by Scot Siegel
Project Number: 202048
Project Name: Recovery of Giant Garter Snake Habitat
Agency: State of California
Schedule: TBD
Terms: Lump Sum, Not To Exceed
Funding: TBD (No Stimulus Funding)
Deadline: Rolling
#
Update 5/22/09:
Project Awarded To: Cancelled
Scot Siegel is a poet and land use planner from Oregon, where he serves on the board of trustees for the Friends of William Stafford. He is the author of Some Weather (Plain View Press, 2008), and Untitled Country, a chapbook due out from Pudding House Publications in 2009.
_______________________________
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
D.C. TOUR
by Bill Costley
"They removed
Pursuit of Happiness
from their currency,
replacing it with
In God We Trust,"
observed our guide
to the ruins of D.C.,
"their Despoiled City,
useful for instruction,"
without elucidation.
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco Bay area chapter of the National Writers Union.
_______________________________
"They removed
Pursuit of Happiness
from their currency,
replacing it with
In God We Trust,"
observed our guide
to the ruins of D.C.,
"their Despoiled City,
useful for instruction,"
without elucidation.
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco Bay area chapter of the National Writers Union.
_______________________________
Thursday, May 28, 2009
THE GODS
by David Chorlton
The gods still meet in an operatic forest
where mist and gloom surround them
as they discuss small matters
such as who lives and who will perish.
It’s all the same to them
in their helmets and breastplates and all
the trappings of their power.
They regard mortality as a kind of weakness,
they who are immune to any virus
and protected from the wars
they ignite on a whim
with a stab of fresh lightning.
We know their names
but we can’t get rid of them
with their bad moods
and greed. Even when the votes
have been counted and they are declared
out of date, defunct and irrelevant
they won’t go away. O they say
they will change but they only
mean clothes and they’re back
in the business of fate
with baritone voices rolling
through the shadows
where they retreat to plan another
election down on Earth,
and another conflict so they
who cannot die
have others do it for them.
David Chorlton lives in Phoenix where he writes and keeps watch for the birds in his urban setting. He likes to celebrate the desert in his work, but sometimes a cautionary tone intrudes as is the case in his chapbook The Lost River, published last year by Rain Mountain Press.
__________________________________________________
The gods still meet in an operatic forest
where mist and gloom surround them
as they discuss small matters
such as who lives and who will perish.
It’s all the same to them
in their helmets and breastplates and all
the trappings of their power.
They regard mortality as a kind of weakness,
they who are immune to any virus
and protected from the wars
they ignite on a whim
with a stab of fresh lightning.
We know their names
but we can’t get rid of them
with their bad moods
and greed. Even when the votes
have been counted and they are declared
out of date, defunct and irrelevant
they won’t go away. O they say
they will change but they only
mean clothes and they’re back
in the business of fate
with baritone voices rolling
through the shadows
where they retreat to plan another
election down on Earth,
and another conflict so they
who cannot die
have others do it for them.
David Chorlton lives in Phoenix where he writes and keeps watch for the birds in his urban setting. He likes to celebrate the desert in his work, but sometimes a cautionary tone intrudes as is the case in his chapbook The Lost River, published last year by Rain Mountain Press.
__________________________________________________
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
HOORAH FOR SONIA, AND
by Margaret S. Mullins
Hooray for all the scruffy kids
in South Bronx public housing
Hooray for all the families
eating arroz y frijoles
Hooray for all the girls whose dads
never saw them in their prom dresses
Hooray for all the moms hanging IV's
and carrying bedpans full of shit
Hooray for all the diabetics
who skipped the cake and walked, walked, walked
Hooray for all the little girls
who read of Nancy Drew and dreamed
Hooray for Princeton, and for Yale
and little New York Catholic schools
Hooray for women who make the choice
to lead their lives so others might
Hooray for intellect finely honed
and empathy to compliment it.
Hooray for Sonia Sotomayor and
all of those who have her back.
Margaret S. Mullins splits her time between rural Maryland, where she writes, and downtown Baltimore, where she plays. She has worked in public health and renovation of old houses. Her writing has appeared in Loch Raven Review, Manorborn, Prairie Poetry, Chesapeake Reader, The Sun, and Welter. She is the editor of the upcoming Manorborn 2009 issue.
