OCCUPIED

by Rachel Kellum


I have been occupied, my friends,
by some American dream
from which I cannot wake, a mother
of three caught up in the bed sheets
of eighty grand, the price
I will have paid for the license to teach
thousands of students to fall asleep,
lulled by the cost of their shiny new minds,
banking on hopeful employability,
liberated by education, enslaved by debt,
while the rich take another vacation,
and unemployment lines lengthen.
I tell them: corporations are in bed
with your government. They giggle.
I ask them: what if, what if, you don’t
find work, what will make you rich?
I hand them a pen, a brush,
and say, you will only get rich
with this. They blink, don’t believe me.
They see my job as a beacon, but
I am only broken, caught up in the works,
a well-greased gear who can’t seem to shed
the Sisyphean machine long enough to stand
with you on Wall Street, on any street,
my own deserted Main Street.
Diffident internet activist,
I only read and click, click and read.
Forgive me. I’m occupied, my friends,
by an American dream I was sold
before I was old enough to know
what was at stake, or how
to tell a real dream from a fake.
In it, while I feverishly sleep
to feed my children, for my children, you
are shaking the dream
state awake.


Rachel Kellum lives on the eastern plains of Colorado where she teaches college writing, humanities and art. She stares at the sky a lot. Her poems have appeared in Barnwood Magazine, Blood Lotus, Slow Trains, The Telluride Watch, Four Corners Free Press, and other online venues.  She blogs at wordweeds.com.
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THE NEW REGIME

by Simon Jackson


It is sleek, well groomed,
it has a black gloss to its fur
as it purrs out assurances,
rubs itself lovingly against the doorway
in its throat the sound of a thousand engines.

It extends a velvet paw to guests,
leaps barriers, eliciting gasps of admiration
at the agile power in its body,
its limbs a well rehearsed orchestra.
A rough tongue licks fur into line:
clean, ordered, presentable.

At night it shows another side
stalking the streets to tear the roofs
off smaller creatures' dwellings,
claws extended to fish out prey
it toys with them, maims, feigns disinterest, releases
only to pounce once more.

The morning comes and it purrs reassurances,
its throat thick with blood.


Simon Jackson lives in Edinburgh. He has been a journalist, teacher, musician and director of Living Arts Space Theatre Company. His poetry is published internationally and translated into several languages. He has had more than twenty plays performed and won several awards including British Gas Young Playwright of the Year, The Grace Dieux Writers' Prize 2009 and The Writers Bureau Poetry Award 2010. He is currently working with Billy Bragg on a music video and his series of short films based on Scottish poems have been used by the BBC and shown in Film Festivals around the world.
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WASHINGTON, DCEIT

 Poem by Charles Frederickson; Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote 

Wooly fleece pulled over sheepish
Droopy eyelids wide-closed false eyelashes
Mascara running for purplish cover
Smearing cheeky dimples bottomless pits

Almost truth serum antidote perfected
Hypnotic trance uninhibited vainglorious superegos
Deceiving selves into hoodwinked fake-believe
Pleasing vagary facts fanciful fiction

Unnecessary warfare immaculate deception based
Common good welfare virgin birthright
Blown chances pregnant bubbles burst
Capsized whitecaps ivory soapsuds sink

Ya gotta hava gimmicky act
Glittery nipple tassels bare-naked striptease
Gypsy moth flaming lunarocity attraction
Hairy caterpillar larva tickling fancy

Born innocent dying guiltless pretenders
Stifled anima desperately begging release
Treasonous betrayals election rapeseed victims
Shrunken head skullduggery crafty stratagem

Horny ovine flesh insider outcasts
Shearling tanned skin reversible lining
Dull finish sheen artificial oxidization
Corrosive patina grime scraped off

Dr. Charles Frederickson and Mr. Saknarin Chinayote proudly present 28 YouTube mini-movies @ YouTube – CharlesThai1 .
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(OCCUPY POEM IN MY BODY)

by Adrian Arias
Translated from the Spanish by Nina Serrano


I would like to be quiet but instead
I look in the mirror and discover that I'm shouting into the void
my mind has occupied my body and does not tell it a thing …

This life is a little complicated for telling the world
that it does not matter who was the first to throw the stone
that finally broke the silence of the inverted pyramids
there always  needs to be someone to blame so (play)
do not hide in the shadows that's where I look first ...

