by Phyllis Wax
The piece of spinach stuck between two of my teeth
cries out for extrication and I remember
Nancy Pelosi as she sat behind the president
during his State of the Union message.
He spoke and she listened, and we at home watched
the intermittent movement in her cheek
as her hidden tongue poked. Was food stuck
in her teeth? Or, maybe, as she listened,
something got caught in her craw.
Phyllis Wax keeps up with the news in Milwaukee, Wisconsin when she is not sailing up the Niger on her way to Timbuktu or trekking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
DÉJÀ VU
by Mel Waldman
Did you hear about the antiwar rally in Washington D.C. ?
It happened Saturday. Hey, that’s nothing new. You see,
I’ve got this uncanny sense of déjà vu.
Demonstrators protested at the National Mall.
Hollywood celebs arrived to attend this ball.
If you were there, perhaps you heard
Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins speak.
And of course, Jane Fonda addressed
the crowd too.
But that’s nothing new. You see,
I’ve got this uncanny sense of déjà vu.
Maybe you remember, or perhaps you don’t-
Vietnam!
Damn!
In the morning of the war, a golden sunrise
soared in the turquoise sky.
We didn’t ask why.
Now, in the evening of the Iraq war,
we see the dying sun, a ball of
chimerical light.
We must demand--NO MORE!
on this endless night
of illusion.
No more troops sent to Iraq to die.
And we must always ask why.
Maybe you remember, or perhaps you don’t. It happened
Saturday. Hey, that’s nothing new. You see,
I’ve got this uncanny sense of déjà vu.
And I see Jane Fonda too,
like the sixties embedded
in my brain.
She was no G.I. Jane,
and we stayed in
Vietnam,
even when it was insane. Hey, that’s nothing new. You see,
I’ve got this uncanny sense of déjà vu.
Dr. Mel Waldman, a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS), is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including Happy, Sweet Annie Press, Children, Churches and Daddies, Down in the Dirt, New Thought Journal, The Brooklyn Literary Review, Hardboiled, Hardboiled Detective, Detective Story Magazine, Espionage, and The Saint. He is a past winner of the literary Gradiva Award in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, www.amazon.com, and other online and local bookstores. Recently, his poems appeared online in The Jerusalem Post. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, will be published by World Audience, Inc. in 2007.
Did you hear about the antiwar rally in Washington D.C. ?
It happened Saturday. Hey, that’s nothing new. You see,
I’ve got this uncanny sense of déjà vu.
Demonstrators protested at the National Mall.
Hollywood celebs arrived to attend this ball.
If you were there, perhaps you heard
Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins speak.
And of course, Jane Fonda addressed
the crowd too.
But that’s nothing new. You see,
I’ve got this uncanny sense of déjà vu.
Maybe you remember, or perhaps you don’t-
Vietnam!
Damn!
In the morning of the war, a golden sunrise
soared in the turquoise sky.
We didn’t ask why.
Now, in the evening of the Iraq war,
we see the dying sun, a ball of
chimerical light.
We must demand--NO MORE!
on this endless night
of illusion.
No more troops sent to Iraq to die.
And we must always ask why.
Maybe you remember, or perhaps you don’t. It happened
Saturday. Hey, that’s nothing new. You see,
I’ve got this uncanny sense of déjà vu.
And I see Jane Fonda too,
like the sixties embedded
in my brain.
She was no G.I. Jane,
and we stayed in
Vietnam,
even when it was insane. Hey, that’s nothing new. You see,
I’ve got this uncanny sense of déjà vu.
Dr. Mel Waldman, a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS), is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including Happy, Sweet Annie Press, Children, Churches and Daddies, Down in the Dirt, New Thought Journal, The Brooklyn Literary Review, Hardboiled, Hardboiled Detective, Detective Story Magazine, Espionage, and The Saint. He is a past winner of the literary Gradiva Award in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, www.amazon.com, and other online and local bookstores. Recently, his poems appeared online in The Jerusalem Post. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, will be published by World Audience, Inc. in 2007.
Monday, January 29, 2007
NCO COO
by devin wayne davis
carried off, the civil
military coup went well;
and this is no oxymoron ...
they accomplished it--
obedient
pacifists,
withdrew
with honor.
devin wayne davis, once called "ink (or inc.)" in a seaside vision, has written well-over 2, 000 poems. His work is printed in the Sacramento Anthology, 100 Poems, Sanskrit, Dwan, Poetry Depth Quarterly, and 17 chapbooks. Selections can be found on-line at Del Sol Review, Perihelion, Pierian Springs, Locust Magazine, Kota Press, Octavo, Jones Av., Pig Iron Malt, Great Works, La Petite Zine, Stirring, Offcourse, Rio Arts, Wandering Dog, Whimperbang, Kookamonga Square, and Split Shot. Both Barnes & Noble and Tower Books featured readings by davis; he has addressed citizens and lawmakers on the northern steps of the California State Capitol.
