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.