by Mary Saracino
In the Age of iMeMine
iMacs, iPhones, iPods infiltrate our lives,
our ears ring with the ubiquitous iMantra: “Me-me-me, what’s in it for me.”
Shell out $600 for iMmediate access,
a 24/7 WiFi-Fest, guaranteed to keep
you plugged-iN because iAm-so-important iCan’t ever miss
the latest iMusic, iVideos, iNews, iWeather, iCelebrity iNcarceration;
In a gotta-have-it world, it’s the latest drug of iChoice for
iMpulsive culture junkies.
It’s a crying iShame we can’t see
how we’ve traded our iSouls for an iMitation life;
iMagine the creative revolution that might ensue
if we had the courage to pull the iPlug.
Mary Saracino is a novelist, poet and memoir writer who lives in Denver, CO. Her most recent novel, The Singing of Swans, was a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards finalist. For more information visit www.pearlsong.com or www.marysaracino.com.
Friday, August 10, 2007
SNOW JOB
by Robert Copeland
The polar bears have no money,
And very little political influence,
Yet I watch them in the background
Of the talk show, while the economist
Explains his theory that the poor,
In third-world lowlands, will rise
With the tide of prosperity
And therefore have the capital
Necessary to move inland.
Poets have very little money,
And no political influence,
Yet I hear their voices by the graveyard
Of reason, where the governor
Exposes his program for the disadvantaged,
On strip-mined mountains, to learn,
With the help of scholarships,
The skills they will need to use
To sell ice to the bears.
Robert Copeland studied poetry with Hayden Carruth in the graduate program at Syracuse University. He is the recipient of a Danforth Fellowship. He owns a record store in Kentucky.
The polar bears have no money,
And very little political influence,
Yet I watch them in the background
Of the talk show, while the economist
Explains his theory that the poor,
In third-world lowlands, will rise
With the tide of prosperity
And therefore have the capital
Necessary to move inland.
Poets have very little money,
And no political influence,
Yet I hear their voices by the graveyard
Of reason, where the governor
Exposes his program for the disadvantaged,
On strip-mined mountains, to learn,
With the help of scholarships,
The skills they will need to use
To sell ice to the bears.
Robert Copeland studied poetry with Hayden Carruth in the graduate program at Syracuse University. He is the recipient of a Danforth Fellowship. He owns a record store in Kentucky.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
SOLDIERS HOME
by David Radavich
That is not a flag
hiding a corpse.
That is not a man
who failed to live out
his span.
That is not
a war
but a performance
of return.
The family, the public
need not witness
the arrival.
The plane disgorges
like a giant fish.
The box is carried out
by uniforms.
Trumpets help
to silence the sun.
This is not
a poem about war.
You do not
hear any grief.
You do not read
any shame.
David Radavich's poetry publications include Slain Species (Court Poetry Press, London), By the Way (Buttonwood Press, 1998), and Great Hits (Pudding House Press, 2000), as well as individual poems in anthologies and magazines. His plays have been performed across the U.S. and abroad, including five Off-Off-Broadway productions. He also enjoys writing essays on poetry, drama, and contemporary issues. His latest book is America Bound: An Epic for Our Time (Plain View Press, 2007).
That is not a flag
hiding a corpse.
That is not a man
who failed to live out
his span.
That is not
a war
but a performance
of return.
The family, the public
need not witness
the arrival.
The plane disgorges
like a giant fish.
The box is carried out
by uniforms.
Trumpets help
to silence the sun.
This is not
a poem about war.
You do not
hear any grief.
You do not read
any shame.
David Radavich's poetry publications include Slain Species (Court Poetry Press, London), By the Way (Buttonwood Press, 1998), and Great Hits (Pudding House Press, 2000), as well as individual poems in anthologies and magazines. His plays have been performed across the U.S. and abroad, including five Off-Off-Broadway productions. He also enjoys writing essays on poetry, drama, and contemporary issues. His latest book is America Bound: An Epic for Our Time (Plain View Press, 2007).