carried off, the civil
military coup went well;
and this is no oxymoron ...
they accomplished it--
obedient
pacifists,
withdrew
with honor.
devin wayne davis, once called "ink (or inc.)" in a seaside vision, has written well-over 2, 000 poems. His work is printed in the Sacramento Anthology, 100 Poems, Sanskrit, Dwan, Poetry Depth Quarterly, and 17 chapbooks. Selections can be found on-line at Del Sol Review, Perihelion, Pierian Springs, Locust Magazine, Kota Press, Octavo, Jones Av., Pig Iron Malt, Great Works, La Petite Zine, Stirring, Offcourse, Rio Arts, Wandering Dog, Whimperbang, Kookamonga Square, and Split Shot. Both Barnes & Noble and Tower Books featured readings by davis; he has addressed citizens and lawmakers on the northern steps of the California State Capitol.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
'TIS THE SEASON TO BE SORRY
by Rochelle Ratner
Kramer's Michael Richards apologizes for the prejudicial
comments during his comedy act, but you have to understand: he
was being heckled. Mel Gibson says it was really the alcohol, and
he's getting help now. Danny DeVito's sorry he showed up drunk
for Barbara Walters' show. Mark Foley's sorry he ever bought a
computer. The Pope's sorry about his Moslem comments, then
again he's sorry the whole world isn't Catholic. The Rev. Ted
Haggard apologizes that there's a dark side of his life, which he
calls repulsive. Senator John Kerry apologizes for his botched joke
about the war in Iraq. And she's sorry to be a year older.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include 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.
December 2, 2006
Kramer's Michael Richards apologizes for the prejudicial
comments during his comedy act, but you have to understand: he
was being heckled. Mel Gibson says it was really the alcohol, and
he's getting help now. Danny DeVito's sorry he showed up drunk
for Barbara Walters' show. Mark Foley's sorry he ever bought a
computer. The Pope's sorry about his Moslem comments, then
again he's sorry the whole world isn't Catholic. The Rev. Ted
Haggard apologizes that there's a dark side of his life, which he
calls repulsive. Senator John Kerry apologizes for his botched joke
about the war in Iraq. And she's sorry to be a year older.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include 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.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
BALONEY BULL
by Mike McCulley
Sam's old baloney bull
puts its snotty nose in the air
and heads off for the next pasture,
steps into the fence, snaps the posts
off at the ground, stomps wire
into the grass. The neighbors get pissed
and go after the bull with a stick,
trying not to get stomped too.
Sam calls out but the old baloney
is following a fantasy, keeps going east
where there's more trouble to be had.
Sam is thinking how to cure stubborn,
how to stop the old baloney.
Mike McCulley Retired from educating / rewired for recreating / pastime birding, /part time wording. // he posts his tweedledum / at wordanger dot blogspot dot com.
Sam's old baloney bull
puts its snotty nose in the air
and heads off for the next pasture,
steps into the fence, snaps the posts
off at the ground, stomps wire
into the grass. The neighbors get pissed
and go after the bull with a stick,
trying not to get stomped too.
Sam calls out but the old baloney
is following a fantasy, keeps going east
where there's more trouble to be had.
Sam is thinking how to cure stubborn,
how to stop the old baloney.
Mike McCulley Retired from educating / rewired for recreating / pastime birding, /part time wording. // he posts his tweedledum / at wordanger dot blogspot dot com.
Friday, January 26, 2007
The CHENI@D:
Volume Five
by Bill Costley
Click here for Books XXXVII-XLVIII of The Cheni@d.
Book XLIX: Give Me CHENEY, or Give Me
"Give me CHENEY, or give me
De@th!" autoraves Scooter, deep
in a delirium, unsedated, but still
moving little in his str@ightj@cket.
His conviction increases: CHENEY
Is his deliverer, CHENEY will be his
ticket out of this p@dded cell, or
He will know why. Surely the best
Republican lawyers will spring him
soon. Surely he will get his pardon
w/out even having to have a trial,
surely his service counts for much
more than common criminality. "A
lie like mine is a service to humanity,
not a mere legal technicality. A m@n,
a m@n like me is a kultur-w@rrior!"
Book L: CHENEY Sn@rls As He
CHENEY sn@rls as he reviews the board:
his pieces are all in place, his Rooks look
good, ready 2 surge behind his Knights,
but 1 of his Bishops is boxed by theirs.
"Fuck them, " he spits, "I have 2 Bishops."
Minus 1 Bishop he's vulnerable & knows
it's a probability he'll lose him 2 that new
Red Queen, "That cunt, that whore, Pelosi."
What can he do the save that Bishop? "I
can sacrifice him as @ distraction." Done.
Book LI: A Half-Dozen P@wns Offer Themselves
A half-dozen p@wns offer themselves
2 CHENEY 2 do with as he pleases.
It pleases him so many are willing.
