by Genevieve Jencson
The headline reads:
Soldiers despair
as public ignores
Iraq conflict
I read it,
finish my toast, drive to work,
and I forget
until I see her,
a girl perched on top of that old tank
that guards the memorial garden at the American Legion.
Her bare legs dangle on either side of the barrel
and a breeze lifts stands of her corn silk hair.
She looks so beautiful, so innocent, at this moment
it’s hard to believe we’re at war.
The morning paper says thousands dead,
and those are just the ones on our side.
Who is counting the all the girls
with dark frightened eyes caught under a shower of bombs,
born in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Who is counting the angry young men,
taught to fight with no other choice?
From her spot on the tank,
it appears the world cannot touch her;
and on this warm spring evening, I feel like the world
cannot touch me.
But how close are we to the edge,
how long can we remain unscathed,
and were we ever really innocent?
______________________________________________________
Friday, April 11, 2008
THE WAR
by Silvia A. Brandon Pérez
is not news anymore
or so the local so-called
news providers believe
thousands of people
marching through the streets
of San Francisco or New York,
DC or the midlands
is not an occasion for reportage,
the arrests, and tasers and pepper spray
for peaceful protesters
the subject of torture
the subject of imperial and every bloody
aggression
is not fit for consumption
in this land of the bleating
and the comfortable
Silvia A. Brandon Pérez is a recent transplant to the West Coast; she is a writer, activist, translator, singer/songwriter, basically in a permanent state of fed-up-ness.
______________________________________________________
is not news anymore
or so the local so-called
news providers believe
thousands of people
marching through the streets
of San Francisco or New York,
DC or the midlands
is not an occasion for reportage,
the arrests, and tasers and pepper spray
for peaceful protesters
the subject of torture
the subject of imperial and every bloody
aggression
is not fit for consumption
in this land of the bleating
and the comfortable
Silvia A. Brandon Pérez is a recent transplant to the West Coast; she is a writer, activist, translator, singer/songwriter, basically in a permanent state of fed-up-ness.
______________________________________________________
Thursday, April 10, 2008
CHINESE WIFE BURNS 400 CELL PHONES
by Rochelle Ratner (1948-2008)
398. She counts them again. The inventory list says 400. Probably gave two to the hussy. She walks along the shelves, picks up a camera phone, takes a picture of her cunt, then finds a phone with more resolution and takes another shot. The deep sex smell’s enticing. She walks along the rows now, match in hand, careful to light one phone at a time so she can hear each sizzle. She remembers that sizzling rice dish she went to so much trouble to make for him. Here’s a small blue phone a customer used for a test call last Monday. She hits the redial but the number’s blocked. Of course it’s blocked. She picks up speed now, trying to get them all to burn together. She has less than twenty phones left when the police arrive. She turns back to look one more time. The fireworks have abated. By next week these phones will be replaced with newer models, she supposes. There will always be new phones, new men, new women.
Rochelle Ratner's most recent poetry books included 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 was the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press).
________________________________________
398. She counts them again. The inventory list says 400. Probably gave two to the hussy. She walks along the shelves, picks up a camera phone, takes a picture of her cunt, then finds a phone with more resolution and takes another shot. The deep sex smell’s enticing. She walks along the rows now, match in hand, careful to light one phone at a time so she can hear each sizzle. She remembers that sizzling rice dish she went to so much trouble to make for him. Here’s a small blue phone a customer used for a test call last Monday. She hits the redial but the number’s blocked. Of course it’s blocked. She picks up speed now, trying to get them all to burn together. She has less than twenty phones left when the police arrive. She turns back to look one more time. The fireworks have abated. By next week these phones will be replaced with newer models, she supposes. There will always be new phones, new men, new women.
Rochelle Ratner's most recent poetry books included 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 was the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press).
________________________________________
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
THE UNIFORMS
by Mike McCulley
When the uniforms come home
clean them deep,
hot stain sets hard,
hot stink comes back
in the quiet dark.
When the uniforms come home
pin a medal,
sew a stripe,
set crease and arrange
for the mourner.
When the uniforms come home
this is the itchy fabric
that wraps our wound
clean them deep.