WHAT WORDS CAN DO
by Marguerite Bouvard
As he scans the list
of battle-frayed soldiers,
the officer shrugs.
Their night sweats,
their inner numbness
are a foreign language to him.
No longer of use
is what he doesn’t say.
But in a small town up North
a college president walks out
of his kingdom of books
and humming classes,
across neatly mowed lawns
and into hospital wards
where days keep collapsing
in the corridors. A former marine,
he comes with his own
searing memories,
speaking the language
of tremors, nightmares
and invisible wounds.
He moves from one
bed to another, opening
windows and doors,
holding each young patient
with his words. He turns these
words into ladders the seriously
maimed can climb up
and out into the world again.
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.
As he scans the list
of battle-frayed soldiers,
the officer shrugs.
Their night sweats,
their inner numbness
are a foreign language to him.
No longer of use
is what he doesn’t say.
But in a small town up North
a college president walks out
of his kingdom of books
and humming classes,
across neatly mowed lawns
and into hospital wards
where days keep collapsing
in the corridors. A former marine,
he comes with his own
searing memories,
speaking the language
of tremors, nightmares
and invisible wounds.
He moves from one
bed to another, opening
windows and doors,
holding each young patient
with his words. He turns these
words into ladders the seriously
maimed can climb up
and out into the world again.
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.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
UNCERTAIN TEXAS
by Rochelle Ratner
Welcome to the state's only honest-to-nature lake. Caddo Lake we call it, as in the Caddo Indians who gave our single star its name. We boated here. We fished here. And now it looks like a field of poison ivy. It's like a badly made too brightly colored horror film. Didn't even make it to the drive-in. Salvinia Molesta doubles in size every two or three days. Nothing can live beneath this. Part of the lake's in Louisiana, and screw Katrina and all its hardships, it's time to move on. We're talking wildlife here. We're talking homes for future generations. This god damn plant's just the latest wetback swimming past guards at the border. Tejas, Tejas, they can't even say where they are or what they're doing here. Friend.
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.
Welcome to the state's only honest-to-nature lake. Caddo Lake we call it, as in the Caddo Indians who gave our single star its name. We boated here. We fished here. And now it looks like a field of poison ivy. It's like a badly made too brightly colored horror film. Didn't even make it to the drive-in. Salvinia Molesta doubles in size every two or three days. Nothing can live beneath this. Part of the lake's in Louisiana, and screw Katrina and all its hardships, it's time to move on. We're talking wildlife here. We're talking homes for future generations. This god damn plant's just the latest wetback swimming past guards at the border. Tejas, Tejas, they can't even say where they are or what they're doing here. Friend.
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.
SAFE BY MINNESOTA
by H.L.
When speaking American, beware
We are all so advante-guarde
Tho' we do not use those words.
It's like, like so Paris
She went to glamor prison, you know,
or maybe it was Martha what's her name.
My one word of concrete evidence:
Laura cares!
When bridges fall down
She makes a public appearance
White dead people are so PC
even George can help them.
Sigh! We'll let People Magazine
and Rupert Murdoch tell how
When speaking American, beware
We are all so advante-guarde
Tho' we do not use those words.
It's like, like so Paris
She went to glamor prison, you know,
or maybe it was Martha what's her name.
My one word of concrete evidence:
Laura cares!
When bridges fall down
She makes a public appearance
White dead people are so PC
even George can help them.
Sigh! We'll let People Magazine
and Rupert Murdoch tell how
Texans lead the World.
HL is a computer-nerd bicyclist who cranks out poetry as he rides along prairie grass and gravel roads. He says, "War is not the Answer / Ride a Bicycle," and more at cornfedtrouble.
HL is a computer-nerd bicyclist who cranks out poetry as he rides along prairie grass and gravel roads. He says, "War is not the Answer / Ride a Bicycle," and more at cornfedtrouble.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
OF THEE I . . .
by George Held
The middle of a street blows up near Grand Central;
People think “terrorism” and run for their lives.
