: Name: D. Mentor Stan Doubt; Nickname: Nun; Address: Genial Devilry State of Denial; Zip: B9-1-1; Phone: Taco Bell; Faxhole: telepathetic moonsense UFOcult; Sexile: manimal; He-male: e-diot dot commie; vagabondAge: Ironic; Blood: Taipei; Vision: 20-20-20; Religion: Born Against trance-incidental Vegetation; Education: U-Nique BSer IV Leak Overachiever; Major: Mickey Mouse Pad Commuter Séance; Club Memberships: A, AA, AAA, AAAA, AAAAA; Special Abilities: Unmentionable Listless Hypist; halluciDate: Blind Man’s Bluff TGIF.

PUPPET SHOW

by Marcelle Kasprowicz


It's almost time
Last touches to the mask
A rose between the teeth
to neutralize
the dubious fragrance of words
Angels
invisible
are already clutching
the puppet's hair
blowing a suffused aura of truth
through their trumpets

On the right shoulder
or the left
--to perch in the middle
is nearly impossible
The head is claimed
by angels--
On a shoulder then
a parrot
at its post
ready to repeat
into the puppet's ear
the latest trigger word
the punch in a sound bite
Ah, not to forget
Smiles smiles smiles
They must be perfect
-- A little bit of sugar...
You know!

The audience is a spoiled cat
It likes to be scratched
behind the ears
to have its belly rubbed
but her whiskers still quiver
at the sight of a chase
at the irresistible lure of gore
Still it won't lift a paw
to de-bone its own prey
It prefers it served in a cup
as a mousse

If you can make it purr
it is hypnotized
ready for the real show
The one where the old charlatan
with the unctuous voice
offers his latest love potion


Marcelle Kasprowicz was born in Niort, France. She received an M.A. from UT at Austin. She is an Austin resident. She writes in English and French and also translates her French poems in English. In 2001 she was awarded first prize for her poem "House of Bones" in the Austin International Poetry Festival Anthology. She had her poems published in Ascent Aspiration, Farfelu, The Texas Poetry Calendar, Languageandculture.net (on line). She is the author of Organza Skies, a book of poems about the Davis Mountains of West Texas, published in 2005.

THE CIRCLE

by Katherine West


Who were the Minoans?
        Dolphin queens
        Worshippers of the bee
        Sharing the honey

Who were the Old Europeans?
        Builders of Stonehenge
        Calendar of sun
        Circling the perfect

Who were the cave painters?
        Shaman artists
        Leading the village
        In prayer

Who were the Romans?
        Metal smiths of the perfect sword
        Metal smiths of the perfect slave
        Minters of the perfect coin
        Golden profiles

Who are the Americans?
        Children of slaves
        Blinded at birth
        A coin in one hand
        A sword in the other

No, who are the Americans?
        Daughters of dolphin queens
        Sons of shaman artists
        Apprentice to Stonehenge builders
        Blind tinkers patching the calendar
        Tapping out dents
        In the four directions

No, who are the Americans?
        Metal smiths of the perfect
        Minters of prayer
        Golden pain
        Crucible of slaves and
        Swords
        Tempered mind
        The circle cast
        Unbreakable
        This time


Katherine West is a poet presently living in northern Colorado and teaching Creative Writing at the local community college, museum, and Naropa University, which is in nearby Boulder, Colorado.

CHANGE

by David Chorlton


In a quiet moment among the vehicles
parked outside the Safeway store
a man approaches with his whispered plea
for change. Just released from Marana he says and they dropped me at Thirty-fifth and Van Buren. It’s a hundred degree day.
Got family in Colorado. He’s been in prison
for years, and it hardly matters to him
what time the bus to Denver leaves. He can wait,
but not walk in this heat. They left me without money or water, can you spare . . . ?
We stand between those SUVs
with too much power for the city, the ones
that shine and brag about their owners
while waiting for them to finish
shopping. Buying a new car means choices
between making an impression with size
or investing in modesty, paying more to save
on gas later or paying more not to care.
I could call my brother to wire me something
says the man, whose incarceration began before
anyone spoke much about fuel efficiency.
He swallows just to feel the moisture in his throat.
For a dollar and a quarter you can take the bus to the station I tell him and present the two crumpled bills
I have left. He takes them and thanks me
before I remind him that seventy-five cents
won’t buy a bottle of water anymore.
He’s free now, which means choices.


