BABY MONITOR KEEPS AN EYE ON ASTRONAUTS

by Rochelle Ratner


I'm two-and-a-quarter years old, she tells her mother. You don't have to watch me. That monitor thing's only for her baby brother. Sometimes, when she's playing on the floor and making too much noise, her mother picks her up and sits her on her lap and they watch the screen together. But her brother bores her. It's different today, though. There are these funny-looking people flying about on the screen, sort of like Tinkerbell, but fatter than Tinkerbell. They're not babies, they're astronauts, her mother starts to explain. Then she stops herself. Pampers come in all sizes.


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.

TO-DO LIST

by Pat Maslowski


I need to rearrange the stones.
I wonder if there will be time.

It's early in the day.
The news has barely begun.

There is more fighting in Lebanon.
Hamas has taken the Gaza Strip.

The death of Palestinian Democracy
is predicted.

I think the rabbit has eaten the blue blooms
in the pot on the porch.

The porch needs washing and restaining.

“I search for the truth,” the Kosovo Muslim
says as he prays five times a day.

What can be done with all this violence
within and without thousands of miles away?

A Muslim society within a European society.

I hope there is time today for me
to rearrange the stones.


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

BORN BAD

by David W. Rushing


I recently learned a fascinating bit of information,
which you too may find interesting
and one day be able to use.

It goes like this—
in the field of psychiatry,
psychologists and psychiatrists often categorize
certain people
as being what they call either Tier One or Tier Two
personalities.

Tier One is made up of the mentally ill;
however, the mentally ill can very often,
through therapy, medication, or twelve-step programs,
become much healthier and perhaps even “cured.”

But the bane of civilization is those
who belong to Tier Two—the emotionally disturbed.

These are the cruel and misbegotten,
the wicked and unconscionable.

And there are four things about them
that behoove the rest of us to remember.
According to just about every expert in the field,
Tier Two people:

1) Can never, ever be changed, reformed, or “cured.”
2) Love to hide.
(They hate, more than anything else,
to be recognized for what they really are
and for others to call that out publicly.)
3) More often than not, were never abused
sexually, mentally, physically, or emotionally.
(It’s as if they were simply born bad.)
4) Are frequently brilliant and charming.

And so one day, when you meet some intelligent,
charismatic individual
(either male or female),
keep in mind that you may be merely meeting an
intelligent, charismatic individual.

But also remember that you may be talking to a rapist,
child molester, serial murderer,
or the future president of the United States.


David W. Rushing's articles and poems have appeared in over 100 magazines. His two chapbooks are "Unrequited Love, Unfinished Lives" and "Appearances," and his first work of non-fiction prose will be out in the summer of 2008.

THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A DEAD POET

by Terry M. Dugan


“Nassau Rejects Poet Nominee Over Words About War in Iraq.” The New York Times, June 4, 2007: “I’m beginning to appreciate why poets are not celebrated till after their deaths.” --Wayne Wink, Nassau County Legislator


The war over the war
Rages right here on the shore
Where Whitman, once
Accused of barbarous, illiterate verse
Enshrined as a poet of note
by road, school, and mall.

A shoo in, they said
The nature poet
Maxwell Corydon Wheat Jr.
Laureate for a once bucolic place
Gone to shopping centers and
Fenced fortresses.

Whitman shunned for
Making love to the human body
Wheat vilified for
Blaming war for the corpse of democracy.
In Iraq and Other Killing Fields
Pleading for peace, he wrote
“…black hooded prisoner
draped in a make-shift poncho,
On narrow box
wire his out-stretched hands”
Stand Saddam Hussein and George W. Bush
On either side to
“Warn him he will be electrocuted if he falls.”


Terry M. Dugan has won awards for her poetry and fiction about working in a pediatric AIDS clinic at Bellevue Hospital and recently had her essay about unethical clinical trials in Africa published in Fingernails Across the Chalkboard: Poetry and Prose about HIV/AIDS from the Black Diaspora. Her anti-war poetry has been published in Women's Studies Quarterly and Poetry Ink (Philadelphia). She is currently enrolled in a graduate writing program at Manhattanville College.