A bridge over the Mississippi lies crumpled
As though a terrorist bomb had detonated mid-span.
Hospital beds in New Orleans remain scarce as doctors
As The War on Terror drains needed federal funds.
America crumbles while in Washington the real terrorists
Are called “Senator,” “The Honorable,” “Mr. President.”
They sleep in white houses and sit in the Capitol,
Defending the rich from taxes and corporations
From accountability and themselves against the will
Of the people, the “We the People” who once declared
“a more perfect union,” now reduced to complainers—
bloggers, writers of letters to the editor, petition-signers.
When the President declares martial law on the eve
Of the 2008 elections and states that he does this
In order to protect the “homeland” from terror, will the people
Know where the real terrorists lie and rise up, will the military
Help defend them against the putsch, or will the 230-year
Experiment in republican government—never a democracy—
Blow up like that street in Manhattan , crumble like that bridge
In the Twin Cities, strain under the old, old yoke of tyranny?
George Held has previously contributed to The New Verse News. His new collection of poems, The Art of Writing and Others, is available at www.finishinglinepress.com.
The middle of a street blows up near Grand Central;
People think “terrorism” and run for their lives.
A bridge over the Mississippi lies crumpled
As though a terrorist bomb had detonated mid-span.
Hospital beds in New Orleans remain scarce as doctors
As The War on Terror drains needed federal funds.
America crumbles while in Washington the real terrorists
Are called “Senator,” “The Honorable,” “Mr. President.”
They sleep in white houses and sit in the Capitol,
Defending the rich from taxes and corporations
From accountability and themselves against the will
Of the people, the “We the People” who once declared
“a more perfect union,” now reduced to complainers—
bloggers, writers of letters to the editor, petition-signers.
When the President declares martial law on the eve
Of the 2008 elections and states that he does this
In order to protect the “homeland” from terror, will the people
Know where the real terrorists lie and rise up, will the military
Help defend them against the putsch, or will the 230-year
Experiment in republican government—never a democracy—
Blow up like that street in Manhattan , crumble like that bridge
In the Twin Cities, strain under the old, old yoke of tyranny?
George Held has previously contributed to The New Verse News. His new collection of poems, The Art of Writing and Others, is available at www.finishinglinepress.com.
Monday, August 06, 2007
SLIGHTLY FICTIONALIZED VERSION OF BUSH'S SPEECH
AT THE SITE OF THE MINNEAPOLIS BRIDGE DISASTER
by Millie Niss
Whaddya know? This bridge is broken. This bridge was necessary for crossing the river. You can’t cross the river now on this bridge. You can’t get to the other side! That is because this bridge has fallen in the water. This is not good. As your president, I am very proud of our highway infrastructure, and it is a sad day when I see exit ramps and traffic cones crushed into rubble. But don’t worry. My good friend Mary will fix this bridge. That’s Mary Peters, my Secretary of Transportation. She has a good heart. She is joining me in praying for the bridges of America, to ask God to protect them from any future harm.
People need bridges to get to work. People need to go to work to feed their children and to promote the national economy. If this bridge does not get rebuilt, China might some day beat us economically and become a dangerous military superpower. The Chinese do not share our values. They have no respect for the American way of life. They imprison Christian pastors who dare to put God above their godless state. But do not worry. This broken bridge has been a wake-up call for America. We can no longer ignore the yellowy red menace lurking in the East.
I am proposing a new piece of legislation, the Minneapolis Bridge Disaster Relief Act of 2007, which will provide twelve billion dollars in new military and Homeland Security spending to protect us against China and Chinese-influenced sleeper cells in American cities. This bill will provide American-made weapons to Taiwan and India, put surveillance cameras in Chinese restaurants, and add everyone with the last name of Lee or Wong to the national no-fly list.