David Chorlton lives in Phoenix, writes and paints and keeps track of local wildlife. His newest book, The Porous Desert, was published this summer by FutureCycle Press, and testifies to his having internalised the desert during the past twenty-nine years. Some of his art work can be seen at http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com/.

THOUGHTS OF AN OLD MAN, IN A DRY SEASON

by Earl J. Wilcox


Here in the forever and ever sunny South,
we still elect Republicans and a
few Democrats. We still cook grits,
chitlings, pigs’ feet, liver mush, and
a few other things the rest of the world
never ate. We also send our sons and
daughters to a war, which we have not forgot.

But what’s on our minds today is not
war or exotic food, or even the writers’
strikes in NYC and Cal-E-fornia. We
are dry. We need rain. We pray for water.

Our lawns have dried up because we
can’t water them. Our trees are dying
because we have had no rain in months.
(Forget our beautiful flowers and shrubs.)
My neighbors’ wells are drying up, and they
have little money to dig deeper, even if water
were somewhere down there close to China.

When you say your prayers tonight, it’s OK
to mention Iraq, especially all those moms and
pops who have lost children there. It’s OK to
dream of a long and happy life with someone
you love. Our best dreams are just dreams.

But before you say amen, ask for some rain.
If we don’t get some soon, we’ll be moving
To where you live to drink your water.


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.

MEATBALLS

by Rochelle Ratner


It was what she thought of first when she met her husband. Here's a man with balls. Here's a man fighting to protect their city. Look at those biceps. But he was more than brute strength. And they began a family. Then his firefighter brother was killed at the World Trade Center. Two of his former partners died. He became a detective. He was often late getting home nights. Taxis drove by trailing Cop Shot reward offers. He was more committed to his work than his children, and there would be grandchildren soon. She didn't want to play with them alone. She heard talk about random drug tests. Two or three times a week she cooked him meatballs. And she was a good cook.


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.

TIRESIAS LIED: A MINI PLAY

by Christine Panas


On television, Tiresias said
                 Domino Effect!

The generals checked their calendars
  flipped a coin

The chorus of frogs croaked
                Beware, the helicopters!

The chorus of old men grunted
                That one is too fond of sacrifice

Tiresias repeated
                The Domino Effect, you fools!

His pet alligator clapped its jaws
  gnawed at its polished nails

Fats Domino sued for slander
The case was dismissed
It was a rumpling moment

Tiresias declared
                No worry! We have the Jolly Green Giant!
                Armies of sprouts!

When the helicopters did arrive
  the Cyclops had eaten
    all the young sprouts
All 50 thousand!
Tiresias disappeared
(He had to)

The chorus of frogs cried out
                We told you so!

The Chorus of old men griped
                This script will never work

Ten years of:
Finger pointing
Video Tape
Bickering generals
Not one domino was found

A generation of new sprouts
  greened the fields
Tiresias returned
  to television
Resurrected by a PR firm
  stylish suits and watches
Blood sacrifice
  back in fashion again

His pet peacock fanned, preciously
  preened, pecked at
    cobs of rolled up paper

Tiresias said
                Axis of evil!

The dominos responded by
  falling into place

He explained
                I was at Troy,
                On the Dardanelles; it was
                Protracted, but you know
                No one thanked me

Chorus of Frogs & Old men
                We gotta get a new Prophet!


Christine Panas curates & often hosts "The Biscuit Readings Spoken Word Series" at Biscuit BBQ in Park Slope Brooklyn (the Brooklyn sibling of Cornelia Street Cafe). A former academic trained in the archaeology of Greece and Rome, she now pursues poetry and short fiction.

