BUILDING IN THE GREEN

October 2008

by Linda Lerner


They came with saws, drills, a truckload of illegals
and plenty of 1990’s cash . . .

an old couple, their two family house vanished
as I slept . . . green disappeared in the green
that pushed up a building thru neighbors' anger
thru the dusty noise ignorance purified;

jackhammering echoed thru the city
crossing state lines; everyone waited for
this building that resembled every other one
going up to be finished;

a tree centuries old lay on the dead grass
behind a fence separating that property from
where I lived, leaving a concrete area
I looked out on, everything

cold, hard, and gray,
felt like November in March, April, any month
of that year, the next and the one after

when green shoots rose up
through cracks so small it didn’t seem possible
came up through a drain hole

and a sudden flowering of weeds, morning glories
broke thru the unfenced sides
tangled on the cellar banister where
cats lined up to be fed, eyeing the squirrels,
and sparrows perched on overhead wires;

is there such a thing as green sunshine
green silence?

some days no workers came where once
half a dozen; arguments broke out
among the builders, rumors of green drying up,
green teasing them everywhere they looked

and then can you hear it . . . that crash
like a tree felled, only louder, much louder


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.
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PROP 8 / PROP HATE

by Mary Saracino


The wedding bells have been silenced;
The rice meant for jubilation
is now confined to canisters
or cooked in a pot for Sunday supper
by women who love women
men who love men.
People of every color, kind &
persuasion, who love life & honor families,
don’t give a damn who signs the marriage license
when one true heart reaches out to another,
promises steadfast devotion — for better
or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness & in health,
‘til death do they part.


Mary Saracino is a novelist, poet and memoir-writer who lives in Denver , CO . Her most recent novel, The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006) was a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards Finalist. Her short story, "Vicky's Secret" earned the 2007 Glass Woman Prize.
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MONKS BRAWL IN HOLY SEPULCHER

by Daniel E. Wilcox


Riot police enter the pewed rows
In Jerusalem, the city of pieces
On earth
Where faiths forever conflict;
Armenians and Greeks monk it out,
Separate those reversed for love
Filled with uncyclical violence;
Splinters of the cross nail So and So again,
No keys to Heaven to open the door,
But plenty of blessed brawling,
'Holey' vestments,
Vermin, and invested vice
So universal.


Daniel Wilcox earned his degree in Creative Writing from Cal State University, Long Beach. A former activist, teacher, and wanderer--from Montana to the Middle East, he casts lines out upon the world's wide shores in Mad Swirl, The Writer's Eye, Erbacce, Scruffy Dog Review, ocean diamond, etc. Poems will soon be published in Moria and Word Riot. A short story, "The Faces of Stone" based on his time in the Middle East, was published in The Danforth Review. Currently, Daniel is finishing a novel and a poetry collection. He lives on the central coast of California with his mysterious wife and youngest son.
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SONG FROM OUT OF UR

by Rochelle Owens


          1
Speak to a configuration of stains
even a silk shirt of the man from Marrakech
even a configuration of stains will be
made to speak sublime yellow-green
smears of avocado pulp the man from
Marrakech enemies at his feet the son
of a Macedonian his peach porcelain chin
its cleft pierced by a thorn pierced
is the man from Marrakech the son of a
Macedonian he crouches over a vanity sink
dappled with mother-of-pearl bearing
the weight of a nightmare a nightmare
about iron stairs about a long row
of embryos luminous organs fibrous pits
Narcissus purging
jabbing his two-inch pinky nail evil it feels
into the cleft of his chin
a levantine hook on a rampage
from out of Ur into the hotel his private
quarters red hot mosaic tiles hooks for
every hang-up made by master craftsmen
the man from Marakech
eyes of pale gray-green pale gray-green eyes
son of a Macedonian
mummified is his code of honor

In ancient Phoenicia
a woman holds a sublime yellow-green
fabric smeared with avocado pulp
years later her unmarried hump-backed
son will unfold the cloth
Even a configuration of stains
will be made to speak

          2
An urge for rhythms of Marrakech
gilded the row of upper teeth of the school master
listening to American jazz smiling at a man
from Sudan an engineer wearing a necklace
and a diamond stud in his ear
The man from Marrakech rises from the
Greek revival chair feeling the rays of the sun
resurrecting the dead

The false door of lust opens
frustrates and disappoints
famous the false door of lust
slamming the head breaking the nose
cracking the jaw splitting the gums ejecting
the gilded row of upper teeth teeth
of Cavafy Donatello Passolini Versace
small dark solid men mavericks
with spleens of hot lava
orbiting the mediterranean sun