Once this bill is enacted, and I am counting on my friends in the Democrat Party to join me in getting this essential national security measure passed before Congress adjourns for its summer recess tomorrow afternoon, America will be even safer from Red Chinese terror attacks than it was before the bridge broke. You can count on me, as your commander-in-chief, to keep you and your loved ones safe from the crafty Chinese. So why don’t you pick up the phone and give your Senator or Representative a call asking him to support my bill. You can tell him the President told you to call. Or you could use that Internet thing my friend Al invented.
I just want to remind you before I get back in my helicopter: Our safety as a nation is not a political issue, it is a national issue. In the fight against global terror, there should be no party politics, no business-as-usual in Washington. I have a message to the Congress: “The people of Minneapolis are counting on you. Do not put special interests above the needs of the bridges of our Heartland.”
God Bless America and God Bless the City of Minneapolis!
Millie Niss is a poet and web artist. She has a chapbook in furniture press's PO25CENTSEM series, has had her poetry published in print in The Buffalo News, Artvoice, and other journals, and online in Unlikely Stories, poetz.com, furtherfield, Big Bridge, Beehive, m.a.g. and others. Her video art and multimedia art (often done in collaboration with Martha Deed) has been widely exhibited, including at the 2006 Scope New York Art Fair and in a juried show at Harvard University's Dudley House, and has been published online in The Iowa Review Web, trAce (UK), The Museum of the Essential and Beyond That (Brazil), dvblog.org, etc. A collection of her electronic poetry, "Oulipoems," was part of the Electronic Literature Organizations Electronic Literature Anthology, Vol. (2006). Millie has a degree in mathematics from Columbia University and is interested in the interface between art and computer programming. Her website is http://www.sporkworld.org, and her blog is http://www.sporkworld.org//index.php.
by Millie Niss
Whaddya know? This bridge is broken. This bridge was necessary for crossing the river. You can’t cross the river now on this bridge. You can’t get to the other side! That is because this bridge has fallen in the water. This is not good. As your president, I am very proud of our highway infrastructure, and it is a sad day when I see exit ramps and traffic cones crushed into rubble. But don’t worry. My good friend Mary will fix this bridge. That’s Mary Peters, my Secretary of Transportation. She has a good heart. She is joining me in praying for the bridges of America, to ask God to protect them from any future harm.
People need bridges to get to work. People need to go to work to feed their children and to promote the national economy. If this bridge does not get rebuilt, China might some day beat us economically and become a dangerous military superpower. The Chinese do not share our values. They have no respect for the American way of life. They imprison Christian pastors who dare to put God above their godless state. But do not worry. This broken bridge has been a wake-up call for America. We can no longer ignore the yellowy red menace lurking in the East.
I am proposing a new piece of legislation, the Minneapolis Bridge Disaster Relief Act of 2007, which will provide twelve billion dollars in new military and Homeland Security spending to protect us against China and Chinese-influenced sleeper cells in American cities. This bill will provide American-made weapons to Taiwan and India, put surveillance cameras in Chinese restaurants, and add everyone with the last name of Lee or Wong to the national no-fly list.
Once this bill is enacted, and I am counting on my friends in the Democrat Party to join me in getting this essential national security measure passed before Congress adjourns for its summer recess tomorrow afternoon, America will be even safer from Red Chinese terror attacks than it was before the bridge broke. You can count on me, as your commander-in-chief, to keep you and your loved ones safe from the crafty Chinese. So why don’t you pick up the phone and give your Senator or Representative a call asking him to support my bill. You can tell him the President told you to call. Or you could use that Internet thing my friend Al invented.
I just want to remind you before I get back in my helicopter: Our safety as a nation is not a political issue, it is a national issue. In the fight against global terror, there should be no party politics, no business-as-usual in Washington. I have a message to the Congress: “The people of Minneapolis are counting on you. Do not put special interests above the needs of the bridges of our Heartland.”
God Bless America and God Bless the City of Minneapolis!