__________________________________________________
Hooray for all the scruffy kids
in South Bronx public housing
Hooray for all the families
eating arroz y frijoles
Hooray for all the girls whose dads
never saw them in their prom dresses
Hooray for all the moms hanging IV's
and carrying bedpans full of shit
Hooray for all the diabetics
who skipped the cake and walked, walked, walked
Hooray for all the little girls
who read of Nancy Drew and dreamed
Hooray for Princeton, and for Yale
and little New York Catholic schools
Hooray for women who make the choice
to lead their lives so others might
Hooray for intellect finely honed
and empathy to compliment it.
Hooray for Sonia Sotomayor and
all of those who have her back.
Margaret S. Mullins splits her time between rural Maryland, where she writes, and downtown Baltimore, where she plays. She has worked in public health and renovation of old houses. Her writing has appeared in Loch Raven Review, Manorborn, Prairie Poetry, Chesapeake Reader, The Sun, and Welter. She is the editor of the upcoming Manorborn 2009 issue.
__________________________________________________
BOOM BOOM
by David Plumb
Welcome to our IPod-euphoric Idol popping
lip synching bop dong celebration.
No room for grave undertakings.
Bring them home under the canvas and stick ‘em in a hole.
My credit card expired. No time to stop.
Didn’t mean to eat four pieces of pizza.
I’m just hungry.
You know how it is in the big time.
Show some leg, a little plastic breast.
Maybe a penis shaped like a cell phone.
Anything to drop your drawers
So we can see who owns you.
Never mind where the boys are
Or the girls for that matter.
If they get caught, they’ll have pictures
without heads or maybe throats
cut, or maybe you can shoot
them for being on your lawn.
Don’t run out of gas.
Take your time.
There’s a war going on.
David Plumb’s latest fiction book is A Slight Change in the Weather. He has worked as a paramedic, a cab driver, a, cook and tour guide. A long time San Francisco writer, he now lives in South Florida . Will Rogers said, “Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.” Plumb says, “It depends on the parrot.”
__________________________________________________
Welcome to our IPod-euphoric Idol popping
lip synching bop dong celebration.
No room for grave undertakings.
Bring them home under the canvas and stick ‘em in a hole.
My credit card expired. No time to stop.
Didn’t mean to eat four pieces of pizza.
I’m just hungry.
You know how it is in the big time.
Show some leg, a little plastic breast.
Maybe a penis shaped like a cell phone.
Anything to drop your drawers
So we can see who owns you.
Never mind where the boys are
Or the girls for that matter.
If they get caught, they’ll have pictures
without heads or maybe throats
cut, or maybe you can shoot
them for being on your lawn.
Don’t run out of gas.
Take your time.
There’s a war going on.
David Plumb’s latest fiction book is A Slight Change in the Weather. He has worked as a paramedic, a cab driver, a, cook and tour guide. A long time San Francisco writer, he now lives in South Florida . Will Rogers said, “Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.” Plumb says, “It depends on the parrot.”
__________________________________________________
Sunday, May 24, 2009
CELLAR DOOR / ODE TO ADAM LAMBERT
by Lynnie Gobeille
I want to be the next Adam Lambert.
My poems unique in voice and style …
beamed off satellites
and sent around the world
covering every earthly mile.
Me, picked by the voter’s choice!
But with my luck?
I’d be voted off the Isle.
Perhaps I have my metaphors
and reality all confused.
I want to be Adam Lambert.
My poems to soar and rise,
make the audience stand to cheer
or weep real tears from their eyes.
I want to wear dark eyeliner,
black nail polish,
and a full length leather coat.
Walk into every room and own it
with some grand act
or words of a spectacular sort.
I would perhaps be boo’d off…..
the judges quickly dismissing me:
And all the rest of you?
My critics seated here? You’d
simply nod your heads and agree.
The audience might see… how badly
I want to be Adam Lambert.....
voting me the next runner up in poetry.
In truth, it is more likely I’d be stoned,
the critics tossing rocks and shouting:
this acts been done before.
The crowds would jeer this copy cat.
They’d bounce me out the cellar door.
Perhaps I will have to try to be
the next Billy Collins in all things poetry.
Learn to savor his words and rants
follow the formula, emulate his dance.
Or I could simply learn from Adam’s lead
strut my stuff and just be me.
Lynnie Gobeille has been published in The Sow's Ear Review, Crone’s Nest, Clear Creek Courant, The Avatar, The Prairie Home Companion, This I Believe (NPR), and The Poetry Loft (online). Two of her poems are included in The Writer’s Circle Anthology 2008. She is the Editor for The Poetry Corner in the Providence Journal South County Section, and is working on a collection of her poetry titled The Fine Art of Becoming Visible. Lives and writes in Wakefield, R.I.
