NOTES ON A NAPKIN

by Claudia Serea


What goes on behind the closed doors
when dinner is served at seven
to the most powerful men in the world?

New borders might be traced on a napkin,
plans of alliances or invasions,
the sauce spattered ends wars
and peace treaties are drawn
with wine stains.

Let’s have dessert, says the prime minister,
as the two presidents grin.

Oh, humble napkin forgotten on the floor
and picked up by the cleaning lady—
if you could talk!

Her wrinkled hands unfold you,
hold you up to the light,
trying to decipher in your creases
the historic chicken scratch
that will make her native country burn.


Claudia Serea was born in Romania and moved to the U.S. in 1995. Her poems and translations are published in literary journals such as Oberon, The Comstock Review, Harpur Palate, Respiro, Languageandculture.net, Exquisite Corpse, and in various Romanian publications. Her first chapbook, Eternity’s Orthography, was chosen as a contest finalist and was published in September 2007 by Finishing Line Press.
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COYOTE GIVES DIRECTIONS

by David Chorlton


Follow the road that never
was paved. It runs between the seasons
where your footprints burn away
behind you. Once you have chosen it
you must continue to its end.
Here is a compass
that points at the stars,
a flask filled with darkness
to pour across your hands when the sun
is most intense, and a coin
for tossing when the time comes to decide
whether the left fork or the right
is the one you have to choose.
Many came this way before you
and their own thirst
swallowed them whole.
Others chose the short cut
which turns into a circle. You can still
see dust devils toss
their shadows into the air.
Walk at night
and dream by day.
Never stop to share memories with your fellow
travelers who will slow you down.
Dress in the colours of dusk.
Follow the scent of nectar
when flowers bloom in sympathy
with you, but be careful
of the thorns that shine by day
in their auras of heat.
I can sell you no more than your portion
of luck, and promise
nothing more than that someone is waiting
to arrest you. Look them
in the eye and ask for their papers.
Ask them what it means to be legal. You have paid
to be where you are. Your freedom
is worth more than theirs.



David Chorlton's interests include birds, sport (specifically European football) as a means to understand society, very old music, and the passage of people between cultures. Origami Condom published his online chapbook Dry Heat and another new group of poems is available as Border Sky at www.davidchorlton.mysite.com.
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THE GRINDER

by Scot Siegel


For several days thinking they had found
a dead man’s boot beside the highway
the brothers scared each other with stories
of how it came to rest there: A hitchhiker

Struck by a runaway van. The homeless man
struggling up the embankment after drinking
from the river. Maybe a criminal on the run
caught in the patrol car spotlight ditched his

Prison clothes there… Then they thought…
Maybe it was older and fell from a
covered wagon, an Indian ambush…
The boot was heavy like that…

They dared one another to pick the mud away
undo the laces, see what’s inside – Bones,
they hoped, or maybe some rotting flesh…
Because of the boot’s apparent age and heft

Their father said they must turn it over
to the authorities, which they did, of course,
with much reluctance…

When the forensics came back, to everyone’s
surprise, that boot was a woolly mammoth’s tooth
ten million years old! – or at least that’s what
the staid man from the university said…

Now that boot, or tooth, is kept safe out of view
in a basement room at the Department of Paleontology –
To get inside, security clearance is required…
When the local news lady asked about their luck

and what they thought of the ongoing study, the boys
turned to each other as only boys can do and shrugged;
but then the younger one gushed, said he didn’t mind
all the attention, really, getting to miss school and all…

What he looked forward to most he said was an appearance
on David Letterman & getting to meet that silver-sequined
     girl with the steel hoola hoops,

and the other one with the grinder!