"I'll never run out of willing pawns,"
he thinks. Of course, that's not true;
everything runs out, eventually, even
pawns w/1 only 1 move 2 make. "So,
which 1 of you is willing 2 make it?"
asks CHENEY. They all say they are;
all he has 2do now is choose which 1.
Book LII: CHENEY Ponders Whether
CHENEY ponders whether it's worth it.
"All this planning, all this strategy, all
just2stay ahead of the game,' he muses,
knowing full-well the objective is Gre@t:
the World & all its material assets, oil
chiefest among them; "Wind," he admits
"is a lost cause. Bacon tried naming winds
& look where that got him: nowhere f@st.
No, it's the combustibles that matter most;
& if it won't burn, it'd better flow f@ster."
Book LIII: CHENEY Laughs @ Anyone Who Thinks
CHENEY laughs @ anyone who thinks
they could possibly beat him @ chess;
“Just think of the pieces’ boffo names,”
he laughs, “Pawn, Knight, Rook, etc.
I may as well have invented the game:
I will rook you & I will pawn your ass.”
CHENEY busts-up laughing, falling
off his high, vpotential bar-stool, on2
the padded floor. He rises2 his knees
in autopraise: “I @m the M@n I @m.”
Book LIV: "'Pon My Dong," CHENEY Swears,
"'pon my dong," CHENEY swears,
"rest all my powers, past & present."
Such an admission only strengthens
his belief in the wellsprings of his
vpotential power, & ultimate glory.
"People like me only cum along once
in a millennium" he observes, sure
his position in the millennium secure.
"Count them: Hitler, Stalin, Mao,
Nixon, Reagan, me. I'm CHENEY."
Book LV: CHENEY's Invisible
CHENEY's invisible; or isn't visible, so
2 Analysts are assigned 2 find him; they
start w/AP photos of recent photo-ops.
Somebody looking exactly like CHENEY
seems 2B standing in for him, smiling,
but the smile's wrong, it's normal, not the
sneering gash that CHENEY's known 4.
"Maybe he's just practicing being happy,"
says the 1st-Analyst. "Not possible," says
the 2nd-Analyst. "What's happy 2 Him?"
"That we can't tell if he's CHENEY?"
asks the 2nd. They agree: "Yes, that's it!"
Book LVI: CHENEY Doesn't
CHENEY doesn't believe in Evil,
he also doesn't believe in Good;
he doesn't believe in Black/White.
His favorite suit is sharkskin grey,
because it reflects badly back on2
anyone looking @ him. Example:
Wearing his shiniest grey suit, he
spins around & says 2 Anybody:
"What did You just say?" They
freeze, speechless, dazzled by him.
Book LVII: Libby Complained2 VPOTUS CHENEY
[newspoem]
Libby complained2 VPOTUS CHENEY
he was being set-up as a fall-guy. CHENEY
supported that & handwrote a note: "Not
going2 protect 1 staffer + sacrifice the guy
who was asked2stick his neck in the meat-
grinder because of incompetence of others."
Interpreting VPOTUS' CHENEY's note,
Mr. Wells said that "incompetence"
referred2 the fact that the C.I.A. had
mistakenly allowed the White House
2use inaccurate information in Bush's
2003 State of the Union speech about
Iraq's effort obtain uranium in Africa.
The staff official the VPOTUS believed
should not be protected was Karl Rove.
Libby'd been assigned 2speak2reporters
2straighten-out confusion from Bush's speech;
CHENEY: "Libby was his sticking his head
in the meat grinder to protect Karl Rove."
Book LVIII: "Fly Me To The Moon,' Sings CHENEY
"Fly me 2the Moon,' sings CHENEY
as he shaves w/a cyberelectro-shaver
plugged in2 a port in his cyber-head.
CHENEY's already signed-up for a
vpotential trip there once the peak oil
crisis hits the veritable terrestrial f@n.
"Can't get far enuf away," he sings,
"Far enuf away from U!" Who's U?
It's all of youse willing providers of
financial cannon-fodder for neo-wars,
soon 2B implemented by Dubya Bush
in acc.w/ the NeoConical Master Plan
for a new NeoGalactic Imperial Order.
Book LIX: "Shit Flo@ts" Whispers Somebody
"Shit flo@ts" whispers Somebody
standing w/in inches of ultra-loyal
Scooter & Karl Rove on the dias
as CHENEY takes a big, big bow.
Both of them spin around 2try2
catch the culprit, but nobody there
looks likely: it can't be Powell, Sr.
can it? No, he has his own baggage;
maybe 1 of those disgruntleded
supernumerary generals nobody
needs2hear anything from anymore.
"I'm stumped, " whispers Scooter;
"You would B!" whispers Rove.