I want chocolate ice cream smokes alcohol and an overdose of red meat...
(pause) I think there are too many toxins involved in a single verse
How about a good breath of fresh air?
How about a hug from someone you do not know? ...

Do not kid yourself, do not keep on kidding yourself
You know that you are the same as all those
who look in the mirror and keep quiet in their spider webs
in their future grieving in their remote controlled caves (fast-forward)
without lifting a finger, without refreshing their dry mouths so close to the water ...

And the world opens like a flower
it peels like an orange, it breaks like an egg ...

Oh my dear mind, what I can tell you (stop)
dreams are there for you to cherish
and in case you don’t remember people are occupying the plazas
the streets the beaches the seas the mountains
and there are smoke signals that begin to tell the story
just be careful not to get burnt
light a candle from time to time
you do not have to believe in anything (rewind)
save only a scream and stop fearing your own silence ...

Now it seems that my body has Occupy my mind
and I take it for a walk in the world (frame by frame)
to re-learn that there are  thousands of doubts to share
in the warmth of a tent
in the embrace of a poem.


Adrian Arias is a Peruvian poet, visual artist and cultural aRtivist living since 2000 in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has 13 books and booklets published in Peru and the US.
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(POEMA OCUPANDO MI CUERPO)

original Spanish version
by Adrian Arias


Quisiera callarme la boca pero en cambio
me miro al espejo y descubro que estoy gritando al vacío
mi mente ha ocupado mi cuerpo y no le cuenta nada…

Esta vida es un poco complicada para poder decirle al mundo
que no importa quien fue el primero en lanzar la piedra
que finalmente rompió el silencio de las pirámides invertidas
siempre se necesita un culpable así que (play)
no te escondas en la sombra que allí es donde primero buscan…

Quiero helado de chocolate humo alcohol y una sobredosis de carne roja…
(pause) creo que hay demasiadas toxinas involucradas en un solo verso
¿qué tal una buena bocanada de aire fresco?
¿qué tal el abrazo de alguien que no conoces?…

No te engañes, no te sigas engañando
tu bien sabes que eres igual a todos aquellos
que se miran al espejo y se quedan callados en su tela de araña
en su luto adelantado en su caverna a control remoto (fast-forward)
sin mover un dedo, con la boca resecándose tan cerca del agua…

Y el mundo se abre como un a flor
se pela como una naranja, se quiebra como un huevo …

Oh querida mente mía, qué te puedo decir (stop)
los sueños están allí para que te abrigues con ellos
y por si acaso te recuerdo que la gente ya está tomando las plazas
las calles las playas los mares las montañas
y hay señales de humo que empiezan a contar la historia
sólo debes tener cuidado y no quemarte
prende una vela de vez en cuando
no tienes que creer en nada (rewind)
sólo ahorrarte un grito y dejar de temerle a tu propio silencio…

Ahora parece que mi cuerpo ha ocupado mi mente
y se la lleva de paseo por el mundo (frame by frame)
para que vuelva a aprender como hay miles de dudas que compartir
al calor de una tienda de campaña
al abrazo de un poema.


Adrian Arias is a Peruvian poet, visual artist and cultural aRtivist living since 2000 in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has 13 books and booklets published in Peru and the US.
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THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO NEWT

by Ed Shacklee

“Suffer the little children . . . ”  --Matthew 19:14

You can’t afford the golden rule:
so, children, go to work at school,

and humbly study my example,
for as examples go, I’m ample.

I learned my history.  It led
to teaching Fannie Mae and Fred.