          3
A djellaba is a djellaba is a robe a robe of roses
sings the man from Marrakech
letting fall around his ankles purple roses
the djellaba its distinct parts is like a fluid
a fluid of roses is a chemical analysis—proof
le bien et le mal
drop by drop its sound distinct
le bien et le mal
And he sings to pierced nipples nipples
on the sculptured torso—a man from Sudan
And when he sings the words
the words are pigment cells vegetal to vegetal
cooling the skin the words are hairs
pushing through layers pushing through
layers of skin scalp armpit bones in a sac
words of a song from out of Ur from out of Ur
from out of the throat of the man
from Marrakech

          4
The children always crawl to golden coins
golden coins draw the children
whispers the man from Marrakech
And he grants wishes to a man from Sudan
and desire breaks its molten outer core
then drawing upon his economic advantage
whispers I am the Alpha and Omega
world without end

          5
In the picturesque Medina
two old men are trading photos
cruise ships voyaging to America
Inside a galaxy a cloud of dust and gas
gas and dust inside a galaxy
Two old men are smoking water pipes
in the picturesque Medina
two old men are playing cards talking politics
sipping coffee
hearing the call to prayer
the man from Sudan an engineer
wearing a necklace
and a diamond stud in his ear
the man from Marrakech
eyes of pale gray-green pale gray-green eyes
son of a Macedonian
an athlete whose stamina was tested
with javelin hammer and discus
smiling and remembering a silk shirt
smeared with avocado pulp
hammer and discus are thrown
and the weight of the athlete
spirals in as dense as a star

          6
Come see what has been called
the poignant picture--a father bearing
twin sons in his arms—poignant the chanting
aramaic words and they were born
from frozen embryos
Forced deeper the weight of a dream
about a gold ostrich egg and shining through
the shell the form that you should put
your money into—a two-headed child
two pairs of pale gray-green eyes
colors and patterns of the iris painted
with a fine sable brush
And dread is a light transparent veil
over the eyes of the man from Marrakech
smoking a water pipe eating sleeping reading
playing computer games
then feeling for his wallet for the accordion-fold
interior, credit cards, driver’s license, bills
receipts , coins and photos
of the winged cherubim their halos
glittering circling red orange yellow
the young always crawl to golden coins
then chanting in aramaic a prayer
‘And they are the winged cherubim
with the faces of children’


Rochelle Owens is the author of eighteen books of poetry and plays, the most recent of which are Plays by Rochelle Owens (Broadway Play Publishing, 2000) and Luca, Discourse on Life and Death (Junction Press, 2001). A pioneer in the experimental off-Broadway theatre movement and an internationally known innovative poet, she has received Village Voice Obie awards and honors from the New York Drama Critics Circle. Her plays have been presented worldwide and in festivals in Edinburgh, Avignon, Paris, and Berlin. Her play Futz, which is considered a classic of the American avant-garde theatre, was produced by Ellen Stewart at LaMama, directed by Tom O’Horgan and performed by the LaMama Troupe in 1967, and was made into a film in 1969. A French language production of Three Front was produced by France-Culture and broadcast on Radio France. She has been a participant in the Festival Franco-Anglais de Poésie, and has translated Liliane Atlan’s novel Les passants, The Passersby (Henry Holt, 1989). She has held fellowships from the NEA, Guggenheim, Rockefeller, and numerous other foundations. She has taught at the University of California, San Diego and the University of Oklahoma and held residencies at Brown and Southwestern Louisiana State.
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MURDER BY THE (WRONG) NUMBERS

by Christina Pacosz

“My point is that it has to be both: beautiful and political.
I’m not interested in art that is not in the world.”
--Toni Morrison

One spring night not long
ago, a barred owl
hooted from the ailanthus tree
outside our window.
Now weaponry of assorted caliber is what I hear

as I try to sleep soundly
enough to dream
and remember.
This past August
a man was found dead in the street.

I heard the shots that killed him
at 56th and Garfield –
three loud pops in a row.
Then, only a few nights ago
another man.

Gunshots and submachine
gun fire, a brief
and deadly duet.
And last night
windows open

to the dark
street, vehicles
at high speed –
maybe cop cars –
but turning over is difficult and painful.

Without my glasses
I can’t be certain
but swift cars at 3 AM
tear up and down
the narrow street.