Retired from educating / rewired for recreating / pastime birding, / part time wording. // Mike McCulley posts his tweedledum / at wordanger dot blogspot dot com
______________________________________________________
When the uniforms come home
clean them deep,
hot stain sets hard,
hot stink comes back
in the quiet dark.
When the uniforms come home
pin a medal,
sew a stripe,
set crease and arrange
for the mourner.
When the uniforms come home
this is the itchy fabric
that wraps our wound
clean them deep.
Retired from educating / rewired for recreating / pastime birding, / part time wording. // Mike McCulley posts his tweedledum / at wordanger dot blogspot dot com
______________________________________________________
TODAY'S OLYMPIC SPIRIT
by Barbara A. Taylor
in chaos as
the torch of harmony
across the globe
clashes with cultures
emphasises injustices
hidden by The Great Firewall
Barbara A. Taylor is a regular reader at poetry nights. Her poems appear in literary journals including Triplopia, The Salt River Review, Tattoo Highway, Kaleidowhirl, Poemeleon, The Blue Fifth Review. Short form verse is at Lynx, Sketchbook Journal, Stylus, Simply Haiku, Contemporary Haibun On Line, Modern English Tanka, haiku and tanka anthologies, and elsewhere. Poetry with audio is at http://batsword.tripod.com.
______________________________________________________
in chaos as
the torch of harmony
across the globe
clashes with cultures
emphasises injustices
hidden by The Great Firewall
Barbara A. Taylor is a regular reader at poetry nights. Her poems appear in literary journals including Triplopia, The Salt River Review, Tattoo Highway, Kaleidowhirl, Poemeleon, The Blue Fifth Review. Short form verse is at Lynx, Sketchbook Journal, Stylus, Simply Haiku, Contemporary Haibun On Line, Modern English Tanka, haiku and tanka anthologies, and elsewhere. Poetry with audio is at http://batsword.tripod.com.
______________________________________________________
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
WATERBOARDING
by Marcelle Kasprowicz
Oh Torquemada
hammer of heretics
light of Spain
saviour of your country
honour of your order*
we kiss your blessed ring
We kiss your white unctuous hands
that never shed blood
We your children
your zealous disciples
follow in your hallowed poulaines
We have selected waterboarding
--Like you we struggle
to keep our hands clean
Oh Torquemada
we have progressed so
You would be proud
Like you we combat heresy
one suspect at a time
but we've gone beyond
Our techniques are such
we've devised a way
--CO2 has replaced the soaking cloth--
to waterboard the earth
And the oceans are rising
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.
________________________________________
Oh Torquemada
hammer of heretics
light of Spain
saviour of your country
honour of your order*
we kiss your blessed ring
We kiss your white unctuous hands
that never shed blood
We your children
your zealous disciples
follow in your hallowed poulaines
We have selected waterboarding
--Like you we struggle
to keep our hands clean
Oh Torquemada
we have progressed so
You would be proud
Like you we combat heresy
one suspect at a time
but we've gone beyond
Our techniques are such
we've devised a way
--CO2 has replaced the soaking cloth--
to waterboard the earth
And the oceans are rising
*Torquemada was honored in such words by the kings of Spain.--M.K.
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.
________________________________________
Monday, April 07, 2008
NO HATE CRIME CHARGES IN TORTURE CASE
by Amy Holman
First, I appreciate your subtle editorializing, Earthlink, filing this under strange news.
I agree that torture is not a form of love, a mercy, a forgiveness of difference,
that rat droppings are no aphrodisiac, even if hate this is not. Second, these mothers,
sons and daughters kiss with machetes and tuck in with shovels, so why not let them
court by slur, fondle with cable cord, toilet water, dagger? Why set an example now?
Still, top news is better, upon consideration of the 108 prior felony charges
among the six kidnappers, one the former swain of the woman whose skin was stripped
of some of its color. Sexual assault charges carry a longer sentence so the prosecutor
is leaving it at that, never mind the trigger word beginning with N that says I hate you.
Not so strange these days, a national problem, not news. Still, make it.