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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ON THE FOURTH OF JULY

by Steve Hellyard Swartz


Tears flow a finger is cut a
burn on her cheeks, in halfmoons, below each eye
In my car my daughter, my mother-in-law, and I
Lookie there, will you?
Two black birds going at it, hammer and tong, in the blue mid-air
Lookie there -
The speeding green of everything I’ve ever seen
The Writer’s Almanac on a Friday, the Fourth of July
The thermos of cold coffee
A yellow and deep bruised nectarine
A piece of cheese sweating the last of its hole-y cheer
Are we there? Are we there?
A few slices of rye
My daughter and I singing along to the Rolling Stones on CD
Just inside the New York border, a dog on a red, white, and blue leash
My mother-in-law saying, in Russian,
One summer I walked and walked in the mountains of Kafkhazia
The pea soup fog as we rise higher into the Berkshires
Are we there? Are we there?
The almost silent shuffling of cards in the backseat
My daughter asking something in Russian
My mother-in-law answering quietly
The dog on a leash, a memory
The birds, going for the eye
The cuts, the burns, the tears
Not knowing, was the dog brought inside?
Not knowing, which bird won?
Not knowing, for ten minutes,
In the pea soup fog above Williamstown
What will it be like, when we get out of this – when we get down
Which we will, we will of course we will
I would not take my daughter to a parade on the Fourth of July and have something happen
I wouldn’t
I couldn’t, not with the humbly wrapped rye, the pinched gaiety of no one’s nectarine, the comment about a hike one summer in a faraway land, the Dunkin’ Donut I hold in my hand
Not out of the fog
I ask my daughter what she asked my mother-in-law, in a voice barely above a whisper, in her little girl Russian
At first my daughter answers -
What?
Then, she adds -
Nothing


Steve Hellyard Swartz's poetry has appeared in New Verse News, Best Poem, The Kennesaw Review, and switched-on gutenberg. An Honorable Mention in the 2007 and 2008 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, Swartz's 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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"TWEETING" WITH THE PHOENIX MARTIAN

by Kathryn Jacobs


The Phoenix Martian Lander thinks he’s “awesome.”*
The Phoenix Martian Lander’s also bored.
And given all that red-brown Martian nothing,
It’s hard to blame the Phoenix Martian, much.

Our new-made Martian therefore stops to Twitter;
Which keeps our newbie Earthlings up to date.
And in between his tweetings on the Twitter,
we all get close-ups of his Martian feet.

The P.M.L’s a little self-admiring,
what with his metal digits and his scoop.
but he’s allowed to twitter while he’s working --
and anyway, we think he’s kinda cute.

*Phoenix to Earthlings: I’ve Landed! Awesome!
twitter: MarsPhoenix

Kathryn Jacobs is a poet and medievalist from Harvard with a book of poetry, Advice Column, appearing at Finishing Line Press in November and an e-chapbook, The Boy Who Loved Pigeons, sponsored by Poetry Midwest, appearing in the next few weeks. Her poetry has appeared recently in New Formalist, Measure, Washington Literary Review, Acumen (UK), Pulse, Slant, Candelabrum (UK), DeCanto, Quantum Leap (UK), Mezzo Cammin, Deronda Review, The Same, Contemporary Rhyme, Ship of Fools, Eclectic Muse, Barefoot Muse, Mobius, Chimaera, Toasted Cheese, 14 by 14, Wordgathering, The Interpreter’s House (UK), and Road Not Taken. She has also published a scholarly book on literary marriage contracts in the Middle Ages and Renaissance (University Press of Florida) and sixteen articles. Jacobs has two daughters; her son Ray died at the age of 18 in 2005.
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BLOCKBUSTER

by Dale Goodson


well
it’s fantastic

once again people we’ve elected
have allowed havoc and ruin

have stood before us
and announced
the wisdom and glory of the free market
lined their pockets
and walked away

and once again
we stand in the streets
kicked and kicked out

somehow
possessing large sums of money
makes one adult-like
and somehow
possessing very little
makes one child-like

and the adults continue to tell the children
about the path to wealth and riches
and the children continue to dream
and no matter how often this path
crumbles beneath their feet
and sends them tumbling into the abyss
the children will not let go of the dream

yes, it’s fantastic

all of it
not to be believed

forget Batman
this is the summer blockbuster


Dale Goodson is a writer from Seattle currently living in New York City.
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AM-BUSHED