Book LX: "Rash, My @ss, " Says CHENEY
"Rash, my @ss, " says CHENEY
regarding his own in the shiny mirror
set @ @ss-level just a bit behind him
@ his m@ssive vpotential desk.
"My @ss shows no rash," he @sserts
to his shining @ss's reflected image.
"Do you, old companion?" No answer
issues therefrom, no slowish siffling
whistle, no propulsive picoupial pop.
"My @ss is @s smooth as a baby's,
& easily twice @s innocent!" he says.
Who's 2 judge? Who's the @ssessor
of the appropriate sitting @ssizes?
(to be continued)
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.
Book XLIX: Give Me CHENEY, or Give Me
"Give me CHENEY, or give me
De@th!" autoraves Scooter, deep
in a delirium, unsedated, but still
moving little in his str@ightj@cket.
His conviction increases: CHENEY
Is his deliverer, CHENEY will be his
ticket out of this p@dded cell, or
He will know why. Surely the best
Republican lawyers will spring him
soon. Surely he will get his pardon
w/out even having to have a trial,
surely his service counts for much
more than common criminality. "A
lie like mine is a service to humanity,
not a mere legal technicality. A m@n,
a m@n like me is a kultur-w@rrior!"
Book L: CHENEY Sn@rls As He
CHENEY sn@rls as he reviews the board:
his pieces are all in place, his Rooks look
good, ready 2 surge behind his Knights,
but 1 of his Bishops is boxed by theirs.
"Fuck them, " he spits, "I have 2 Bishops."
Minus 1 Bishop he's vulnerable & knows
it's a probability he'll lose him 2 that new
Red Queen, "That cunt, that whore, Pelosi."
What can he do the save that Bishop? "I
can sacrifice him as @ distraction." Done.
Book LI: A Half-Dozen P@wns Offer Themselves
A half-dozen p@wns offer themselves
2 CHENEY 2 do with as he pleases.
It pleases him so many are willing.
"I'll never run out of willing pawns,"
he thinks. Of course, that's not true;
everything runs out, eventually, even
pawns w/1 only 1 move 2 make. "So,
which 1 of you is willing 2 make it?"
asks CHENEY. They all say they are;
all he has 2do now is choose which 1.
Book LII: CHENEY Ponders Whether
CHENEY ponders whether it's worth it.
"All this planning, all this strategy, all
just2stay ahead of the game,' he muses,
knowing full-well the objective is Gre@t:
the World & all its material assets, oil
chiefest among them; "Wind," he admits
"is a lost cause. Bacon tried naming winds
& look where that got him: nowhere f@st.
No, it's the combustibles that matter most;
& if it won't burn, it'd better flow f@ster."
Book LIII: CHENEY Laughs @ Anyone Who Thinks
CHENEY laughs @ anyone who thinks
they could possibly beat him @ chess;
“Just think of the pieces’ boffo names,”
he laughs, “Pawn, Knight, Rook, etc.
I may as well have invented the game:
I will rook you & I will pawn your ass.”
CHENEY busts-up laughing, falling
off his high, vpotential bar-stool, on2
the padded floor. He rises2 his knees
in autopraise: “I @m the M@n I @m.”
Book LIV: "'Pon My Dong," CHENEY Swears,
"'pon my dong," CHENEY swears,
"rest all my powers, past & present."
Such an admission only strengthens
his belief in the wellsprings of his
vpotential power, & ultimate glory.
"People like me only cum along once
in a millennium" he observes, sure
his position in the millennium secure.
"Count them: Hitler, Stalin, Mao,
Nixon, Reagan, me. I'm CHENEY."
Book LV: CHENEY's Invisible
CHENEY's invisible; or isn't visible, so
2 Analysts are assigned 2 find him; they
start w/AP photos of recent photo-ops.
Somebody looking exactly like CHENEY
seems 2B standing in for him, smiling,
but the smile's wrong, it's normal, not the
sneering gash that CHENEY's known 4.
"Maybe he's just practicing being happy,"
says the 1st-Analyst. "Not possible," says
the 2nd-Analyst. "What's happy 2 Him?"
"That we can't tell if he's CHENEY?"
asks the 2nd. They agree: "Yes, that's it!"
Book LVI: CHENEY Doesn't
CHENEY doesn't believe in Evil,
he also doesn't believe in Good;
he doesn't believe in Black/White.
His favorite suit is sharkskin grey,
because it reflects badly back on2
anyone looking @ him. Example:
Wearing his shiniest grey suit, he
spins around & says 2 Anybody:
"What did You just say?" They
freeze, speechless, dazzled by him.
Book LVII: Libby Complained2 VPOTUS CHENEY
[newspoem]
Libby complained2 VPOTUS CHENEY
he was being set-up as a fall-guy. CHENEY
supported that & handwrote a note: "Not
going2 protect 1 staffer + sacrifice the guy
who was asked2stick his neck in the meat-
grinder because of incompetence of others."