WRITING IN THE SHADOW OF PARIS HILTON

by Rochelle Ratner


She’s sitting at home writing and this man comes in. She doesn't know how he got in the house, she thinks he came from the back door without knocking. He’s looking at what she’s writing and asks if she writes a lot of political poetry. She covers the sheets of paper with hand then realizes he must be from the Prisons Department.

She’s going to have to appear in court on the 19th, apparently because of a poem she wrote attacking IBM. Despite all the other news poetry around, it’s just this one big corporation which is prosecuting and all these people will be going to jail.

She gets talking with the prisons guy and says she’s heard of rapes in prison, so please please please send her somewhere where she’s safe. She’s saying she has nothing against IBM, she even just bought this little IBM computer. She’s suddenly worried about the computer and if she'll be attacked because she’s a rich kid with this computer. Maybe she should just leave the computer home.

She goes to Starbucks with her lover and she’s telling him she knows that she’s going to have to go to jail until July 17th. She’s trying to explain to him that this could be problematic, she doesn't know if she can handle this. Will they put her in a prison hospital because she’s just had surgery? Is she going to be able to take all these headache medications without having seizures? She wishes she'd been nicer to the guy who came over to investigate.


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.

ON THE ROAD TO HEILIGENDAMM, JUNE 7th

by Frank Joussen


I am thinking of Bono for a minute
on the road to Heiligendamm, Germany,
to protest against the G 8 Summit.
How Bono was visible on TV last night
with one black man and the chancellor
but they hadn´t given them
the benefit of the sound.
So why should I give the leaders
the benefit of the doubt?
Haven´t they betrayed us before,
leaving Africa to starvation and HIV
and the whole planet to a rising fever?

I am thinking of Bono for a minute.
How he said on the march to Gleneagles
in 2006, after Live 8,
"Write us a chapter to be proud of."
He must have been working
on the assumption
that the G 8 leaders,
democratically elected as they are,
are bound to serve us, the people,
whereas the paradox is of course
that they could only become,
they can only stay our leaders
by serving other people´s interests.

But there is no time to be patient
in the face of imminent annihilation.
So unless they give us chapter and verse
on all our issues
we´ll march on
towards fever pitch at the fence -
afraid of the Black Block
plus the other militants,
in fear of the stones,
the tear gas, the water cannons
but even more scared by
the great indifference
live-or-die questions don´t tolerate.

I was thinking of Bono.
Now I´m one of the peaceful crowd again
trying to turn up the volume
and sing the leaders a song
about the saving of the planet
which we hope to reach eventually,
and now listen, lady and gentlemen,
to the words of Bono,
"with or without you."


Frank Joussen is a German school teacher, writing solely in English and published in print magazines, anthologies and ezines worldwide. His ezine publications include The Pedestal Magazine, Kota Press, Raving Dove (U.S.), The Poetry Kit, Caught in the Net, Dew-on-line, The Measure (U.K.) and others. He stresses that he is a very peaceful, politically interested person with relatives in the U.S., but friends in Africa, Asia and Latin America, to whom he thinks he owes this peaceful protest poem.

OH, PARIS, PARIS

by Earl J. Wilcox


Hundreds die daily in Darfur,
Paris is burning.

A dozen American soldiers die today in Iraq,
Paris is burning.

The ice caps melt, melt, melt
Paris is burning

Putin and Bush argue,
Paris is burning

Imus is rotting on his ranch,
Paris is burning.

Another teen is abducted,
Paris is burning.

The Yanks are a dozen behind the Bosox
Paris is burning.

Barry beefs up more and more
Paris is burning.

Lindsey sulks in Santa Monica,
Paris is burning.

Some days the news is just
Paris is burning in jail tonight.


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.

A SCIENCE FICTION WORLD

by Thomas D. Reynolds


In this world,
Even mistakes are sacred.
Not even pounding fists can protest
What even the children can’t feel.
Lies are little birds that flock
Around a raindrop on one fallen leaf,
Every beak frozen before the feast.

Sometimes I walk upon the clouds,
Beyond houses shaped like faces
With shuttered eyes and cavern mouths.
Even sheltered beneath the rocks,
With legs gathered up like serpents,
I can taste the acid on their tongues,
Feel percussion beneath my skin,
Combustible backfire of their misteach.