Now fellow fat cats never balk
to pay me sixty grand to talk

and clap and cheer to hear what’s true:
your father’s sin’s belong to you.

It’s your fault if your dad’s a slob
and will not wash or get a job;

or if he looks but fails to find
employment, children, pay no mind --

it’s still his fault, and you’re to blame
for growing up to share his shame

if you forget your William Blake
and will not sweep, for pity’s sake:

what finer way to learn your letters
than cleaning hallways for your betters?


Ed Shacklee is a public defender who represents young people in the District of Columbia.
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LADY GODIVA SPEAKS

by Lynnie Gobeille

from the painting by John Collier

no greater feast
was ever offered to the people of his Kingdom.
they stood in line for hours
for this moment of redemption.
steaming soup, ladled as he saw fit
into each subjects bowl.
wanting their tax money
wanting their wheat
wanting their very souls
he proclaimed:
eat, and each bite will bring you knowledge
drink, and each sip will make your spirits soar.
chew each bite slowly
savor its flavor on your tongue
and it will bring you peace.
once i was a mere child.
chosen to be his bride
would sit for hours
gazing at his face
in wide-eyed amazement
willing to open my mouth to eat….
until the peasant boy taught me how to ride.
now i am galloping-
freed of all restrictions
my path well lit by stars and moons.
no need for force fed mind food
ladled so gently with his wooden spoon.


Lynnie Gobeille has  published in The Sow's Ear Review, Crone’s Nest, The Avatar, The Prairie Home Companion, This I Believe (NPR), The New Verse News, The Providence Journal (Poetic License) and The Naugatuck River Review. Editor of the Providence Journal Poetry Corner (South County Edition ), her essays can be heard on NPR public radio. She is the co-founder of The Origami Poems Project, a state wide “free poetry event” based in Rhode Island . Her “micro chapbooks” can be found on their website: www.origamipoems.com .
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MARCHING FOR ECONOMIC JUSTICE#Occupy SF

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

Black Friday Occupy SF Demo -- IB Times SF Photo

Walking the streets

Of the glittering city

With a band of the disregarded

From the village of colorful tents

Untroubled

By the snarling motorcycles of the cops

The opulent indifference

Of the shoppers

We know who the angels are

And which side they’re on

Buff Whitman-Bradley's poetry has appeared in many print and online journals.  With his wife Cynthia he is co-producer/director of the award-winning documentary film, Outside In,  and co-editor of the forthcoming book About Face: GI Resisters Turn Against War (PM Press, 2011).  He is also co-producer/director of the documentary Por Que Venimos.
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THE GUARDIANS

by David Chorlton


When the night
is a blue ring of police
and the stars
shine through a visor;

when the moon
is an alarm bell
set to announce
the eviction of sleepers
from homes they do not have;

when lights
spin too fast
to create even shadows
in which to hide;

when men
are shields walking;

when the baton
swings
like the tongue
of freedom’s bell

it strikes
not with a ring

but as a thud
that soaks
into the darkness

to observe
the moment when
supply meets demand
in a market
that trades

in hunger
and obedience.


David Chorlton has lived in Arizona since 1978, when he moved from Vienna, Austria. While much of his poetry is about the Southwestern landscape, his newest publication, and first work of fiction, is The Taste of Fog from Rain Mountain Press, reflecting a darker side of Vienna.
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MONDAY, UNEMPLOYED

by E. F. Schraeder


A dream of new beginnings marks
the calendar, but a blank schedule

opens the day like a cracked foul egg
leaking fluid into lifeless oblivion
another week of dread
and avoidance begins

ripe with unapologetic regret
while the sun shines on and on
spreads its optimism into the busy
world around me

people move on, get up
go to work
but the clamoring emptiness
pounds in my ears like a dirge

as a child for two weeks I couldn’t eat
without vomiting after
then I learned how to ignore,
to bounce back


E. F. Schraeder's  creative work has appeared in On the Issues, Haz Mat Review, New Verse News, Blue Collar Review, Kicked Out, and elsewhere.  She currently lives in the midwest and hopes for the best, sometimes despite reason.
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TO EACH HIS OWN

by David Radavich


America is no longer
according to some a country.
Only a collection
of individuals occupying
the same land-mass.

