RIDING ON A LATE NIGHT AMTRAK

BACK TO NEW YORK FROM PHILLY


by Linda Lerner


on a voice flat lining days
across stock options   numbers
reaching toward infinity
I’m riding thru a business man’s America
the flattest country I’ve ever seen--
modern technology has created
what the prairie must have once
looked like to westerners a century or two ago
cleared of horses   sagebrush
not even a saloon or knockdown fight
not one human visible


Linda Lerner is the author of twelve poetry collections, the most recent being Living in Dangerous Times (Pressa Press) and City Woman (March Street Press). Recent poems appear in Tribes, Onthebus, The Paterson Literary Review, The New York Quarterly, Home Planet News, and Van Gogh’s Ear. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. In 1995 Andrew Gettler and she began Poets on the Line, the first poetry anthology on the Net for which she received two grants for the Nam Vet Poets issue. Its anthology remains on line although new publication ceased in 2000.

PETRIFIED WATER

PoeArtry by Charles Frederickson and Saknarin Chinayote


Rivers no longer flow into
     Oceanic caldera boiling reduced to
          Simmer steam open sea evaporation
               Lid pried off plug yank

Seeping moisture slowly dried up
     Still life seascapes drained mercilessly
          Wave swells lay dying on
               Distant shores naked refuse exposed

No longer fit for habitation
     Swimming scuba diving breathless drowning
          Moving with vanishing ebb drift
               Windswept continents kept off balance

Detritus rained down upon decomposed
     Sunken graveyards spent cockleshells clutter
          Bittersweet rusty oasis eaten away
               Embedded clay fossils left behind

No creature as deadly as
     Spitfire raging sun’s relentless scorch
          Medieval alchemy cockeyed maritime portent
               Unfathomable geological omen empty forevermore


This Thaidings of Joy PoeArtry visualization was rendered in black & white by Dr. Charles Frederickson, with computer-generated coloration by Saknarin Chinayote. Their website features more than 500 original images and impressions, sketched and scribbled during travels to 206 countries on our fave planet.

I HAVE THIS TO SAY ABOUT THAT

by Sharon Brogan


Don't those pollsters know
that married women
lie in the presence
of their husbands?

They lie mostly about
money and politics.
And sex. That, too.
They sneak shopping bags
in the back door.

If their husbands notice
something new,
they say, "What?
This ole thing?"
And when they pull

that poll booth curtain
closed, who's to know?
And white women, well,
they'll vote for a woman
or a black man

without flinching. And smile
while they do it. Just like
they smile when asked
"Was it good for you, too,
honey?" "Why, yes,"

they say. "Yes."


Sharon Brogan has been blogging at Watermark for four years. Her poetry is also available at Oratory, and small poems.

PUSH BUTTON

by Marge Merrill


I think
I might
gag
on the simple word--
Change.

This declaration fits nicely
into sound bytes on the evening news,
the mantra true believers plaster on car bumpers
or raise like a contrary battle flag

and yet--
the sound is as hollow
as the promises
held out
by the same tired hands.


Marge Merrill has produced a spoken word CD, eclectic, available through www.wordfaery.com.

POSTCARDS FROM IRAQ

by Sandy Hiss


Eleventh Postcard from Iraq

The temperature here
is feverish
but I am not ill.
My t-shirt sticks to
my culturally shocked skin.
Asking "Why did you come here?"
I don't have the answers.
Too busy fanning myself
with my own questions
while beads of sweat
attempt to create a necklace
around my aching neck.
They could be pearls
but the sun over Iraq
won't convince me this soon.
We have six months
to become acquainted.


Twelfth Postcard from Iraq

The loud speaker declares
"Attention in the embassy complex.
Do not be alarmed. The loud
explosion was in the Red Zone."

I turn up the volume on the radio.
Thankful it is quiet here
in the Green Zone. My ears
deaf to the screams
of widows and children
living just a mile away.
Their voices a memory
like those of the now deceased.


Fifteenth Postcard from Iraq

I was a guest
at the opening of Al-Salam
(Peace) soccer field.
The fertile grass exhaled
beneath the weight
of thick grey clouds. Helos
punctured their bellies to let
animosity roam. The green
and white striped shirts
battled the orange shirts
while little Iraqi boys fought
over shiny new soccer balls.
There were no Iraqi girls
to be found. Did they not
get the memo?


Sandy Hiss' poetry has been published in over 60 print and electronic journals. Her first book of poetry, Ever Violet, was released in April 2007 by D-N Publishing. She is also the editor of Flutter, an online poetry journal.