Amy Holman has been playing around with current news and/or headlines for a couple of years, here and there, including publications in Failbetter, Archaeology (online), Unpleasant Event Schedule, Rattapallax, Shade, and soon, on the Red Morning Press web site. She is the author of Wait For Me, I'm Gone, which won the 2004 Dream Horse Press annual chapbook prize. She writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction and work freelance as a Literary Consultant out of her tiny apartment in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
______________________________________________________
First, I appreciate your subtle editorializing, Earthlink, filing this under strange news.
I agree that torture is not a form of love, a mercy, a forgiveness of difference,
that rat droppings are no aphrodisiac, even if hate this is not. Second, these mothers,
sons and daughters kiss with machetes and tuck in with shovels, so why not let them
court by slur, fondle with cable cord, toilet water, dagger? Why set an example now?
Still, top news is better, upon consideration of the 108 prior felony charges
among the six kidnappers, one the former swain of the woman whose skin was stripped
of some of its color. Sexual assault charges carry a longer sentence so the prosecutor
is leaving it at that, never mind the trigger word beginning with N that says I hate you.
Not so strange these days, a national problem, not news. Still, make it.
Amy Holman has been playing around with current news and/or headlines for a couple of years, here and there, including publications in Failbetter, Archaeology (online), Unpleasant Event Schedule, Rattapallax, Shade, and soon, on the Red Morning Press web site. She is the author of Wait For Me, I'm Gone, which won the 2004 Dream Horse Press annual chapbook prize. She writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction and work freelance as a Literary Consultant out of her tiny apartment in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
______________________________________________________
Sunday, April 06, 2008
NATIONAL BIRTH CONTROL
by Matthew T. Hummer
“Dios es amor” says the graffiti on corrugated steel
stripped from war ships—sticking
into pacific waters like a ribbed condom
keeping brown Tijuana from green-turfed San Diego .
On the far ridge, a stone, like a gray whale,
rises for air where border patrol,
in white trucks watch the rusting snake.
Men crouch against the barrier, Mexico side,
beneath an improvised shrine—
plastic crate nailed to the steel,
candles burn before the Aztec Virgin.
They wait for dusk—
oil clouds spoil
the heron-blue sky,
tar seizes sunset legs.
Matthew T. Hummer’s daughter uses the word "awkward" in the new fashion--to signify that which her peer group considers to be outside the norm. She is ten and starting to realize the demands of conformity that that age invents. He lectured her because it offended him that his intelligent, creative daughter was using a word loosely, as she has heard it used in school and on the Disney channel, because he wants her to weigh words with a sacred deliberateness. But then he thought that maybe he is just getting old: thirty-four, well-married, well-housed and well-fed, with a teaching job for as long as he wants it. His delusions are falling fast and he is letting go of dreams and starting to embrace basic comforts. He is an American.
______________________________________________________
“Dios es amor” says the graffiti on corrugated steel
stripped from war ships—sticking
into pacific waters like a ribbed condom
keeping brown Tijuana from green-turfed San Diego .
On the far ridge, a stone, like a gray whale,
rises for air where border patrol,
in white trucks watch the rusting snake.
Men crouch against the barrier, Mexico side,
beneath an improvised shrine—
plastic crate nailed to the steel,
candles burn before the Aztec Virgin.
They wait for dusk—
oil clouds spoil
the heron-blue sky,
tar seizes sunset legs.
Matthew T. Hummer’s daughter uses the word "awkward" in the new fashion--to signify that which her peer group considers to be outside the norm. She is ten and starting to realize the demands of conformity that that age invents. He lectured her because it offended him that his intelligent, creative daughter was using a word loosely, as she has heard it used in school and on the Disney channel, because he wants her to weigh words with a sacred deliberateness. But then he thought that maybe he is just getting old: thirty-four, well-married, well-housed and well-fed, with a teaching job for as long as he wants it. His delusions are falling fast and he is letting go of dreams and starting to embrace basic comforts. He is an American.
______________________________________________________
Friday, April 04, 2008
REMEMBERING THE DEATH OF MLK
April 4, 1968
by Alan Catlin
News bulletin
interrupts
Top 40
Countdown
on WPTR
"Martin Luther
King shot dead
in Memphis.