Interpreting VPOTUS' CHENEY's note,
Mr. Wells said that "incompetence"
referred2 the fact that the C.I.A. had
mistakenly allowed the White House
2use inaccurate information in Bush's
2003 State of the Union speech about
Iraq's effort obtain uranium in Africa.
The staff official the VPOTUS believed
should not be protected was Karl Rove.
Libby'd been assigned 2speak2reporters
2straighten-out confusion from Bush's speech;
CHENEY: "Libby was his sticking his head
in the meat grinder to protect Karl Rove."
Book LVIII: "Fly Me To The Moon,' Sings CHENEY
"Fly me 2the Moon,' sings CHENEY
as he shaves w/a cyberelectro-shaver
plugged in2 a port in his cyber-head.
CHENEY's already signed-up for a
vpotential trip there once the peak oil
crisis hits the veritable terrestrial f@n.
"Can't get far enuf away," he sings,
"Far enuf away from U!" Who's U?
It's all of youse willing providers of
financial cannon-fodder for neo-wars,
soon 2B implemented by Dubya Bush
in acc.w/ the NeoConical Master Plan
for a new NeoGalactic Imperial Order.
Book LIX: "Shit Flo@ts" Whispers Somebody
"Shit flo@ts" whispers Somebody
standing w/in inches of ultra-loyal
Scooter & Karl Rove on the dias
as CHENEY takes a big, big bow.
Both of them spin around 2try2
catch the culprit, but nobody there
looks likely: it can't be Powell, Sr.
can it? No, he has his own baggage;
maybe 1 of those disgruntleded
supernumerary generals nobody
needs2hear anything from anymore.
"I'm stumped, " whispers Scooter;
"You would B!" whispers Rove.
Book LX: "Rash, My @ss, " Says CHENEY
"Rash, my @ss, " says CHENEY
regarding his own in the shiny mirror
set @ @ss-level just a bit behind him
@ his m@ssive vpotential desk.
"My @ss shows no rash," he @sserts
to his shining @ss's reflected image.
"Do you, old companion?" No answer
issues therefrom, no slowish siffling
whistle, no propulsive picoupial pop.
"My @ss is @s smooth as a baby's,
& easily twice @s innocent!" he says.
Who's 2 judge? Who's the @ssessor
of the appropriate sitting @ssizes?
(to be continued)
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
A BAD CASE OF BELIEF
by Peter Bergquist
As the disease advances,
brain cells atrophy
until all thinking stops
and rigor mortis of the mind sets in.
Unchecked, the strain
becomes contagious,
a rampant plague
mutating into cause,
regenerating war.
Early diagnosis is the only hope;
the only cure, to look within
and find the lie that can’t be hid.
Note to readers: The key to the word puzzle that inspired this poem is that in every "belief" there is a "lie."
Peter Bergquist is a native of Los Angeles with a BA in English from Princeton University . He worked for many years in the Hollywood film industry, primarily in production. He is married with two daughters and is currently teaching English in the Los Angeles Unified School District . He is also pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Antioch University .
As the disease advances,
brain cells atrophy
until all thinking stops
and rigor mortis of the mind sets in.
Unchecked, the strain
becomes contagious,
a rampant plague
mutating into cause,
regenerating war.
Early diagnosis is the only hope;
the only cure, to look within
and find the lie that can’t be hid.
Note to readers: The key to the word puzzle that inspired this poem is that in every "belief" there is a "lie."
Peter Bergquist is a native of Los Angeles with a BA in English from Princeton University . He worked for many years in the Hollywood film industry, primarily in production. He is married with two daughters and is currently teaching English in the Los Angeles Unified School District . He is also pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Antioch University .
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
WAR WEARY WORRIES
by Charles Frederickson
Bullyrag justifications fail to convince
Them versus US delusions shattered
Ever deepening chasms impetuously hell-bent
Shaky foundation trench mortar cave-ins
Battle lines drawn in quicksand
Sunken head muckamucks disown lies
Broken hourglass shards barefoot splinters
Shifting dunes burying overblown ruse
Americans more exposed than ever
Stationary targets for uncivil warmongers
Shiites battling Sunnis elsewhere insurgents
Splattered guts juicy squeeze play
Caught between hard-boiled rotten eggs
Scrambled yolks whites trading places
Chickens misbegotten sunny side crossovers
Shell-shocked poultry tried retried again
Trigger unhappy pot shot snipers
Taking aim at spacey invaders
Ragtag militias rocket propelled grenades
Nothing smart about cluster bombs
Mea culpability runneth over faults
Seismic vibrations quaking immovable forces
Refusing to listen learn love
Crimes against humanity guilty verdict
Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai pragmatic optimist, idealistic visionary and heretical believer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com/. This maverick e-gadfly is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 200+ poetry publication credits on 6 continents, such as: angelfire, Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, bc supernet, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Decanto, Eclipse, Flutter Magazine, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, International Poet, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, Planet Authority, Poetisphere, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poetry Stop, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sage of Consciousness, Stellar Showcase, Subtle Tea, Sz, The Smoking Poet, T-zero, Ya’Sou! Ygdrasil, Zafusy.