You wake long enough
to ask, “What’s wrong?”
Facing east
trying to explain
my unease

as if dawn itself was a menace.
Despite October’s chill
the triplet of old windows
is open still.
Our butterscotch cat

a pale shadow
hunched on the edge
of the mattress
gazing east.
At 5 AM

the local station
has Breaking News:
about 2:30 AM
an eleven year old girl was shot sleeping
in her own bed.

Her condition is now upgraded
to stable.
This child’s survival
a reply to the lethal greeting
from the predatory street.


Christina Pacosz has been writing and publishing prose and poetry for almost half a century and has several books of poetry, the most recent, Greatest Hits, 1975-2001 (Pudding House, 2002). Her work has appeared recently in Jane’s Stories III, Women Writing Across Boundaries, Pemmican, Umbrella, qarrtsiluni, Letters to the World. She has been a special educator, a Poet-in-the-Schools for several state and city programs, and a North Carolina Visiting Artist. For the past decade she has been teaching at-risk youth of all ages on both sides of the Missouri/Kansas state line.
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BEWARE ALIENS!

by Bill Costley


Jim Boulet, dir. of English First, fears
illegal aliens may be getting bailed out
of bad mortgages by the government:
“Now we don’t know who’s legal &
who’s illegal because they won’t tell us.”
Easy. Ask them, in Spanish, of course.

But what about those space-aliens
who offered ultra-easy credit terms?
Do we care if they’re legal or illegal?
Are we worried their money’s bogus?
Do we know what terms for default
may be in outer space? Alienation?
What’s alienation to space-aliens?
Exile to our heating Planet Earth?
Exile to our single airless Moon?


Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco Bay area chapter of the National Writers Union.
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THE RACIST'S TREE

by Steve Hellyard Swartz


November ushers in its
Deep conservative browns
The golds, reds, oranges of October
Are raked, mowed, strewn
On lawns
As gone as my daughter’s treasure trove of
Milky Ways and candy corns

One tree on our street remains bravely gay
I can see it from where I’m sitting
It’s on Bob’s lawn next door
Bob, who said to me when I told him about my immigrant father-in-law’s cancer:
Nice of him to come here and get sick

I wonder what Bob and his wife Marge are thinking today about
President-elect Barack Obama
I guess I could ask him
He’s just come out of his house with his ancient dog on its leash
Bob?
I see you standing there, a travel mug in one hand
Bob?

Wait, he’s saying something
He’s saying

Come on, please

The dog is dying, that much is plain to see
Bob is looking up and down the street
Tugging on the leash
In heaven, too, the colors are draining
The dog’s flanks are shaking
He’s trying hard to obey
Come on, please
My hands are shaking, Bob’s too
Under the glorious stubborn late awakening
Of the last November tree


Steve Hellyard Swartz's poetry has appeared in Best Poem, switched-on gutenberg, Haggard and Halloo, and The Kennesaw Review. He has won Honorable Mention in the 2007 and 2008 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, as well as the Mary C. Mohr and the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Awards. His poetry will soon appear in The Paterson Review and The Southern Indiana Review. In 1990, his film "Never Leave Nevada" opened in Dramatic Competition at the U.S. Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah.
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HAPPY TO SAY

After the 2008 Presidential Election

by Terry Hertzler


I’m not, I’m happy to say, moving
to Canada, won’t have to learn
to say “eh” rather than “huh” when
I miss a question, or substitute
“chesterfield” for “couch,” request

a “serviette” rather than a “napkin,”
or start inserting the letter “u” into
various words: colour, neighbour,
honour—won’t have to try to recall
those infiltration techniques I learned

many years ago in the Army if Canada
decides it has no room for an overfed,
middle-aged, third-tier poet, won’t
have to sneak through midnight woods
into beautiful British Columbia, face

streaked with camouflage paint, which
would probably cause me to break out
in a rash, although at least in Canada
I’d have access to free medical care
as I waited deportation as an undesirable.

So, I’ll stay put for now, happy that I won’t
have to start typing all my poems in both
English and French or learn the distinction
between “providence” and “province,”
whatever that is.