He was 39.
President Johnson
declares National
Day of Mourning
Now back to
the Countdown
with the next song up,
The Beatles
All You Need
Is Love."
Alan Catlin's latest chapbook is a long poem, Thou Shalt Not Kill, an updating of Rexroth's seminal poem of the same name. Whereas Rexroth riffs on the abuses of the Eisenhower adminstration, the update observes abuses of power in the current administration with particular attention to the cynical, criminal behavior towards the Katrina hurricane victims. One year later, the victims are not forgotten. No matter how many candles the Bushes light, the appalling lack of humanity and the blatant hypocrisy of the folks in charge is as apparent as the disenfranchised, the homeless, and the poverty stricken people of the Gulf states.
________________________________________
by Alan Catlin
News bulletin
interrupts
Top 40
Countdown
on WPTR
"Martin Luther
King shot dead
in Memphis.
He was 39.
President Johnson
declares National
Day of Mourning
Now back to
the Countdown
with the next song up,
The Beatles
All You Need
Is Love."
Alan Catlin's latest chapbook is a long poem, Thou Shalt Not Kill, an updating of Rexroth's seminal poem of the same name. Whereas Rexroth riffs on the abuses of the Eisenhower adminstration, the update observes abuses of power in the current administration with particular attention to the cynical, criminal behavior towards the Katrina hurricane victims. One year later, the victims are not forgotten. No matter how many candles the Bushes light, the appalling lack of humanity and the blatant hypocrisy of the folks in charge is as apparent as the disenfranchised, the homeless, and the poverty stricken people of the Gulf states.
________________________________________
PATRIOTISM
by George Held
The time has come to express your rejections and raise your voices loud against the unjust occupier and enemy of nations and humanity, and against the horrible massacres committed by the occupier against our honorable people...." —Moqtada al-Sadr, calling for a million-Iraqi march on the 5th anniversary of the April 2003 fall of Baghdad
Who ever thought it would come to this?
The savior of an oppressed people and the spreader of democracy
denounced by a would-be beneficiary, a religious leader,
dressed in black and like an Old Testament prophet,
calling on his people to march against “the unjust occupier,”
whose leaders urge staying the course against the War on Terror.
Is the cleric’s Mahdi Army fighting as terrorists or in self-defense
of the homeland? Is the occupier an unwanted invader
who has spread the pestilence of high-tech war to the point
of diminishing returns? Has the occupier once again had to destroy
the country to save the country? My God, we met the enemy forty years ago
and he was us. How can this have happened again? Can we blame
the terrorists, the clerics, the insurgents forever, or as we watch
footage of Saddam’s statue toppled by the invaders, can we at last
admit that we have merely tilled the soil for a new autocrat’s statue
to sprout where the old one was uprooted?
George Held has previously contributed to The New Verse News. His latest poetry collection is The Art of Writing and Others (http://www.finishinglinepress.com/, 2007).
________________________________________
The time has come to express your rejections and raise your voices loud against the unjust occupier and enemy of nations and humanity, and against the horrible massacres committed by the occupier against our honorable people...." —Moqtada al-Sadr, calling for a million-Iraqi march on the 5th anniversary of the April 2003 fall of Baghdad
Who ever thought it would come to this?
The savior of an oppressed people and the spreader of democracy
denounced by a would-be beneficiary, a religious leader,
dressed in black and like an Old Testament prophet,
calling on his people to march against “the unjust occupier,”
whose leaders urge staying the course against the War on Terror.
Is the cleric’s Mahdi Army fighting as terrorists or in self-defense
of the homeland? Is the occupier an unwanted invader
who has spread the pestilence of high-tech war to the point
of diminishing returns? Has the occupier once again had to destroy
the country to save the country? My God, we met the enemy forty years ago
and he was us. How can this have happened again? Can we blame
the terrorists, the clerics, the insurgents forever, or as we watch
footage of Saddam’s statue toppled by the invaders, can we at last
admit that we have merely tilled the soil for a new autocrat’s statue
to sprout where the old one was uprooted?
George Held has previously contributed to The New Verse News. His latest poetry collection is The Art of Writing and Others (http://www.finishinglinepress.com/, 2007).