by Lylanne Musselman


lame duck President
stumbles over words –
am-bushed


Lylanne Musselman resides in Indianapolis , Indiana . She teaches creative writing classes at Ivy Tech Community College in Indianapolis and at the University of Indianapolis' School of Adult Learning . Her story feature L WordS is aired live monthly on BloomingOUT, a weekly broadcast on WFHB radio. An award winning poet, Lylanne's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Flying Island, New Voice News, Etchings, Tipton Poetry Journal, Poetry Motel, among others.
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BUSH SENDS OFF U.S. OLYMPIANS

by Barbara A. Taylor

Being a champion takes character. It also entails responsibility. In Beijing you will convey our nation's most cherished values. As ambassadors of liberty, you will represent America's love for freedom and our regard for human rights and human dignity. You'll represent to other athletes and to the people of China. In Beijing, you'll also represent our nation's character. As ambassadors of goodwill, you will be humble in victory and gracious in defeat. And by showing respect for your competitors, you will demonstrate America's respect for the world.

--George W. Bush, July 21, 2008

olympic athletes
liberty ambassadors
tongue-tied


Barbara A. Taylor’s haiku and short form poems have appeared on Sketchbook, Shamrock, Stylus, Lynx, Simply Haiku, Three Lights Gallery, Tiny Words, Kokako, Eucalypt, Moonset, Contemporary Haibun, Modern English Tanka, and others, including recent anthologies, Landfall and Atlas Poetica. Her diverse poems with audio are at http://batsword.tripod.com.
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COVERED

by Fred Schraff


The New Yorker magazine
lampooned on its cover
an Obama Oval Office
in which the worst fears
of the far-right were depicted.

Their satiric intent misfired a bit
wounding the wrong party
and in doing so
gave focus to a mental picture
previously confined in like-minds.

The magazine explaining
what they tried to do
claims the insults unintentional
(yeah, right!)
and misinterpreted.

Such an explanation resembles
an alibi by manufacturers
of the yard game “cornhole”
that no prior thought was given
to the word’s original meaning.


Fred Schraff lives in Cleveland, Ohio, where he was born. He holds BS and MS degrees in electrical engineering. He currently works as a design engineer in an electronic company and writes poetry for relaxation.
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EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS

by Howie Good


Listen for directions from authorized personnel,
which hopeless thoughts to avoid,

how long to wait for the destroying angels to tire
and the broken buildings to stop burning.

Remain inside the train if possible,
but if not, open the side door and go out,

and love witches’ gloves, dead men’s bells, bloody
fingers,
love reflective surfaces shaking with truculent colors,

love this country, my country,
dark green and torn where the light once touched it.


Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of five poetry chapbooks, Death of the Frog Prince (2004), Heartland (2007), and Apocalypse Mambo (forthcoming) from FootHills Publishing, Strangers & Angels (2007) from Scintillating Publications, and the e-book, Police & Questions (forthcoming) from Right Hand Pointing.
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YOUR STORY OF TWO CENTURIES TEN MINUTES AGO

by Stacia M Fleegal


We are three hundred and thirty-six years old,
I want to say, but only the wake of your story
would hear because the girl is long gone who
said the thing that, as you relay it now,
tires me with ache—I literally want
to lie down and wake up draped in rainbows
and see the girl and hear her say Color,
can you see me? But instead, she said

I can't vote for him because he is black.
She actually used the word can't. I can't
fathom hate while sitting next to you, love,
or her nonchalance as she walked away.
Earlier, you said he's like Kennedy.
Neither is a good thing. Neither means we're free.