PRIMARY THOUGHTS

by Anne G. Davies


Who’d have thought Huckabee and Obama
Would be generating so much drama?
Evangelical Arkansas hick
Matches Harvard lawyer, smart and slick.
The rest of the roster’s losing face.
(A blessing in Mitt and Rudy’s case.)
But what of Hillary Clinton, née Rodham?
She lost Iowans when she thought she’d got ‘em,
Giving Barack impressive momentum
Yet in New Hampshire she did prevent ‘im
From being considered all but anointed,
Leaving pollsters stunned and disjointed.
And John McCain whom we’d been neglecting
Seems to be steadily resurrecting
Himself from yawning oblivion.
What confusion we’ve all been living in.
He snatched first place from the jaws of defeat
Toppling Mitt and Mike: such winning is sweet.
Now they’re all off to pastures greener
No doubt the rhetoric will only get meaner
This primary system grows exhaustin’
Racing from West Coast to north of Boston.
I often wish that we could resume
The politics of the smoke-filled room
When fat cats with cigars decided fates
And chose the leaders of the United States.


Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published in local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.

POEM FOR ALLEN GINSBERG

by A. D. Winans


I saw the best minds of my generation
Destroyed by success and greed
Smug fashionable poets turned businessmen
Who rode the National Endowment For the Arts
Pimp train, ignoring Captain Cool and his magic airplane
I saw the best minds of my generation loitering
At closed down amusement parks
Disguised as hobo tramps standing in long lines
In hope of becoming a Southern Pacific Railway detective
Self-proclaimed geniuses tossing restlessly in their sleep
Like a pair of naked dice on a worn Las Vegas craps table
Their ragged claws scraping at death’s window ledge
I saw the best minds of my generation
Lying lifeless in glass coffins
Hands folded in gratification
Their vacant eyes blinking like a pinball machine
I saw the best minds of my generation
Hanging out at Broadway topless bars
Searching for paradise, fat and content
Smoking Tijuana slims

Stone-faced magicians on their way to the graveyard
Three steps behind the screaming monkey grinder
With the one-eyed monkey masturbating on his back
I saw the best minds of my generation
Looking like James Bond understudies
Cruising the casinos of Reno and Las Vegas
In between being chauffeured through the
Neon lit streets of Atlantic City
Looking for the Now, Wow vision of their
Personal Zen masters
Pretty-faced aging celebrities
Hungry for the admiration connection
Who carried the star fuck media message
Inside their chemically induced minds
Who wealthy and overcome with ego
Wandered the streets butter-cheeked
And Crisco greased in search of their
15 minutes of fame
I saw the best minds of my generation
Walking down Hollywood and Vine
Tossing and turning in exclusive spas

Ignoring the long lines of hungry eyes
Waiting to devour them
Who floated across congested Los Angeles freeways
Looking for the right off-ramp
Stopping to partake the pleasure of heated
Swimming pools and Roman orgy bath houses
All the time contemplating their navels
And recording contracts
I saw the best minds of my generation
Bare their not so tight assholes
To aging agents wrapped in silk sheets
Autographed by the King of the Beats
I saw the best minds of my generation
Gangbanging ageless groupies
From San Francisco to New York and back
While accumulating frequent flyer miles
Sad-eyed space cadets from the Gregory
Corso School of bad boys
I saw the best minds of my generation
Expelled from luxury hotels for writing
Bad graffiti in the men’s room
Who necked in the back alley of Gino
And Carlo’s bar while hawking their
Poetry in between ATM withdrawals
I saw the best minds of my generation cowering
In New York subways on their way to literary parties
Lusting after host and hostess alike
I saw the best minds of my generation
Standing naked in fear
Burning out there counterfeit talent
At Sardi’s and Elaine’s
As the final hours came closing in on them
I saw the best minds of my generation
Listen in terror as the 4-walls came crashing
Down on them
Lady obscurity coming to claim them
Like a faceless hat check girl
Let loose in the morgues of America


A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet, writer and photographer. He is the author of numerous books of poetry and prose. In 2006 a song poem of his was performed at Alice Tully Hall in NYC. In 2007 he won a PEN Josephine Miles Award for literary excellence. Presa Press recently published a book of his Selected Poems, The Other Side Of Broadway.

PRIMARY DAY

by Martha Deed


In the belly of the whale
there are no flashlights
and on a starry night
no appendectomies
your have-a-happy-day surmise
is worth less than a slippery slope
of cream cheese and grape jelly on rye
which is why I love to go fishing in January
casting bread upon frozen waters
and waiting for whales on Seneca Lake
on Primary Day


Martha Deed's chapbook, 65 x 65, was recently published by Peter Ganick's small chapbook project (December 2006). Her poems have recently appeared in Shampoo, unlikelystories, 3by3by3, 21 Stars, and Iowa Review Web (with Millie Niss). Her website is www.sporkworld.org/Deed.