__________________________________________________
i went to school i was very nervous , no one knew me, no one knew me
hello teacher, tell me what’s my lesson? she looked right through me
looked right through me…
and i find it hard to tell you, cause i find it hard to take
when people run in circles, it’s a mad world… it’s a very, very mad world.
I want to be the next Adam Lambert.
My poems unique in voice and style …
beamed off satellites
and sent around the world
covering every earthly mile.
Me, picked by the voter’s choice!
But with my luck?
I’d be voted off the Isle.
Perhaps I have my metaphors
and reality all confused.
I want to be Adam Lambert.
My poems to soar and rise,
make the audience stand to cheer
or weep real tears from their eyes.
I want to wear dark eyeliner,
black nail polish,
and a full length leather coat.
Walk into every room and own it
with some grand act
or words of a spectacular sort.
I would perhaps be boo’d off…..
the judges quickly dismissing me:
And all the rest of you?
My critics seated here? You’d
simply nod your heads and agree.
The audience might see… how badly
I want to be Adam Lambert.....
voting me the next runner up in poetry.
In truth, it is more likely I’d be stoned,
the critics tossing rocks and shouting:
this acts been done before.
The crowds would jeer this copy cat.
They’d bounce me out the cellar door.
Perhaps I will have to try to be
the next Billy Collins in all things poetry.
Learn to savor his words and rants
follow the formula, emulate his dance.
Or I could simply learn from Adam’s lead
strut my stuff and just be me.
Lynnie Gobeille has been published in The Sow's Ear Review, Crone’s Nest, Clear Creek Courant, The Avatar, The Prairie Home Companion, This I Believe (NPR), and The Poetry Loft (online). Two of her poems are included in The Writer’s Circle Anthology 2008. She is the Editor for The Poetry Corner in the Providence Journal South County Section, and is working on a collection of her poetry titled The Fine Art of Becoming Visible. Lives and writes in Wakefield, R.I.
__________________________________________________
Saturday, May 23, 2009
THE LONG VIEW
by Gary Beck
The short-term tenants
on the indifferent earth
greedily grubbed their way
to accumulation,
first of survival weapons,
spears, fire, meat, furs, fuel,
the primitive requirements
necessary to insure
desired continuation.
The exercise of power
won storage space
in the caves of comfort,
allowing distribution
in varied times of need,
or for public rewards
of vital commodities
for services rendered
by loyal followers.
The innovation of cities
provided greater space
for storing more goods,
permitting more resources,
regardless of the weather,
or enemy siege,
to sustain a household,
personal bodyguards,
constabulary, armies,
until one controlled many.
This is history's lesson,
only briefly contradicted
by illusions of democracy.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook Remembrance was published by Origami Condom Press and The Conquest of Somalia was published by Cervena Barva Press. A collection of his poetry Days of Destruction has been published in 2009 by Skive Press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. He currently lives in New York City , where he's busy writing. His poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines.
__________________________________________________
The short-term tenants
on the indifferent earth
greedily grubbed their way
to accumulation,
first of survival weapons,
spears, fire, meat, furs, fuel,
the primitive requirements
necessary to insure
desired continuation.
The exercise of power
won storage space
in the caves of comfort,
allowing distribution
in varied times of need,
or for public rewards
of vital commodities
for services rendered
by loyal followers.
The innovation of cities
provided greater space
for storing more goods,
permitting more resources,
regardless of the weather,
or enemy siege,
to sustain a household,
personal bodyguards,
constabulary, armies,
until one controlled many.
This is history's lesson,
only briefly contradicted
by illusions of democracy.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook Remembrance was published by Origami Condom Press and The Conquest of Somalia was published by Cervena Barva Press. A collection of his poetry Days of Destruction has been published in 2009 by Skive Press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. He currently lives in New York City , where he's busy writing. His poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines.
__________________________________________________
Friday, May 22, 2009
SHADOW ON THE STREET
by Chella Courington
Chella Courington holds a Doctorate in Literature from the University of South Carolina and will complete an MFA in Poetry from New England College in July. Her recent poetry appears in Not A Muse, wicked alice, The Griffin and Iguana Review. With a faint heart, she reads The New York Times and watches nightly news.