Millie Niss is a poet and web artist. She has a chapbook in furniture press's PO25CENTSEM series, has had her poetry published in print in The Buffalo News, Artvoice, and other journals, and online in Unlikely Stories, poetz.com, furtherfield, Big Bridge, Beehive, m.a.g. and others. Her video art and multimedia art (often done in collaboration with Martha Deed) has been widely exhibited, including at the 2006 Scope New York Art Fair and in a juried show at Harvard University's Dudley House, and has been published online in The Iowa Review Web, trAce (UK), The Museum of the Essential and Beyond That (Brazil), dvblog.org, etc. A collection of her electronic poetry, "Oulipoems," was part of the Electronic Literature Organizations Electronic Literature Anthology, Vol. (2006). Millie has a degree in mathematics from Columbia University and is interested in the interface between art and computer programming. Her website is http://www.sporkworld.org, and her blog is http://www.sporkworld.org//index.php.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
CIGAR STORE INDIAN
Image by Jeff Crouch
Poem by Christopher Woods
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.
Poem by Christopher Woods
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.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
HOW TO MAKE A PIGEON CRY
by Scott Wiggerman
You could coax it with feed,
pretend you’re a friend, even coo—
then grab it like a submarine sandwich
and pluck out a feather or two.
You could put on French affectations
and twist its stocky neck askew,
braise, broil, sauté, or grill it,
add leftovers to a Provençal stew.
You could pull an Ozzy,
chomp on its head, let profanities spew.
You could, of course, kick it,
as businessmen often do,
or stomp it with a well-placed heel
if it refuses to move or shoo.
You could act like a President
and shoot it right out of the blue,
or pose as a Prime Minister
and coat its feet with Superglue.
You could be shipped to Iraq,
sent off with a strong heave-to,
where pigeons are everyday people
but doves are far and few.
Scott Wiggerman has published one book of poetry, Vegetables and Other Relationships (Plain View Press, 2000) and has been published in dozens of journals, including Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Windhover, Midwest Poetry Review, Spillway, New Texas, and Paterson Literary Review. Most recently, he has been published in the anthology Queer Collection (Fabulist Flash, 2007). In addition, he is one of the two “cats” (i.e., editors) of Dos Gatos Press, which publishes the annual Texas Poetry Calendar, now in its tenth year.
You could coax it with feed,
pretend you’re a friend, even coo—
then grab it like a submarine sandwich
and pluck out a feather or two.
You could put on French affectations
and twist its stocky neck askew,
braise, broil, sauté, or grill it,
add leftovers to a Provençal stew.
You could pull an Ozzy,
chomp on its head, let profanities spew.
You could, of course, kick it,
as businessmen often do,
or stomp it with a well-placed heel
if it refuses to move or shoo.
You could act like a President
and shoot it right out of the blue,
or pose as a Prime Minister
and coat its feet with Superglue.
You could be shipped to Iraq,
sent off with a strong heave-to,
where pigeons are everyday people
but doves are far and few.
Scott Wiggerman has published one book of poetry, Vegetables and Other Relationships (Plain View Press, 2000) and has been published in dozens of journals, including Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Windhover, Midwest Poetry Review, Spillway, New Texas, and Paterson Literary Review. Most recently, he has been published in the anthology Queer Collection (Fabulist Flash, 2007). In addition, he is one of the two “cats” (i.e., editors) of Dos Gatos Press, which publishes the annual Texas Poetry Calendar, now in its tenth year.
BIRDWATCHING AT THE COUNTRY RETREAT
by Shelley Ettinger
Some of these birds are so small and pass so fast, propelled at time-warp speed, they seem to me not natural creatures at all. More like futuristic flying machines. Tiny transistorized plasticine. Unlikely confabulations. The next generation of robots, perhaps; I wouldn't put it past the Pentagon and aviation industry to keep the wraps on something like that. Our feathered friends all dead—acid rain, the greenhouse effect—secretly replaced by contraptions conflated of gene-spliced avian DNA and synthetic aerodynamic material developed in top-secret labs. Painted high-tech hues. An innovative chemical mix. First generation experimental, ergo the wild haphazard unlikely appearance of some of these craft. Ridged beak red chest. Tufted plume tinged blue. Deep dusky gray for this throaty warbler, that busy thrifty nest-builder a mousy brown. And ah it's an eerie iridescent yellow for you, little gal or fellow of the weirdly wide wingspan. In olden days we'd lift our gaze, chickadee flycatcher grackle tanager, marvel at the whimsical ways of this wondrous world. No more. These colors too amazing, variety too crazy, flight too swift and evincing way more grace than any Mother Nature could possibly conceive. They can try, the white-coated creators of rainbow dazers, but they can't fool me.