DRAWING

by Barbara Daniels


I’m drawing the sun I drew as a child—thick yellow rays.
A house that can’t stand up, wind beginning, smoke
blown back in dark and fog. When I first moved

to married students’ housing, each Tuesday noon
a couple parked in front of our building, first in two cars,
then in one. In the late afternoon they came back together

and left alone. They had to be lovers. So I believed,
standing in the folds of gold curtains, watching
shadows begin and lengthen, the woman’s car, blue,

empty, all afternoon. I draw till my arm numbs.
I could have died for love. But I didn’t.
I draw coffee sour on the table. There’s a war

on television. It cancels the sky. There’s a train,
a quiet station, a grain elevator. Names of the dead
on a plaque in the park. The woods fill with lights

from my neighbors’ houses. I write your name
and then erase it. I draw the march into gunfire. Men
walking. The breasts of hills. Fingers red with blood.


Barbara Daniels' book, Rose Fever, will be published by WordTech Press in 2008. The Woman Who Tries to Believe, her chapbook, won the Quentin R. Howard Prize and was published by Wind Publications. Her poems have appeared in The Louisville Review, Natural Bridge, Tattoo Highway, and many other journals. Barbara Daniels received two Individual Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.

THE EVERYDAY NEWS OF OUR LIVES

by Pat Maslowski


Today is November seven, two
thousand and eleven, the sky
is a topaz blue, chill, though
the sun warms us into a drowse.

Public radio, KUNC, is playing
jazz, no news until three
while the dog's dreaming
memories behind my desk.
I found a mouse, drowned
in the sink this morning,
Judge Mukasey has been
confirmed by the Judiciary
Committee. We're assured he
will be confirmed by a docile
Senate, even though he refused
to say water boarding was torture.

Oil today at nearly one hundred
dollars a barrel. Pakistan beats
protesters in the streets. Coal
fired plants in China are raining
sulfur dioxide on Japan and here.
Our own are also distributing
the same on Utah, Arizona,
Colorado, and New Mexico.

A neighbor died of cancer
two weeks ago. A former student,
expelled from school twenty years ago
was arrested for methamphetamine.
Last month one hundred and sixty-six
new jobs were created. The income
disparity between poor and rich
is greatest here except for Hungary.
And I wonder if love is really possible
in our tiny lives as ephemeral as day
compared to geologic time and galaxies,
knowing we can control nothing at all.


Pat Maslowski lives in Drake, Colorado. She is a retired teacher and librarian.

TERRORISM: CALL & RESPONSE

by Cortney Davis

In the ICD-9 book used for coding medical diagnoses, terrorism is code E979: Injuries resulting from the unlawful use of force or violence against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a government, the civilian population or any segment thereof.

Aircraft used as a weapon
aircraft burned
exploded
shot down
crushed by falling aircraft
munitions not otherwise specified
burning building or structure:
collapse of
fall from
hit by falling object
in jump from
conflagration
fire causing:
asphyxia
burns
melting of fittings and furniture
smoldering building or structure
fragments from:

That’s what I did for months after— blessed the body parts. The beautiful body parts.

Artillery shell
bomb grenade
guided missile
land-mine
rocket shell
shrapnel
machine gun
carbine
blast effect
fireball effect
gases, fumes, chemicals
unspecified vapors:

There were so many of them, so many hands. I imagined them moving.

Analgesics, barbiturates
direct and secondary effects
hypnotics
sedatives, tranquilizers
other medicinal substances
corrosive and caustic:
handgun
shotgun
military firearm
other unspecified
explosives
accidentally or purposely
inflicted:

I imagined them moving— you know, the fingers. In my mind’s eye I could see them, opening.


Cortney Davis is a nurse practitioner, author of three poetry collections, most recently Leopold's Maneuvers, winner of the Prairie Schooner Poetry Prize and co-editor of two anthologies of poetry and prose by nurses from University of Iowa Press, Between the Heartbeats and Intensive Care. Her collection of essays about the art of nursing, Letters to a Young Nurse, is forthcoming from Kent State University Press.