__________________________________________________
I find Karl Marx at Starbucks, currant scone in hand, sitting by the window. Maybe at a Dunkin’ Donuts or Waffle House. But Starbucks? Mars must be ascending in Gemini. My legs ache from squats at Gold’s Gym. First night back, hamstrings pulverized. So, Karl, that really you? Beard totally white. Eyes bluer than I remember from Economics. Mind if I sit? With his boot, he pushes out the other chair, licks a finger and wipes the plate spotless. Looking up at me, he grins.
Boom! Bags of Komodo Dragon, Sun Dried Ethiopian and Decaf House Blend go to ground, bursting on the tile floor. Masses of roasted beans bury the feet of guys drinking Ethos water and women sipping vente lattes. Spewing out of the register, blank receipts. The espresso machine splits open and steam rises from Mount St. Helens. Karl and I sit frozen: me from murdered haunches and he waiting to tell someone, I told you so.
Boom! Bags of Komodo Dragon, Sun Dried Ethiopian and Decaf House Blend go to ground, bursting on the tile floor. Masses of roasted beans bury the feet of guys drinking Ethos water and women sipping vente lattes. Spewing out of the register, blank receipts. The espresso machine splits open and steam rises from Mount St. Helens. Karl and I sit frozen: me from murdered haunches and he waiting to tell someone, I told you so.
Chella Courington holds a Doctorate in Literature from the University of South Carolina and will complete an MFA in Poetry from New England College in July. Her recent poetry appears in Not A Muse, wicked alice, The Griffin and Iguana Review. With a faint heart, she reads The New York Times and watches nightly news.
__________________________________________________
Thursday, May 21, 2009
A PIG BY ANY OTHER NAME
by David Feela
The internal numeric repetition
within our new name H1N1
makes the threat more factual
than its overly literal origin,
the Swine Flu.
People won’t start to panic,
mistaking the word Pandemic
for a different strain of meaning
that culminates in mass hysteria.
And how specific we will be
when the World Heath Organization
reclassifies the virus at the threat level of six.
Six on a scale of six, with international
sickness the key to classification.
Of course, pigs are still dying
but not from the disease.
It’s the threat that pork bellies
will continue to fall
and by taking stock of our futures
we find we have no futures at all.
David Feela is a poet, free-lance writer, writing instructor, and book collector.. His work has appeared in regional and national publications, including the High Country News' "Writers on the Range," Mountain Gazette, and in the newspaper as a "Colorado Voice" for The Denver Post. He is a contributing editor and columnist for Inside/Outside Southwest and for The Four Corners Press. A poetry chapbook, Thought Experiments (Maverick Press), won the Southwest Poet Series. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas, is now available.
__________________________________________________
The internal numeric repetition
within our new name H1N1
makes the threat more factual
than its overly literal origin,
the Swine Flu.
People won’t start to panic,
mistaking the word Pandemic
for a different strain of meaning
that culminates in mass hysteria.
And how specific we will be
when the World Heath Organization
reclassifies the virus at the threat level of six.
Six on a scale of six, with international
sickness the key to classification.
Of course, pigs are still dying
but not from the disease.
It’s the threat that pork bellies
will continue to fall
and by taking stock of our futures
we find we have no futures at all.
David Feela is a poet, free-lance writer, writing instructor, and book collector.. His work has appeared in regional and national publications, including the High Country News' "Writers on the Range," Mountain Gazette, and in the newspaper as a "Colorado Voice" for The Denver Post. He is a contributing editor and columnist for Inside/Outside Southwest and for The Four Corners Press. A poetry chapbook, Thought Experiments (Maverick Press), won the Southwest Poet Series. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas, is now available.
__________________________________________________
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
A CASE FOR FREE HIGHER ED
by Tyrone Nagai
Social policy-stimulus entwined,
I couldn’t borrow money from my dad.
No rainy day fund to help in a bind,
just my student loans and credit card tab.
Sheepskin in hand I started paying debt.
I’m making 30¢ more per hour.
Employers and creditors love me yet,
‘cuz I have bills piled like a tower.
I’m the perfect American worker,
a slave to financial institutions.
Would you like fries to go with your burger
or freedom to go with revolution?
I even got a raise in this abyss,
not due to smarts, but from my laziness.
Tyrone Nagai is pursuing his MFA at San Diego State University. He is also associate editor of Fiction International.