Stacia M Fleegal's first collection of poems, Anatomy of a Shape-Shifter, is forthcoming in 2010 by WordTech. She is a graduate of Spalding University's brief-residency MFA in Writing program. Finishing Line Press recently released a chapbook of her poems, A Fling with the Ground. Individual poems have appeared in many journals, most recently Comstock Review, Minnetonka Review, 42opus, White Pelican Review, and Elsewhere, and are forthcoming in Inkwell, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Here and There, and Women. Period.: Women Writing About Menstruation (Spinsters Ink Press, 2008). In 2006, her poetry won first place in the graduate division of the Kentuckiana Metroversity Writing Competition and placed as a special merit finalist in Comstock Review's Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award in Poetry contest. She is co-founder and managing editor of the online literary journal Blood Lotus, a poetry editor for New Sins Press, and the coordinator of the journals department at the University of Nebraska Press.
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AN AMERICAN SUMMER WEEKEND

by Becky Harblin


The promises laid out by sun, curl up to hatch in summer dreams
each bordered by chicory blooms, sweet clover and birdsongs.

Cows let out to graze in a new field so rich with hay they are lost
immediately, except for tails switching above the gold green grass.

Eyes close in the afternoon shade while a light breeze rustles
the paper. Ice melts and the remaining tea turns pale and drowns an ant.

Two boys toss a Frisbee back and forth over the head of a small
barking black dog. Another boy is ripping through the fields on a four-wheeler.

Their older brother is hunched uncomfortably in the heat, his gun at the ready,
two mortar rounds go off nearby. He is only deafened by the sound.

And the newspaper reads ‘46 dead last month in Afghanistan’. While some
man shoots helium filled balloons to land his flying chair in Idaho.

The pond is quiet, just mosquitoes launching out to be uneaten
by bats, or frogs, or the wasps the homeowners killed today.

The day closes moist and heavy, while revelers drink and throw their bottles
in the woods. And the night is pregnant with the sound of booming.


Becky Harblin is a sculptor who works in concrete and soapstone and also writes daily haiku and senryu. Each morning starts with these meditative 'in-the-moment' poems. Becky lives on a farm with sheep in upstate New York. After years of working in Manhattan she moved to the more pastoral setting and found new inspirations and new challenges. Her poetry has been published on New Verse News, and North Country Literary Journal. You may also view her poems at her Web site.
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LESSON FROM NORTH KOREA

by Phyllis Wax


The time was December 2002.
They were being trained to interrogate
prisoners at Guantanamo.

They saw the chart of techniques
and their effects on prisoners:
sleep deprivation, prolonged
constraint, exposure.

The Defense Department spokesman said
he couldn’t comment on the training chart.

They talked about all the variants,
the shadings of techniques:
isolation, semi-starvation,
darkness or bright light.

They learned how to get information
from the prisoners: filthy, infested surroundings;
demeaning punishments; exploitation
of wounds. Our enemies would confess.

The Defense Department spokesman said
he couldn’t comment on the chart.

Who found the chart?
Who copied the chart?
Who withheld its source—a 1957 paper
entitled Communist Attempts to Elicit
False Confessions from Air Force
Prisoners of War?*

In 2008 Senator Carl Levin, chairman
of the Senate Armed Forces Committee,
said that “every American would be shocked”
at the origins of the document.

The Defense Department spokesman
wouldn’t comment.

*from interviews with American prisoners of war held by the North Koreans

Phyllis Wax follows the news from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Most recently, she has been published in and will soon be published again in Out of Line and Free Verse. Her work has appeared on New Verse News six times.
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BAD CAPITALIST

by Art Goodtimes


Call me terrible at sales.
I’m a bad capitalist.
Hard to fake.

Spent a couple of clevelands
on a chapbook.
Only sold a handful.

I mean, who pays
for poetry? Ended up just
givin’ it away.

As all my lovers did
in the Sixties. A gifted
generation.

As I did with herb.
Unable & unwilling
to sell my friends.

Who charges kin
to experience ecstatic
mindful mindlessness?

Which torques me back
to sales. Screw the spin.
All I can sell others on

is what I believe in.
And all I can keep’s
what longs to be given away


Poetry editor for Earth First! Journal (1981-91), Art Goodtimes makes his living as a freelance writer and third term Green Party county commissioner in Telluride, Colorado, and runs Talking Gourds, an annual earth festival dedicated to the word in performance. "Bad Capitalist" is part of a series called Hai-unCouth.
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