Only at night, watching offspring
Dangle from limbs already practicing
Their executions scheduled by stars,
Can I see dim outlines of an alien ship,
With the breadth of a shadowy country
And no windows except for the cockpit,
As the captain’s breath fogs the glass
And the myriads kidnapped inside
Oblivious to his decision to hover,
Make like a protector, then destroy.


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.

LEBANONONONONON

by Charles Frederickson


Frothy rabid hatred empty pockets
        Holed up resistance spewing revenge
Rusty tear ducts weeping inconsolably
        Impotent rage drowned in fear

        Enigmatic fir sentinels attention bent
Conical shadows leaning on crutches
        Ghostly skeleton branches eyeless needles
Mud encrusted no longer evergreen

Brittle fragile saplings broken arrows
        Bowing east leaning towards Mecca
Nebulous silhouettes lost twilight prayers
        Bound to nefarious eternal darkness

        As dusk surrenders shrouded nighttide
Passes into itself beseeching Sunshine
        To come out of hiding
Teaching bluebirds to chirp again

Uprooted cringing hostile earthy clumps
        Caught in tangled undergrowth bramble
Thorny rosebuds unshackled cuffs polished
        Dense clueless thicket demons unbound

        Forever yet never vibrant afterlife
Crumbly wick hysteria rendered incarnate
        Trembling flames resettled ashes-to-dust
Snuffed wind-blown votive candle relit


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.

NEIGHBORLY

by Erika Feigenbaum


In a room full of colleagues I feel
poor and tired, anxious to get home,
where flashing neon guides me through the
crisscrossed streets and pedestrians
BEER LOTTERY
where unscreened, open windows frame the faces
of little boys yelling to their friends.

Two doors down a HUD house waits for sale
$26,000, less than so many cars on the road,
a college degree, or some surgery.
A white guy my age peers through the window.
I walk over to find him full of smiles and handshakes,

talking about money.
I see the house is not for him exactly—
he jokes about the neighborhood,
it’s amazing how some people will live, he says
glancing at the scrap yard behind the fence line
where stacked metal cars and oily sludge
heap at the bottom of the valley.

where white men come to laugh and invest;
where people want to forget
the stories filling front porches across yards,
between fences;
where dreams turn to meth
and litter rots the field where kids play.

I want to tell him to get his bullshit attitude
and get rich scheme back to the suburbs,
but I think I’ll start to cry, so I mumble
something about gentrification, asshole and
glance across the bridge where a sign reads
STORAGE, but I don’t see the “T” from here.


Erika Feigenbaum lives in Cleveland, Ohio where she teaches Women’s Studies and gardens with gusto. Feigenbaum's creative work has appeared in Off Our Backs, Sinister Wisdom, The Hiram Poetry Review, Hypatia, Epitome, and other publications.

EVERYDAY OPERA

by David Chorlton


The trash collector’s aria is a shock
so early in the morning
and the day’s first chorus rises
from a hundred bus stops
where the waiting has become a test
of patience equal
to the heroine’s whose status
in the kingdom is awaiting resolution.
Dressed as help in a sleek resort
she changes endless sheets and washes
time from her hands
hoping it will pass as quickly as her next
duet, the one she sings with the gardener
about homesickness. Inmates
at the city jail
gather in ensemble, but sing so low
and quietly nobody hears their dull complaint.
A man without a home
performs arioso outside
a strip mall where his feet
move loosely as his voice
and passers by all hide their faces
in a cloud of shame
until the coloratura shines
through the gloom
and a shower of coins descends from
the clouds. Suddenly the traffic
that had stalled
is moving freely and the men
soliciting for work smile and sing
bel canto to impress, but wait; by way
of response comes the basso profundo
from the local police
and the men exit, stage left and stage right.
Decked in jewels, the diva
emerges from a limousine, declining
to perform, but standing long
enough to be envied by the cheaply clad
whose leitmotiv each day is work
in service of the king
they have never seen. Their miseries
begin sotto voce
but rise when the ballet dancers arrive
at a parking lot where the order
is given to clear away all cars
to make space for dancing and they dance
and the voices gain in power and
the libretto is abandoned
for one, glorious finale before
the curtain is drawn and nobody knows
which side of it is reality.