_______________________________
Social policy-stimulus entwined,
I couldn’t borrow money from my dad.
No rainy day fund to help in a bind,
just my student loans and credit card tab.
Sheepskin in hand I started paying debt.
I’m making 30¢ more per hour.
Employers and creditors love me yet,
‘cuz I have bills piled like a tower.
I’m the perfect American worker,
a slave to financial institutions.
Would you like fries to go with your burger
or freedom to go with revolution?
I even got a raise in this abyss,
not due to smarts, but from my laziness.
Tyrone Nagai is pursuing his MFA at San Diego State University. He is also associate editor of Fiction International.
_______________________________
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
WATERBOARDING
by John E. Carroll
Water, cold cold water
turning the lips sickly blue
lovely hue
surfboarding
sailboarding
skimboarding
waterboarding
Cheney’s recreation--
dude!
a deluge of water
pouring, relentlessly
mercilessly on cue
The truth about 9/11
would emerge
from murky, layered depths
if Cheney were waterboarded
John E. Carroll teaches literature and critical theory at California State University, Stanislaus. He has published poems in various journals and little magazines, including Big Moon, College English, Indigena, TalkArts, among others. He is completing a collection of poems about American Indians and his Choctaw heritage.
__________________________________________________
Water, cold cold water
turning the lips sickly blue
lovely hue
surfboarding
sailboarding
skimboarding
waterboarding
Cheney’s recreation--
dude!
a deluge of water
pouring, relentlessly
mercilessly on cue
The truth about 9/11
would emerge
from murky, layered depths
if Cheney were waterboarded
John E. Carroll teaches literature and critical theory at California State University, Stanislaus. He has published poems in various journals and little magazines, including Big Moon, College English, Indigena, TalkArts, among others. He is completing a collection of poems about American Indians and his Choctaw heritage.
__________________________________________________
Monday, May 18, 2009
TROOPS SEARCH A VILLAGE
by Timothy M. Connelly
Troops swoop into the village
in helicopters loaded with supplies.
Soldiers take up positions
around the village
as the medics dispense bandages and aspirin.
The people seem happy the troops are there.
They swarm the soldiers
for free tubes of Chapstick.
The soldiers have raided the village before.
Three people are detained,
one man is taken for questioning.
The troops believe
the enemy is present in the village.
“We have good intelligence
that something is going on here,”
says the Captain.
Timothy M. Connelly has been a soldier, a reporter. He now has discovered poetry as a way of expressing his feelings about war, poverty and the human condition.
__________________________________________________
Troops swoop into the village
in helicopters loaded with supplies.
Soldiers take up positions
around the village
as the medics dispense bandages and aspirin.
The people seem happy the troops are there.
They swarm the soldiers
for free tubes of Chapstick.
The soldiers have raided the village before.
Three people are detained,
one man is taken for questioning.
The troops believe
the enemy is present in the village.
“We have good intelligence
that something is going on here,”
says the Captain.
Timothy M. Connelly has been a soldier, a reporter. He now has discovered poetry as a way of expressing his feelings about war, poverty and the human condition.
__________________________________________________
Sunday, May 17, 2009
CHENEY REDUX
by Anne G. Davies
Bush has gone back to his scrublands in Texas
He's neither visible nor audible
Considering the havoc he wreaked on the world
His decision is wholly laudable.
Not so the man who pulled the strings
Issuing directives from underground
Now Cheney holds forth on talk shows
Playing that old Conservative sound:
Colin Powell was never one of us
He's a crypto-Demo at heart
Good riddance to that turncoat Spector
I'm delighted to see him depart.
Bless dear Rush, who provides surety
That there will always be Republican purity.
I weary of hearing about torture
What's wrong with a few shocks to the scrotum?
If it produces the info we need,
We should praise our guys and promote them.
Last words from the Prince of Darkness
As he descends once more to his lair:
Only the GOP can guarantee
That Al Quaeda will remain Over There.
Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published in local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.
__________________________________________________
Bush has gone back to his scrublands in Texas
He's neither visible nor audible
Considering the havoc he wreaked on the world
His decision is wholly laudable.
Not so the man who pulled the strings
Issuing directives from underground
Now Cheney holds forth on talk shows
Playing that old Conservative sound:
Colin Powell was never one of us
He's a crypto-Demo at heart
Good riddance to that turncoat Spector
I'm delighted to see him depart.
Bless dear Rush, who provides surety
That there will always be Republican purity.