________________________________________
Thursday, April 03, 2008
A BOY AND HIS BALL
by Steve Hellyard Swartz
From the mound where I practice night and day
Where I grip the rough lace this and that way
Feel the small of the ball
The fat
I wince at the twinge in my back as
Laura shouts
Don’t forget to ice!
Gosh darn, Laura's’s nice
Night and day, night and day
The repetition of dedicated motion
The gravity of play
The string on my finger
To remind me to kick my leg
And twist my hip
To hold onto the ball until the very last blip
Laura tells me that I look the part
She says the little curl of my lip
Is like I'm the dude who puts the black hats
Where they need to go after the kill
Out where I'm from we call it Boot Hill
It's getting dark on the White House lawn
Pretty soon I'll be going in
Ten more throws
Ten more good hard ones
And I'll call it a day
Lately
When I’ve kneeled down to pray - hang on a sec -
That’s one! Heck, this is fun!
I've asked God why he made me say what he made me say
Two! Oh, baby, that's what ol' GW do!
About the romance of war
Three! Wow-whee!
What, dear Jesus, did you have in store?
Flippin' four! Man, that crowd is gonna roar!
Jesus is such a fine man
There isn't one question he dodges
Five! Everyone should feel half this alive!
He told me
That he wanted me to celebrate the joy of giving
Just as he gave all
Six! Like pickin up sticks!
He wanted me to make the boys (and ladies, too)
Know that I knew how their hearts soared
Seven' For all y’all up in heaven!
To die for their country
To give their life's blood so we all can be free
Eight! Heck, life is great!
To have the opportunity
To leap onto a live grenade
Nine! This is fine!
Jesus I love you, man
You are my rock and my redeemer
Ten! That's it, then!
I walk off the mound
I wave to the crowd
Jesus says He loves me too
And I pat Him on the back
As he puts the balls away
In His big ol' equipment sack
Steve Hellyard Swartz's poetry has appeared in New Verse News, Best Poem, switched-on guttenberg, levelpoetry, and The Kennesaw Review. An Honorable Mention winner in The Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Competition, the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, and the Mary C. Mohr Poetry Award, Swartz will be published in The Paterson Review and The Southern Indiana Review in 2008. In 1990, his film Never Leave Nevada opened in Dramatic Competition at the U.S. Sundance Film Festival.
______________________________________________________
reflections on Bush's first pitch
at the Washington Nationals' new stadium,
March 31, 2008
at the Washington Nationals' new stadium,
March 31, 2008
From the mound where I practice night and day
Where I grip the rough lace this and that way
Feel the small of the ball
The fat
I wince at the twinge in my back as
Laura shouts
Don’t forget to ice!
Gosh darn, Laura's’s nice
Night and day, night and day
The repetition of dedicated motion
The gravity of play
The string on my finger
To remind me to kick my leg
And twist my hip
To hold onto the ball until the very last blip
Laura tells me that I look the part
She says the little curl of my lip
Is like I'm the dude who puts the black hats
Where they need to go after the kill
Out where I'm from we call it Boot Hill
It's getting dark on the White House lawn
Pretty soon I'll be going in
Ten more throws
Ten more good hard ones
And I'll call it a day
Lately
When I’ve kneeled down to pray - hang on a sec -
That’s one! Heck, this is fun!
I've asked God why he made me say what he made me say
Two! Oh, baby, that's what ol' GW do!
About the romance of war
Three! Wow-whee!
What, dear Jesus, did you have in store?
Flippin' four! Man, that crowd is gonna roar!
Jesus is such a fine man
There isn't one question he dodges
Five! Everyone should feel half this alive!
He told me
That he wanted me to celebrate the joy of giving
Just as he gave all
Six! Like pickin up sticks!
He wanted me to make the boys (and ladies, too)
Know that I knew how their hearts soared
Seven' For all y’all up in heaven!
To die for their country
To give their life's blood so we all can be free
Eight! Heck, life is great!
To have the opportunity
To leap onto a live grenade
Nine! This is fine!
Jesus I love you, man
You are my rock and my redeemer
Ten! That's it, then!