Bullyrag justifications fail to convince
Them versus US delusions shattered
Ever deepening chasms impetuously hell-bent
Shaky foundation trench mortar cave-ins
Battle lines drawn in quicksand
Sunken head muckamucks disown lies
Broken hourglass shards barefoot splinters
Shifting dunes burying overblown ruse
Americans more exposed than ever
Stationary targets for uncivil warmongers
Shiites battling Sunnis elsewhere insurgents
Splattered guts juicy squeeze play
Caught between hard-boiled rotten eggs
Scrambled yolks whites trading places
Chickens misbegotten sunny side crossovers
Shell-shocked poultry tried retried again
Trigger unhappy pot shot snipers
Taking aim at spacey invaders
Ragtag militias rocket propelled grenades
Nothing smart about cluster bombs
Mea culpability runneth over faults
Seismic vibrations quaking immovable forces
Refusing to listen learn love
Crimes against humanity guilty verdict
Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai pragmatic optimist, idealistic visionary and heretical believer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com/. This maverick e-gadfly is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 200+ poetry publication credits on 6 continents, such as: angelfire, Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, bc supernet, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Decanto, Eclipse, Flutter Magazine, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, International Poet, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, Planet Authority, Poetisphere, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poetry Stop, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sage of Consciousness, Stellar Showcase, Subtle Tea, Sz, The Smoking Poet, T-zero, Ya’Sou! Ygdrasil, Zafusy.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
ENHANCED INTERROGATION TECHNIQUE
by Bonnie Naradzay
When you want to talk, just move your fingers.
They tied me to a plank,
fixed a tube to the tap at the sink,
jammed a block in my mouth
to force it open,
wrapped my head in a rag.
The rag was soaked rapidly,
water flowing into my mouth and nose.
I had the impression of drowning
and the terrible agony of death itself
took possession of me.
In spite of myself, my fingers shook uncontrollably.
In the gloom, I saw the captain with a cigarette
between his lips hitting my stomach with his fist
to make me throw up the water I had swallowed.
I hardly felt the blows.
“Well, then?” But I remained silent.
They put my head under again.
This time I clenched my fists,
forcing the nails into my palms.
I did not move my hands.
Three times I feared that terrible
moment when I felt myself losing
control - while fighting
with all my might not to die.
The last time, I lost consciousness.
When you want to talk, just move your fingers.
Bonnie Naradzay is a degree candidate at the Stonecoast low residency MFA program. She has a poem scheduled to be published in JAMA next month and has poetry in numerous online publications.
When you want to talk, just move your fingers.
They tied me to a plank,
fixed a tube to the tap at the sink,
jammed a block in my mouth
to force it open,
wrapped my head in a rag.
The rag was soaked rapidly,
water flowing into my mouth and nose.
I had the impression of drowning
and the terrible agony of death itself
took possession of me.
In spite of myself, my fingers shook uncontrollably.
In the gloom, I saw the captain with a cigarette
between his lips hitting my stomach with his fist
to make me throw up the water I had swallowed.
I hardly felt the blows.
“Well, then?” But I remained silent.
They put my head under again.
This time I clenched my fists,
forcing the nails into my palms.
I did not move my hands.
Three times I feared that terrible
moment when I felt myself losing
control - while fighting
with all my might not to die.
The last time, I lost consciousness.
When you want to talk, just move your fingers.
From Henri Alleg’s memoir of the Algerian war. Alleg was a French journalist who supported Algerian independence. This instance of his “ waterboarding” at the hands of French authorities, used also by the Khmer Rouge, Gestapo, Soviet Gulags and most recently by the American CIA, which terms this form of torture “Enhanced Interrogation Technique,” was included in a complaint filed against Rumsfeld.
Bonnie Naradzay is a degree candidate at the Stonecoast low residency MFA program. She has a poem scheduled to be published in JAMA next month and has poetry in numerous online publications.
Monday, January 22, 2007
THE TIMES THEY ARE A-CHANGING (WE HOPE)
by Anne G. Davies
Republican prospects look much less rosy
Under the reign of Speaker Pelosi.
She's moved to raise the minimum wage
A concept inspiring corporate rage.
Stem cell support? she wants to unlock it,
Though Bush has sewn up the federal pocket.
What about defunding the war in Iraq?
Democrats are unlikely to take that tack.
Let's hope they include the war in the budget
Instead of letting the GOP fudge it
By hiding its humongous spending
Off the books in deceit unending.