WOMAN LEFT IN IN CT SCANNER FOR HOURS AFTER CLINIC CLOSES

by Rochelle Ratner


Twenty-five minutes, they told her as they dimmed the lights. Relax, they told her. One technician said he knows how painful bone cancer is, his sister died from it. But try to relax. Maybe it hasn't spread. Don't move, they told her, weighing her down with a heavy blanket, strapping her arms in, locking the machine. Or maybe just closing it. She loses track of time in the dark. There doesn't seem to be anyone out there. Twenty-five minutes, they said. Bone cancer. Pain. Metastatic. And those were the last words she remembers hearing. It seems like hours ago now. She's starting to fear the dark. Nobody told her she could go home. Ever.


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.

THE LONELY

by Matt Turner


Soap-operatic sighs rise from botox lips of enslaving
mechanical creations of the monetarily hued maw of mass
production and solitary escapement.

She sits on her caffe modesto leather lined love seat without
anybody to love.

"If you could have a day at the beach, what would it be?"

Softened saxophonal tunes sweetly hatch to her sorrowed tears,
washing the midnight plum eyeliner from her hazel green eyes (a
horrible match).

She remembers,
"Still half a pizza in the fridge."

"Would I care about me if I
were somebody else?"

The generic before and after pictures are always viewed with a
strange sense of disgust and envy. Steve Perry continues the flow.

"Would I care...





"

Expansion forbade in light of her confining lunar gaze,
mass produced and intent on illusionary and solitary expansion
in the comfortable confines of the shallow self.

"Can gourmet and store-bought
be one in the same?"

She resolves the answer must be no, but begrudges not
the gourmet bag of store-bought coffee on top of the microwave.


Matt Turner is a high school student in Washington State. "The Lonely" is his first published work, but more of his poetry is available at his blog The Eccentric Mind Poetry.

PLATE

by Dale Goodson


the kitchen was quiet
at peace

then a plate lost its place
fell against a bowl in the dish rack
the sudden bang
was deafening
frightened me
I broke out in a cold sweat

gravity
can’t do nuthin’ about it
but still-

I took a deep breath
righted the plate
leaned on the counter

THEN THIS NOISE:

one hundred million spent in Iowa
one hundred million
by men and women running for office

made me want to jump off a tower

stop, I thought
stop
but they can’t
won’t

in Iowa
or anywhere else

the plate fell again
had to
it’s a universal law

more harsh racket

but at five dollars per
a feeble challenge


Dale Goodson is a writer from Seattle currently living in New York City and working as a homeless outreach worker in Times Square. He recently created his own website: dalegoodson.com.

LOOKING FOR AMERICA

by Jon Wesick


We didn’t find it in Baltimore or Huntsville
not in Tucson, Seattle, Philly, or Washington DC.
Kangaroo courts, rigged elections, cops beating
suspects in back rooms, the poor barred from hospitals,
families with both parents working going under.
That ain’t America!

So with the help of a 58’ trawler yacht, the Able Marie,
six of us went looking. We boarded in Valparaiso Chile,
sailed through Panama up to Halifax and shadowed
container ships across the North Atlantic.
Where did America go? Antwerp? Rotterdam? Hamburg?
Different players – same crooked game.

Marseilles, Piraeus, Jeddah, Dubai, Mumbai,
Singapore, Hong Kong, Kobe – not there either.
Still seeking our lost country we steer
toward the Southern Cross. For now America exists
only on this teak deck, washed with spray
and tossed by 40’ waves.


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

NEW YEAR'S WISHES FOR MY FATHER

by Thomas D. Reynolds


May the wind always rustle
The orange leaf of your heart.

May the skies never darken
The early morning of your smile.

No one can read your heart
And may the language be always beautiful,

Maddeningly melodic on the tongue
yet mysterious and exotically foreign.

May you walk gracefully
In the shadows of a diminishing sun.

May your soul be light
Yet as firm as the stars

When even the slightest breath
Might send you drifting.


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.

NOT TOO LATE FOR COMMUTATION

by H.L.


Like Proverbs for Dummies
the lame words limp across the stage
On a bad night in a bluesy dive on the edge of nowhere
the undistinguished crowd strains to understand
but the smoke and the tears
wipe away the meaning

New Year's aught eight
Homeless pupils looking for eyes with color
squint to shield the soul from reality
Unable to hide bloodshot maps to the future
desperation howls from the tenor sax
It is still midnight somewhere

On an international date line
boomers who cannot escape yesterday
advise us of their pain and prescribe bad policy filled with hate
Even the seers pull down the shades and wait
The inevitable appears like a dream
posing as victory over death

Not yet morning there is still hope
Comfort hiding in the fog
Somewhere behind the gray cloud of whatever undisclosed sunshine
regenerates the beat of life
Children who have not watched the news
breathe deeply to propel the perpetual wind of change