VETERANS DAY

by Robert M. Chute


The man by the pond who seemed to be
saluting the opposite shore was merely
shading his eyes against the glare
but it seemed the bare November trees
stood at attention with him, inspecting
the afternoon sun as it passed
in review. Seven ducks in precision
formation flew over to honor
the nameless dead. There are always
the nameless dead where ever you are.
Where ever you choose to stand can be
your reviewing stand. On the far shore,
wave tops detached, ducks beating low
splash in, a sudden patch of whitecaps.


Robert M. Chute (USAir Force, WW II) has a book from JustWrite Books, Reading Nature, of poetry based on scientific articles, that is available from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

11.

by Michelle Morgan


Self Identification. Ego in Balance.

November:

Da De Los Meurtos, Marraskuu,
in Finland and Japan, in Mexico and the Philippines,
a common bulk of earth grabs attention
as it struts down the wide white corridor
toward the light at the end and halts,
unsure whether it should go on.

In Pueblo people crowd the streets,
dance in cemeteries, surrounded by
orange-yellow light from red candles
that caress images of the Virgin Mary
stacked and piled on top of one another,
sky blue robes and gold leaf,
prayers in soft murmurs ghosting
around stones and marigolds.

Here is Maria Galeana and her three small
sons whose father has been dead 2 years,
suffocated in the back of the box truck
that was to buy their independence,
snorting on his own vomit as his lungs
exploded fireworks and barbed wire
through his brain.

Here is the 22 year old soldier’s funeral,
a coffin draped with the flag
and the gun salute of 11 rifles,
who died protecting our glorious country
against the eternal they with their
eternal burn.

We lay the dead on carts
where we can push them from one end
of our mind to the other: neat, compact
rows of dead women and children,
grandfathers, the sick and frail,
all beyond our reach.
We try, we tell ourselves, we try,
but you just can’t help those who
don’t want to help themselves,
how much can one person do?

Never do we see our own body wracked
limp on the cart, dirt smudging the cheek
of our wide-eyed daughter, dead beside us
but not before she was raped by the enemy,
still clutching her small pink scrap of doll.

Never do we ask: for whom do we die?

In the eleventh hour of the eleventh day,
who will be left to remember us,
to leave cakes and money on our graves,
we of precious life and freedom?


Michelle Morgan lives in Auburn, Maine, and will be attending the University of Southern Maine for her MA in American & New England Studies in the fall of 2007. Her poems and artwork have been published or are forthcoming in JMWW, The Banyan Review, Salt River Review, The Aurorean, Off the Coast, Wolf Moon Journal, Plain Spoke, and will be included in the forthcoming anthologies: Through the Kitchen Window: A Sense of Home and Outside Voices’ 2008 Anthology of Younger American Poets. She is Editor of the online lit/arts journal Panamowa: A New Lit Order.

NORMAN MAILER: ICONIC VOICE

by Earl J. Wilcox


When Norman Mailer walked into a room,
nobody yelled “Norm,” to him as the old
Cheers gang did to one of its characters.

When Norman Mailer walked onto a stage,
everybody waited with bated breath to see
what he’d focus his rage on that day.

When Norman Mailer wrote and wrote and
wrote, we all took notice of his pugnacious
style, his wit, his verve, his energy, his talent.

When Norman Mailer left his imprint upon
our culture, we knew it would be impressive:
an authentic American voice, now gone quiet.


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.

WHEN JOHNNY

by Debra Kaufman


Draping the flag
over her shoulders
she said red is for blood
white for innocence
blue for the eyes of my Johnny-o

When Johnny comes marching
comes flying comes stumbling
comes home lost
behind his eyes so blue
so distant so furious so murderous

we'll give him a hearty welcome then
hoorah hoorah


Debra Kaufman is a poet and playwright. She is author of three poetry collections: Family of Strangers, Still Life Burning, and A Certain Light. Her poems have appeared in many literary magazines and several anthologies.