She might raise taxes on capital gains
To relieve our growing deficit pains
And remind the wealthiest one percent
That their glory days may soon be spent.
And another move to clean up the works:
Choke off lobbyists bearing perks.
Democrats want true investigation
Of how we got this Iraq fixation
And whether the Surge can turn the tide
Or cause more deaths than we can abide.
May Pelosi cause extreme anxieties
As she blasts away at Republican pieties.
This is the congress for which we prayed;
Let's see what they accomplish, unDelayed.
Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.
Republican prospects look much less rosy
Under the reign of Speaker Pelosi.
She's moved to raise the minimum wage
A concept inspiring corporate rage.
Stem cell support? she wants to unlock it,
Though Bush has sewn up the federal pocket.
What about defunding the war in Iraq?
Democrats are unlikely to take that tack.
Let's hope they include the war in the budget
Instead of letting the GOP fudge it
By hiding its humongous spending
Off the books in deceit unending.
She might raise taxes on capital gains
To relieve our growing deficit pains
And remind the wealthiest one percent
That their glory days may soon be spent.
And another move to clean up the works:
Choke off lobbyists bearing perks.
Democrats want true investigation
Of how we got this Iraq fixation
And whether the Surge can turn the tide
Or cause more deaths than we can abide.
May Pelosi cause extreme anxieties
As she blasts away at Republican pieties.
This is the congress for which we prayed;
Let's see what they accomplish, unDelayed.
Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
MADE IN CHINA
by David LaBounty
They were all complaining
as they sat waiting for
chairs, they were all complaining
as they sat waiting to
get their hair and eyebrows
and ear hair trimmed and cut by
electric clippers all for
less than 15 bucks. They were
waiting
and I was waiting and all
the conversations were
basically the same and
they are always basically
the same middle-aged
complaints about the
cost of things and the
quality of things and
of how so many things
are made in China.
And I always feel too young
and thin to be in that
barbershop but the mirrors
say otherwise and I had to
agree; too many things are
made in China and there
was some more complaining
about cheap labor and how
things need to be made here
how things need to be fixed here
because too many don’t have
good jobs anymore. Half the
men in the shop don’t have
good jobs anymore and the
only thing to save this country
would be for people to start
making things here. And I agreed,
except,
I don’t know how
to make
anything.
David LaBounty's poetry appears in Four Volts, Boston Literary Magazine, The Verse Marauder and in upcoming issues of Autumn Sky Poetry and Pemmican. He served in the navy for four years and has worked as a miner, a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman.
They were all complaining
as they sat waiting for
chairs, they were all complaining
as they sat waiting to
get their hair and eyebrows
and ear hair trimmed and cut by
electric clippers all for
less than 15 bucks. They were
waiting
and I was waiting and all
the conversations were
basically the same and
they are always basically
the same middle-aged
complaints about the
cost of things and the
quality of things and
of how so many things
are made in China.
And I always feel too young
and thin to be in that
barbershop but the mirrors
say otherwise and I had to
agree; too many things are
made in China and there
was some more complaining
about cheap labor and how
things need to be made here
how things need to be fixed here
because too many don’t have
good jobs anymore. Half the
men in the shop don’t have
good jobs anymore and the
only thing to save this country
would be for people to start
making things here. And I agreed,
except,
I don’t know how
to make
anything.
David LaBounty's poetry appears in Four Volts, Boston Literary Magazine, The Verse Marauder and in upcoming issues of Autumn Sky Poetry and Pemmican. He served in the navy for four years and has worked as a miner, a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman.
Friday, January 19, 2007
YET ANOTHER JANUARY THAW
by Russell Libby
It's warm when it should be cold.
An inch of snow, then rain, more rain.
Trees flower in Boston months early.
We all know it's wrong,
yet the pleasure of working outside
in winter colors our reactions
for a few minutes while we turn
off the lights and let the fire go out early.
Then the stories of polar bears afloat,
skiers breaking through thin ice,
warmest year ever,
and we know it's so wrong
while we wait to park our cars
and stretch our legs
and take those first important steps
into a world of uncertainty,
certain only that we need to start now.
Russell Libby writes from Three Sisters Farm in Mount Vernon, Maine. He feels good that it's snowing today, but doesn't expect it to last long.
It's warm when it should be cold.
An inch of snow, then rain, more rain.
Trees flower in Boston months early.
We all know it's wrong,
yet the pleasure of working outside
in winter colors our reactions
for a few minutes while we turn
off the lights and let the fire go out early.
Then the stories of polar bears afloat,
skiers breaking through thin ice,
warmest year ever,
and we know it's so wrong
while we wait to park our cars
and stretch our legs
and take those first important steps
into a world of uncertainty,
certain only that we need to start now.