Some birds stop and rest under the manse's eaves. Shelter from the midday heat. Dip their timorous miniscule feet. Furtive quick refreshment in gutters puddled with last night's rain. Cock their heads. Splash puff flutter display. Peck about a bit and take off. Peculiar conduct for mock beings. Unusually innovative programming, to mimic the behavior of living organisms. Then there's the way they dive and soar, dip, ascend, swoop, trace long languid routes then skid branchward for shimmying skin-of-their-teeth landings. I begin to doubt my deductions. They're laughing at me, discreetly of course behind politely tightly clamped beaks, but like no artificial apparatus I've ever seen. They also make mistakes. The occasional crash. Collisions when two try for the same crumb. The rather unbecoming worrying over worms. Constant tittering. Compulsive flitting. Like louche loopy lorgnetted gossipers divvying dish on a party line. They're actual birds, I'm driven to conclude. Too quirky to be fake, I see.
Some girls take a while to get it: what can I say? Monolinguist at a foreign film, I've a tin ear for fauna. An early morning chirp wakes me from each night's sleep: unfailingly I think I hear a touchtone phone. I've no feel for no nose for no frame of reference no innate sense no way to know the whole from the wrecked, the unspoiled from the dwindled by half, genuine article from fascimile. I admit: I'm unadapted for rural life. In the urban dodgescape I'm an accomplished negotiator. Sniff danger spy obstacles measure risk: navigate through hop around cross street. Here, terra unfirm beneath my city-slicker feet, I'm a beast of diminished capacity.
Shelley Ettinger's work has been published in Mississippi Review, Mizna, Mudlark, failbetter.com, Word Is Bond and other journals. She recently completed her first novel and am at work on collections of short fiction and poetry.
Some of these birds are so small and pass so fast, propelled at time-warp speed, they seem to me not natural creatures at all. More like futuristic flying machines. Tiny transistorized plasticine. Unlikely confabulations. The next generation of robots, perhaps; I wouldn't put it past the Pentagon and aviation industry to keep the wraps on something like that. Our feathered friends all dead—acid rain, the greenhouse effect—secretly replaced by contraptions conflated of gene-spliced avian DNA and synthetic aerodynamic material developed in top-secret labs. Painted high-tech hues. An innovative chemical mix. First generation experimental, ergo the wild haphazard unlikely appearance of some of these craft. Ridged beak red chest. Tufted plume tinged blue. Deep dusky gray for this throaty warbler, that busy thrifty nest-builder a mousy brown. And ah it's an eerie iridescent yellow for you, little gal or fellow of the weirdly wide wingspan. In olden days we'd lift our gaze, chickadee flycatcher grackle tanager, marvel at the whimsical ways of this wondrous world. No more. These colors too amazing, variety too crazy, flight too swift and evincing way more grace than any Mother Nature could possibly conceive. They can try, the white-coated creators of rainbow dazers, but they can't fool me.
Some birds stop and rest under the manse's eaves. Shelter from the midday heat. Dip their timorous miniscule feet. Furtive quick refreshment in gutters puddled with last night's rain. Cock their heads. Splash puff flutter display. Peck about a bit and take off. Peculiar conduct for mock beings. Unusually innovative programming, to mimic the behavior of living organisms. Then there's the way they dive and soar, dip, ascend, swoop, trace long languid routes then skid branchward for shimmying skin-of-their-teeth landings. I begin to doubt my deductions. They're laughing at me, discreetly of course behind politely tightly clamped beaks, but like no artificial apparatus I've ever seen. They also make mistakes. The occasional crash. Collisions when two try for the same crumb. The rather unbecoming worrying over worms. Constant tittering. Compulsive flitting. Like louche loopy lorgnetted gossipers divvying dish on a party line. They're actual birds, I'm driven to conclude. Too quirky to be fake, I see.