David Chorlton lived in England and Austria before moving to the desert Southwest in 1978. After overcoming a bias against "nature poetry" he has come to explore the landscape and its ihabitants more often in his work. His book Waiting for the Quetzal (March Street Press) includes references to Arizona, the Arctic, and Costa Rica. Later this year Future Cycle will publish The Porous Desert.

FAMILY VALUES

by Alex Cameron


To compromise a moral
takes nothing that’s immoral,
if only from whatever side you’re on.

Each issue that is urgent
has always a divergent
counterpoint to base your logic on.

And even if you’re lacking
in crucial public backing,
there’s one sure way to save you from a fall:

start dealing out the Bibles
and tug at their moral fibers –
by whipping out your family values card.

If the polls are badly dragging
and Creationism’s flagging,
cause the dems have cornered you on evolution –

then stop inviting degradation
and start crying accusations
and declare it an affront on institution.

If gay folks are getting married
while your term has hari-karied
and the public eye is frowning on your war –

then get out there and proclaim
an anti-lesbian campaign,
and the voters will forget about before.

If the news cycle is turning
and you’re really not quite yearning
to have the press find out about your ways

then declare a war concerning
the pandemic of flag-burning
after all, who needs those rights today?

And while you’re waiting for compliance
why not up and accuse science
of immoral and unprincipled experiments:

they might just cure a virus
but there’s something more desirous:
that’s preventing you from contracting bad press.

And when the task is done
you will find that you have won
and have four more years to rest upon your laurels.

All the folks that safely floated you
by having conscience-voted you
have put you in your office based on morals.

But when the time has dawned
for you to choose the right from wrong
you will wantonly elect to go to war –

and when parents look to protect
their darling kids from unsafe sex,
they will have no children left to look out for.


Alex Cameron is a junior at Chatham High School in Chatham, NJ, who is managing editor of the school paper and contributing editor of the school literary magazine. His writing has been published before in The New Verse News, and is forthcoming in A Long Story Short.

UNDISCOVERED PAGES FROM THE REAGAN DIARIES

by Earl J. Wilcox


(exact date of this entry not given)
Today Mommie & I were invited down to the Bush ranch in Texas for some of their style Bar b Q. Mommie don’t much care for the trip, but B. Bush insisted we come see their place since we have our own little spread out in California. Mommie & I flew out there in the big bird & we snuggled all the way to Texas. And so to bed. PS What fun.

(next entry at Bush ranch)
Here we are in Texas tonight. Mommie was right. This place is too hot for us to spend more than one night. Besides, that Georgie Bush boy is just running us ragged talking about baseball & acting like a horses petuttie. They say he’s in his 30s but he acts a lot less than that. Pretty wife of a few years, but not kids. The other Bush kids seem pretty normal, except for Jr. I do have trouble understanding most anything he says, so his mother finishes sentences for him, & his Daddy just winks and nods when younger George stutters and carries on about fishing and horses. I don’t think he knows much about either one, to be honest. And so to bed.

(next entry is day after return to DC)
Mommie and I had a fine time at the Bush ranch. Went out & rode their horses & shot at some jack rabbits. Mommie says she and B Bush talked about ice cream socials and raising unruly children. Don’t think I ever knew rabbits came in those sizes. Georgie Bush about run us down in a jeep by being a smart aleck when his dad & I were just standing out by the barn talking about Texas politics, I think it was. Can’t recall for sure, however. And so to bed.


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.

MAN WITH TB LOCKED UP TO PROTECT PUBLIC

by Rochelle Ratner


Her friend's husband has TB. She thought it had been virtually eliminated in the U.S. But this prisoner's been living inRussia, locked up in Arizona now. Solitary confinement. He thought he'd get better medical care in his native country, the sort of care her friend's husband got. Her friend's husband lost weight in the hospital, but began recovering quickly; back home he's enjoying her cooking more than ever. They say the prisoner was hungry late at night and went to a convenience store. They say he didn't wear his mask. A woman she knows in her late forties plans a move to assisted living. Another ailing friend's virtually trapped in her four-story walk-up. But these are risks you accept when you live alone.


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.