Russell Libby writes from Three Sisters Farm in Mount Vernon, Maine. He feels good that it's snowing today, but doesn't expect it to last long.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
CHECKLIST
by Robert Emmett
in the event we pull the nuclear trigger (again)
even if by proxy
not only rendering absurd the idea that such a thing is “unthinkable”
but actually proving it’s “doable”
and i say “we” noting there will be no more finely wrought distinction
among the peoples of the earth
except maybe by a smattering of obtuse dead-end bloggers
and a cabal of specious federalist society wackos
that the u.s. government and its people
are somehow mutually exclusive
or that there’s any lingering doubt
we r israel~israel r us in all things militaristic
(and really is there anything else these days, booby?)
given the imperative
of ruling fat cats everywhere
to protect (their) life, limb and property first
(and, say, wouldn’t that make a nifty new nationalistic motto: PROPERTY FIRST
with thunderbolt graphics and crossed swords and eagles and shit, huh?)
but keeping in mind universal pariah status
will be locked and loaded for, well, for however long
“forever” is going to last
and recognizing that schlepping off north
or south of zuh border vill be verboten, yah?
plus the inevitability of taking and hoarding
weeping and wailing, gnashing and rending
with endless rolling waves of gunplay in the streets
etc. etc.
must above all else remain civil, stay positive, solution-oriented
and remember the following
in precise order:
1.
Robert Emmett is still trying to make a list and check it twice in the snowless woods of Michigan.
“…so blow up your tv, throw away the papers…go out and find jesus, on your own…”
--John Prine
in the event we pull the nuclear trigger (again)
even if by proxy
not only rendering absurd the idea that such a thing is “unthinkable”
but actually proving it’s “doable”
and i say “we” noting there will be no more finely wrought distinction
among the peoples of the earth
except maybe by a smattering of obtuse dead-end bloggers
and a cabal of specious federalist society wackos
that the u.s. government and its people
are somehow mutually exclusive
or that there’s any lingering doubt
we r israel~israel r us in all things militaristic
(and really is there anything else these days, booby?)
given the imperative
of ruling fat cats everywhere
to protect (their) life, limb and property first
(and, say, wouldn’t that make a nifty new nationalistic motto: PROPERTY FIRST
with thunderbolt graphics and crossed swords and eagles and shit, huh?)
but keeping in mind universal pariah status
will be locked and loaded for, well, for however long
“forever” is going to last
and recognizing that schlepping off north
or south of zuh border vill be verboten, yah?
plus the inevitability of taking and hoarding
weeping and wailing, gnashing and rending
with endless rolling waves of gunplay in the streets
etc. etc.
must above all else remain civil, stay positive, solution-oriented
and remember the following
in precise order:
1.
Robert Emmett is still trying to make a list and check it twice in the snowless woods of Michigan.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
30.12.2006: AT THE GUGGENHEIM'S SPANISH PAINTING FROM EL GRECO TO PICASSO--TIME, TRUTH, AND HISTORY
by George Held
The tyrant is dead, long live the martyr,
His defiance with noose round neck
Recorded via cell phone
And broadcast round the world
With the taunts of his Shiite lynchers.
Seeing Goya's "Cannibals Preparing Their Victims"
The same day that Saddam hangs,
I marvel at the artist's audacious depiction
Of naked cannibals in a cave
Carrying out their rites:
One crouched, shaft of arm deep in a dead man's
Abdomen, cloven and pink like labia,
Plunging to extract the last entrails
While a second stands stretching,
Like a ballet dancer en pointe, a g-string
Barely covering his genitals, this trio
Of the prostrate, the kneeling, and the upright
Forever artfully fixed while the hanged man
Flickers in low res on monitors worldwide
For an audience magnitudes greater
Than Goya's.
George Held has published widely in the small press, both online and in print. His most recent chapbook is W Is For War (Cervena Barva Press, 2006). Finishing Line Press will publish his collection of poems The Art of Writing and Others in 2007. He and his wife, Cheryl, live in Greenwich Village.
The tyrant is dead, long live the martyr,
His defiance with noose round neck
Recorded via cell phone
And broadcast round the world
With the taunts of his Shiite lynchers.
Seeing Goya's "Cannibals Preparing Their Victims"
The same day that Saddam hangs,
I marvel at the artist's audacious depiction
Of naked cannibals in a cave
Carrying out their rites:
One crouched, shaft of arm deep in a dead man's
Abdomen, cloven and pink like labia,
Plunging to extract the last entrails
While a second stands stretching,
Like a ballet dancer en pointe, a g-string
Barely covering his genitals, this trio
Of the prostrate, the kneeling, and the upright
Forever artfully fixed while the hanged man
Flickers in low res on monitors worldwide
For an audience magnitudes greater
Than Goya's.
George Held has published widely in the small press, both online and in print. His most recent chapbook is W Is For War (Cervena Barva Press, 2006). Finishing Line Press will publish his collection of poems The Art of Writing and Others in 2007. He and his wife, Cheryl, live in Greenwich Village.
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