Terry Hertzler has worked as a writer, editor and teacher for 30 years. His poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of publications, including The Writer, North American Review, Margie, Nimrod and Stand Up Poetry: An Expanded Anthology, as well as being produced on stage and for radio and television. His work has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is the owner and publisher of Caernarvon Press and coordinates the monthly Second Sunday at Open Door Books poetry series in Pacific Beach, CA. His latest book of poetry is Second Skin.
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BARACK TO THE FUTURE

PoeArtry by Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote


Be the change you want
To actualize promoting cross-cultural diversity
Progressive macrocosmic ‘tudes far-sighted perspectives
Determined to make an impact

Envisioning enlightened virtual reality worldview
Discover whatever can shall must
Be done working together with
Sympatico others blazing new trails

Become change make it happen
Believing is seeing things differently
Meeting challenges head-on responding swiftly
Borderline easy solutions seldom are


The dynamic duo of always toptimistic upstARTs, Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote edit AvantGardeTimes.com, an eclectic cosmopolitan poeartry quarterly EZine. Check out Dr. Chazz’s No Holds Bard website: PoetryArtCombo.com, and Saknarin’s new Glad Thaidings exhibition: http://www.poeartrygallery.th.gs/.
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BARACKING THE VOTE

A Sonnet by James Schwartz


O Obama! On this November night.
Of pumpkin leaves and Halloween's remains.
A sober October gone with the light.
Leaving behind Robert Frost and grey rains.
Poets need a hero to believe in.
In this Global Era's new unity.
Poets' sanctuary to achieve in.
Vital to our current economy.
Dot Com confusion spinning with the room.
Please excuse my mess as the powder flies.
The bombs are raining and jets go zoom.
Pardon my urgency as the ink dries.
We stand at Eden's gates: Behold our joy.
Barack Obama: you are my homeboy.


James Schwartz is a poet and slam performer striving for the simplicity of Cavafy mixed with modern gay wordplay and elements; Schwartz's poetry / slam material dialogues of GLBTQ issues and affirmations of gay (night) life and love.
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COUNTRY FIRST

by Janice D. Soderling


The lion snuggles with the lamb
Till it is time to sup.
Then when the hunger hits them both,
He eats the dear lamb up.


Janice D. Soderling has contributed to online and print journals in several countries. Her fiction got a first prize at Glimmer Train, and poetry is recent or forthcoming at Anon, Orbis, Nthposition, Stirring, Mannequin Envy and Literary Bohemian.
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FISHING WITH McCAIN

by Scot Siegel

in the distance, the black cod fleet
is having a banner day

Here we are
chumming along, ice-free
through the Northwest Passage

Petroleum LNG Geothermal...
the possibilities are endless
it seems...

*

Then we hit a reef
called Alaska
we see Russia

and it looks
good
from here...

Fish bones impale
our hoarse throats
as the boat lists

and our campaign
engine
sputters...

*

I'd throw her back if I could
October gaffs
gave me grief

She's a looker,
but a lousy
deckhand...

*

Got media hooks
in my shoulders now
sore from reeling up

urchins
rocks
anemones...

I can't catch
a break
for the life of me

I'm snagged
on a bush
called history

Global fisheries
crashing
     like stocks

over the bow -

Bernancke, Patraeus, Somebody
          save me now

I think I'm turning Green!


Scot Siegel is an urban planner and poet from Lake Oswego, Oregon, where he serves on the Lake Oswego City Planning Commission and the Board of Trustees for the Friends of William Stafford. His first full-length poetry collection Some Weather is forthcoming from Plain View Press in 2009.
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OF TALKING HEADS

and Other Body Parts In An Election Cycle

by Earl J. Wilcox


Let’s give all praise to the ones
who coined the term,
Talking Heads.

Next, we need a word
or two for coinage of
Stuck His Foot in His Mouth.

How about a shout out
for Walk the Walk
And Talk the Talk. Four stars for those.

We really should praise the inventors
of Body Language, the expression
we have come to identify with some
candidates this season. What about
Eyes on the Prize and A Nose for News.

Now put your hands and hearts together
for the most apt body part description
as you prepare to vote for the candidate
who is All Ears.


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 42 poems to the New Verse News.
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BUBBA REDNECK

by Bill Costley


“O’bama, Hussein, Hussein O’bama” chants
a volunteer redneck cracker sheriff in black
working the stage at a Republican-party rally.

Keep your eye on him: the man of the hour
that’s gone midnite in the middle of the day.
His next move'll B2 get out the rope & ladder.

Nothing less can end the insult that Obama is,
& the degree of insult depends on how high;
just how high he can be strung up & hanged.

Now you may try tell'n me this is all jest funnin’
but who’s havin’ all this fun, Bubba Crackuh?
It’s you, Bubba Redneck, a-holdin’ that rope.


Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco Bay area chapter of the National Writers Union.
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