Some girls take a while to get it: what can I say? Monolinguist at a foreign film, I've a tin ear for fauna. An early morning chirp wakes me from each night's sleep: unfailingly I think I hear a touchtone phone. I've no feel for no nose for no frame of reference no innate sense no way to know the whole from the wrecked, the unspoiled from the dwindled by half, genuine article from fascimile. I admit: I'm unadapted for rural life. In the urban dodgescape I'm an accomplished negotiator. Sniff danger spy obstacles measure risk: navigate through hop around cross street. Here, terra unfirm beneath my city-slicker feet, I'm a beast of diminished capacity.
Shelley Ettinger's work has been published in Mississippi Review, Mizna, Mudlark, failbetter.com, Word Is Bond and other journals. She recently completed her first novel and am at work on collections of short fiction and poetry.
Friday, August 03, 2007
MAN BITES DOG
by George Good
"Now what would Jesus do?" Bush told the press.
"Hey, to be honest, I could not care less."
Dick Cheney sat down for an interview
and every word from first to last was true.
Gonzalez testified to one and all
there actually was something he could recall.
Supreme Court Justice Thomas sided with
a poor black man who was condemned to death.
In humble tones Scalia would decline
to make a snap decision or opine.
Pat Robertson conceded God was dead
and spoke this mea culpa: "Sorry, Fred."
Ann Coulter to the Muslims: "I repent.
You guys just have a newer testament."
A tearful Rush discussed the urban poor,
demanding that the government do more.
Podhoretz realigned and took a vow
that Israel shouldn't be a sacred cow.
"Let's speak no more of 9-11, please,"
cried Giuliani and Fox News agrees.
"Don't cut our taxes. The conservative
who's patriotic is obliged to give."
"Pull out our troops. We chickenhawks admit
that when it comes to war we don't know shit."
At their convention the Republicans
resolved to flaunt, not hide, their many sins:
"The letters GOP henceforh will stand
for: Greed--Oil--Pollution. Ain't we grand?"
George Good has published verse in The Evansville Review, Iambs & Trochees, Light, and Contemporary Rhyme.
"Now what would Jesus do?" Bush told the press.
"Hey, to be honest, I could not care less."
Dick Cheney sat down for an interview
and every word from first to last was true.
Gonzalez testified to one and all
there actually was something he could recall.
Supreme Court Justice Thomas sided with
a poor black man who was condemned to death.
In humble tones Scalia would decline
to make a snap decision or opine.
Pat Robertson conceded God was dead
and spoke this mea culpa: "Sorry, Fred."
Ann Coulter to the Muslims: "I repent.
You guys just have a newer testament."
A tearful Rush discussed the urban poor,
demanding that the government do more.
Podhoretz realigned and took a vow
that Israel shouldn't be a sacred cow.
"Let's speak no more of 9-11, please,"
cried Giuliani and Fox News agrees.
"Don't cut our taxes. The conservative
who's patriotic is obliged to give."
"Pull out our troops. We chickenhawks admit
that when it comes to war we don't know shit."
At their convention the Republicans
resolved to flaunt, not hide, their many sins:
"The letters GOP henceforh will stand
for: Greed--Oil--Pollution. Ain't we grand?"