I walk off the mound
I wave to the crowd
Jesus says He loves me too
And I pat Him on the back
As he puts the balls away
In His big ol' equipment sack
Steve Hellyard Swartz's poetry has appeared in New Verse News, Best Poem, switched-on guttenberg, levelpoetry, and The Kennesaw Review. An Honorable Mention winner in The Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Competition, the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, and the Mary C. Mohr Poetry Award, Swartz will be published in The Paterson Review and The Southern Indiana Review in 2008. In 1990, his film Never Leave Nevada opened in Dramatic Competition at the U.S. Sundance Film Festival.
______________________________________________________
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
EDITOR AT A LOSS FOR HER WORDS
by James Penha
Although his mother died almost one year ago, the editor hasn't yet erased her number from his phone. As if her immortality depends on him. His mother. But he never even met Rochelle. Except in these cyberpages. She doesn't need him. Great poets, he knows, survive in their words and lines, books and archives. But he will not soon be able to cut the links to her site or to her blog. Her poems, of course, are beyond anyone's control. They are here; they are everywhere.
James Penha edits The New Verse News.
_____________________________________________________
for Rochelle Ratner, 1948-2008
Although his mother died almost one year ago, the editor hasn't yet erased her number from his phone. As if her immortality depends on him. His mother. But he never even met Rochelle. Except in these cyberpages. She doesn't need him. Great poets, he knows, survive in their words and lines, books and archives. But he will not soon be able to cut the links to her site or to her blog. Her poems, of course, are beyond anyone's control. They are here; they are everywhere.
James Penha edits The New Verse News.
_____________________________________________________
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
STUDENT GETS RICH STAYING IN BED
by Rochelle Ratner
(1948-2008)
He stays in bed all day, except for taking a shower, going to the bathroom and making something to eat. He’s set up a webcam and is asking for donations. One thrust and she lifts her head from the pillow the maid’s once again laid out in the wrong direction. She reads the article again, thinking of Warhol. Then she reads a third time.
Poets, fans of poetry, and readers of this Web site mourn the death of Rochelle Ratner whose prose poems enlightened us, shocked us, and charmed us--as did she. --Editor.
________________________________
(1948-2008)
He stays in bed all day, except for taking a shower, going to the bathroom and making something to eat. He’s set up a webcam and is asking for donations. One thrust and she lifts her head from the pillow the maid’s once again laid out in the wrong direction. She reads the article again, thinking of Warhol. Then she reads a third time.
Poets, fans of poetry, and readers of this Web site mourn the death of Rochelle Ratner whose prose poems enlightened us, shocked us, and charmed us--as did she. --Editor.
________________________________
APRIL FOOL
by Earl J. Wilcox
Last night the dog fidgeted,
paced the kitchen tile,
hinted at something exotic under cabinets
or the garbage hamper,
staring at unlikely places
as if her treasure were stuffed
inside with coffee grounds, burnt toast,
Buffalo wing bones,
a drink can that managed
to escape the recycling bin.
When Vice-President Dick Cheney
returned from his recent trip
to assuage our friends,
massage our enemies,
looking for treasure in unlikely places,
someone asked if he were aware
that most Americans hold none
of his views about progress and eventual outcome of the Iraq war.
Like my dog sitting beside the garbage hamper, waiting for an end game sure never to come, Cheney replied: “SO?”
Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he has contributed some 45 poems to New Verse News.
______________________________________________________
Last night the dog fidgeted,
paced the kitchen tile,
hinted at something exotic under cabinets
or the garbage hamper,
staring at unlikely places
as if her treasure were stuffed
inside with coffee grounds, burnt toast,
Buffalo wing bones,
a drink can that managed
to escape the recycling bin.
When Vice-President Dick Cheney
returned from his recent trip
to assuage our friends,
massage our enemies,
looking for treasure in unlikely places,
someone asked if he were aware
that most Americans hold none
of his views about progress and eventual outcome of the Iraq war.
Like my dog sitting beside the garbage hamper, waiting for an end game sure never to come, Cheney replied: “SO?”
Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he has contributed some 45 poems to New Verse News.
______________________________________________________
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