I weary of hearing about torture
What's wrong with a few shocks to the scrotum?
If it produces the info we need,
We should praise our guys and promote them.
Last words from the Prince of Darkness
As he descends once more to his lair:
Only the GOP can guarantee
That Al Quaeda will remain Over There.
Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published in local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.
__________________________________________________
Saturday, May 16, 2009
WORLD HEADLINES WESTERN BASTARD GHAZAL
by Diane Raptosh
Melting Arctic Makes Way for Man
Man Pretending to Fall Off Bridge Actually Falls
Mannequin Threatens to Bust Ohio Barbecue Joint
Australian Man Chases Fugitive Emu
Lebanese Asked Not to Kiss Three Times in Anti-Flu Drive
Farmers Fear Pigs May Get Swine Flu from People
Old Man Cuffed in Italy for Coke in Oranges
Osprey Loses Carp Lunch to Power Line, Causing Outage
Alabama Man Sleeps with Gun, Shoots Self
Girl Beats Back Muggers with Marching Band Baton
In Brief: Loud Sounds Scare Scrawny Folk Most
Lawnmower Saves Man from Exploding Grenade
Iraq Memo: 'Everyone Knows Someone Killed by the War'
Analysis: Churchgoers Most Likely to Back Torture
Photo Gallery: Glazier Dies by Own Nail Gun
Photo Gallery: Physician Does Her Rounds in Gaza Hospital
In Depth: Big Pharma Fouls U.S. Water Supply
Handheld Movie: Mining by Mountaintop Removal
Battling Death, Armies, and One's Own Preoccupations
View: We Are Each of Us Torturers in America
Russia's Main Steel Plant Tells Workers 'Grow Potatoes Here'
New Frog Species Abound in Madagascar
Couple Detained for Sex on Windsor Castle Lawn
Happy Serf Liberation Day
Condi Channels Nixon
Geometry is All
Diane Raptosh teaches literature and creative writing at the College of Idaho. She has published three collections of poems, Just West of Now (Guernica Editions, 1992), Labor Songs (Guernica, 1999), and Parents from a Different Alphabet: Prose Poems (Guernica, 2008). She has published widely in journals as The Los Angeles Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, New Verse News, and Women's Studies Quarterly. Her poetry and nonfiction has appeared in numerous anthologies in the U.S. and Canada. She recently won her third fellowship in literature from the Idaho Commission on the Arts.
__________________________________________________
Melting Arctic Makes Way for Man
Man Pretending to Fall Off Bridge Actually Falls
Mannequin Threatens to Bust Ohio Barbecue Joint
Australian Man Chases Fugitive Emu
Lebanese Asked Not to Kiss Three Times in Anti-Flu Drive
Farmers Fear Pigs May Get Swine Flu from People
Old Man Cuffed in Italy for Coke in Oranges
Osprey Loses Carp Lunch to Power Line, Causing Outage
Alabama Man Sleeps with Gun, Shoots Self
Girl Beats Back Muggers with Marching Band Baton
In Brief: Loud Sounds Scare Scrawny Folk Most
Lawnmower Saves Man from Exploding Grenade
Iraq Memo: 'Everyone Knows Someone Killed by the War'
Analysis: Churchgoers Most Likely to Back Torture
Photo Gallery: Glazier Dies by Own Nail Gun
Photo Gallery: Physician Does Her Rounds in Gaza Hospital
In Depth: Big Pharma Fouls U.S. Water Supply
Handheld Movie: Mining by Mountaintop Removal
Battling Death, Armies, and One's Own Preoccupations
View: We Are Each of Us Torturers in America
Russia's Main Steel Plant Tells Workers 'Grow Potatoes Here'
New Frog Species Abound in Madagascar
Couple Detained for Sex on Windsor Castle Lawn
Happy Serf Liberation Day
Condi Channels Nixon
Geometry is All
Diane Raptosh teaches literature and creative writing at the College of Idaho. She has published three collections of poems, Just West of Now (Guernica Editions, 1992), Labor Songs (Guernica, 1999), and Parents from a Different Alphabet: Prose Poems (Guernica, 2008). She has published widely in journals as The Los Angeles Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, New Verse News, and Women's Studies Quarterly. Her poetry and nonfiction has appeared in numerous anthologies in the U.S. and Canada. She recently won her third fellowship in literature from the Idaho Commission on the Arts.
__________________________________________________
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