We don’t need
to care about children,
the poor, elderly, or homeless.
Only about ourselves
and our own special orbit.

Air doesn’t belong
to us all
but only to those
who emit and charge.

Water is bought,
soil sold, forests hewn

according to
personal preference.

There’s nothing left
to defend:

Only stars
in the night sky

who’ll never
reach
or encounter
or embrace one another.


David Radavich's new book of poems Middle-East Mezze (Plain View Press, 2011) focuses on Iraq, Palestine, and Egypt. Previous poetry publications include Canonicals: Love's Hours (Finishing Line, 2009),  America Bound: An Epic for Our Time (Plain View Press, 2007), Slain Species (Court Poetry Press, London), By the Way (Buttonwood Press, 1998), and Greatest Hits (Pudding House Press, 2000). 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.
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IN THIS STATE, CAPITAL REFERS TO LOSING YOUR HEAD

by Risa Denenberg

for Troy

When you were a child,


more than likely
at least once, maybe often
you were punished

for some misdeed

you didn’t do. You may have been guilty

of something,

but not what you were accused of.

And indeed, while you maintained that you were innocent of the crime,

you were made to feel guilty.
It’s like that, guilt mixed with blamelessness,

bafflement, the horrible injustice of it all

leading to loathing, or worse, blind surrender to power

and it stays with you

and marks all your laurels and fiascoes
from that moment.

Now imagine being at the rope end

of a judicial lynching,

swinging your integrity.


Risa Denenberg is an aging hippy currently living in Tacoma, WA. 
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EYE OF THE BOTANIST

by Rochelle Owens

                         In memory of Joy Walsh and Theodore Enslin       

Amid the sameness he blinks going out
feeling in front
of his face

and landing on his right eyelid
sunlight  blood vessels  
a seed of the larkspur

under the eyelid
a seed of the larkspur
under the eyelid

the hind toe of a lark   
scratching the cornea
stinging  lacerating  penetrating

a seed of the flower
blue color is the larkspur
the eye of the beholder

a fireball  e x p l o d I n g
the eye of the botanist
a dwelling

the universe  e x p a n d I n g  
amorous the greedy seed amorous
the greedy seed

a uterus its sweet nest
a triumph of genus desiring
desiring to fecundate

be fruitful and multiply
a seed of the larkspur flowering
s p r e a d I n g

the eye of the botanist  e x p a n d I n g
the grandeur of the cornea
Jesus saying—

suffer the larkspur children
beautiful children
luring the hummingbirds and bees

joyous the seed of the larkspur
in the heat of summer
joyous the song of the lark

glorious the eye of a botanist
lit with flaming torches


Rochelle Owens is the author of twenty books of poetry, plays, and fiction, the most recent of which are Solitary Workwoman, (Junction Press, 2011), Journey to Purity (Texture Press, 2009), and Plays by Rochelle Owens (Broadway Play Publishing, 2000). 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. This is Rochelle Owens' twenty-fourth New Verse News poem.
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NEWT GINGRICH EXPLAINS HIS ADULTERY

by Chris O’Carroll

“partially driven by how passionately I felt about this country”

Because I was hot for my country,
I couldn’t stay true to my wife.
My private parts throb with a passion
That’s engendered by my public life.

The vows I have made as a husband,
Like those I have made as a pol,
Go limp when my patriot fervor
Is aroused to stand rampant and tall.

My record is full of betrayals,
Backtracking, and words that are weaselly,
But my God is forgiving, and voters
Are rubes.  I can hustle them easily.


Chris O’Carroll is a writer, an actor, and a stand-up comedian.  His poems have appeared in Barefoot Muse, Folly, Light Quarterly, Literary Review, Umbrella, and other print and online journals.  He has performed on stages in more than half of the 50 states.
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