George Good has published verse in The Evansville Review, Iambs & Trochees, Light, and Contemporary Rhyme.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
DILLY-DALLY DOLLARS
by Charles Frederickson
The MortgAge of Crisis unleashed
Ripple effects across Pacific rim
Sending FantAsian market panic waves
Drowned in losses capsizing trust
Default tremors felt around globe
Shaky infestments sinking ship bailouts
On verge of edgy collapse
Wall Street quakes seismic cracks
Made in America dollar doldrums
Turning greenback on unstable nightmares
Grunge plunge lacking .common cents
Monopoly Chinese checkers lost marbles
Bravo newwworld pecking order
Cocksure gambling clipped hedge bets
Recycling chicken feed protecting assets
Cracked nest egg dirty yolk
Bulls and bears trading places
Bondage dominated by corporated X-spurts
Volatile stock market defaulty panic
Hiccoughs cure-all elixir censorry blips
Rising Status Quo Vadis downfall
Crap shoot roll of indices
Playing Euro-peon fantAsian American-can roulette
Cornered pawns squarely unbalanced Checkmate
Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai No Holds Bard renowned for his foxy moxie and muckamuck pluck. This feisty e-gadfly is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 200+ poetry publication credits on 6 continents, which include: Above Ground Testing, Angelfire, Arabesques, Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Carillon, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Decanto, Eclipse, Flutter Magazine, Fullosia Press, Gangway, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, International Poet, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Lunarosity, Madpoetry, Masque Publishing, Melange, MuseCrafters, Newtopia, Neon Highway, New Verse News, Planet Authority, Poetisphere, Poetry Canada, Poetry Cemetery, Poetry of Scotland, Poetry Stop, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sz, The Smoking Poet, Vintage, Ygdrasil, Ya’Sou! and Zafusy.
The MortgAge of Crisis unleashed
Ripple effects across Pacific rim
Sending FantAsian market panic waves
Drowned in losses capsizing trust
Default tremors felt around globe
Shaky infestments sinking ship bailouts
On verge of edgy collapse
Wall Street quakes seismic cracks
Made in America dollar doldrums
Turning greenback on unstable nightmares
Grunge plunge lacking .common cents
Monopoly Chinese checkers lost marbles
Bravo newwworld pecking order
Cocksure gambling clipped hedge bets
Recycling chicken feed protecting assets
Cracked nest egg dirty yolk
Bulls and bears trading places
Bondage dominated by corporated X-spurts
Volatile stock market defaulty panic
Hiccoughs cure-all elixir censorry blips
Rising Status Quo Vadis downfall
Crap shoot roll of indices
Playing Euro-peon fantAsian American-can roulette
Cornered pawns squarely unbalanced Checkmate
Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai No Holds Bard renowned for his foxy moxie and muckamuck pluck. This feisty e-gadfly is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 200+ poetry publication credits on 6 continents, which include: Above Ground Testing, Angelfire, Arabesques, Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Carillon, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Decanto, Eclipse, Flutter Magazine, Fullosia Press, Gangway, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, International Poet, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Lunarosity, Madpoetry, Masque Publishing, Melange, MuseCrafters, Newtopia, Neon Highway, New Verse News, Planet Authority, Poetisphere, Poetry Canada, Poetry Cemetery, Poetry of Scotland, Poetry Stop, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sz, The Smoking Poet, Vintage, Ygdrasil, Ya’Sou! and Zafusy.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
SONG IN THE FIFTH YEAR
by Margaret Ricketts
We had demos. We chalked the
bathtub. We spread our legs at
the airport. We tried to shrink our
prior notions of privacy. We moved
to Washington and saw the apertures of death.
plain as a sewer cover. We never discussed it,
the way you ignore a dead roadside dog.
We nagged our sons
about their GPAs. We applied marking
pens to posterboard, We listened to the
resistance, futile, bare
palms beating on plastic drums.
Margaret Ricketts has studied writing at the Fine Arts Work Center and the University of Kentucky.
We had demos. We chalked the
bathtub. We spread our legs at
the airport. We tried to shrink our
prior notions of privacy. We moved
to Washington and saw the apertures of death.
plain as a sewer cover. We never discussed it,
the way you ignore a dead roadside dog.
We nagged our sons
about their GPAs. We applied marking
pens to posterboard, We listened to the
resistance, futile, bare
palms beating on plastic drums.
Margaret Ricketts has studied writing at the Fine Arts Work Center and the University of Kentucky.
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