The Cartier Street Review

July 2009 Edition

2009-07-17T19:29:00.000-07:00

Masthead

Bernard Alain
Founding Editor
Ottawa Canada blog site

Joy Leftow
Principal Editor
New York NY blog site

Dubblex
Assistant Editor
New York NY blog site

Thomas Hubbard
Staff
Puget Sound Washington blog site

The Cartier Street Review currently does not pay contributors for their submissions.

Please view the july edition at:

CSR July 2009 Edition

to preview this edition click the cover page image on the left

Submission Guidelines

We accept contemporary poetry, articles on contemporary poetry, short prose, poet interviews and poetry reviews by email to:
violetwrites@nyc.rr.com
with 'CSR Submission' indicated in the subject line. We accept attachments or you may include the submission in the body of the email. Although we try to publish quarterly there are no deadlines, we publish a new edition of the review based on sufficient qualifying content.

Copyright Clarification

The Cartier Street Review reserves the right to display accepted submissions on the RSS feeds, uploadable PDF files and printed versions of The Cartier Street Review. Submitters are responsible for securing and protecting copyrights before submitting and wholly responsible for their accepted and published submissions to the Cartier Street Review.

Links to other sites:
Wheelhouse Magazine http://www.wheelhousemagazine.com
Madswirl http://www.madswirl.com/
Bentspoon http://www.bentspoon.blogspot.com
Pirene's Fountain http://www.pirenesfountain.com
Lit Up Magazine http://litupmagazine.wordpress.com/
Omega http://homepage.mac.com/miguel_cervantes/OMEGA06/index.htm

Change a young person's life

The secondary education stage of a child's life is one of the most important before adulthood. Be a part of it. Be a teacher.

The contents of this file as well as all associated printed or transmitted media are protected by copyright. Full or partial reproduction of images or text without express permission from the copyright owners is prohibited.

April 2009 Edition

2009-04-17T17:45:00.000-07:00

click here to view edition

The Cartier Street Review

Bernard Alain
Ottawa Canada
Principal Editor blog site

Joy Leftow
New York NY
Production Editor blog site

The Cartier Street Review is a not-for-profit magazine. 50% of all net revenues go to a children's charity that we will select and indicate on the front page of each edition. The balance of proceeds are used to cover the cost of production for the magazine. We currently do not pay contributors for their submissions but hope to do so in the future as the magazine grows. Please support this month's charity by downloading a high resolution print quality PDF file at the following link:

CSR April 2009 Edition

to view this edition click the cover page image on the left

Help support the cause for this edition.

Submission Guidelines

We accept contemporary poetry, articles on contemporary poetry, short prose, poet interviews and poetry reviews by email to:
violetwrites@nyc.rr.com
with 'CSR Submission' indicated in the subject line. We accept attachments or you may include the submission in the body of the email. Although we try to publish by the first of each month there are no deadlines, we publish a new edition of the review based on sufficient qualifying content.

Copyright Clarification

The Cartier Street Review retains the right to display accepted submissions on the RSS feeds, uploadable PDF files and printed versions of The Cartier Street Review. Submitters are responsible for securing and protecting copyrights before submitting and wholey responsible for their accepted and published submissions to the Cartier Street Review.

Links to other sites:
Wheelhouse Magazine http://www.wheelhousemagazine.com
Bentspoon http://www.bentspoon.blogspot.com
Pirene's Fountain http://www.pirenesfountain.com
Lit Up Magazine http://litupmagazine.wordpress.com/
Omega http://homepage.mac.com/miguel_cervantes/OMEGA06/index.htm

The contents of this site as well as all associated printed or transmitted media are protected by copyright. Full or partial reproduction of images or text without express permission from the copyright owners/authors published in the site content is prohibited.

March 2009 Front Page

2009-03-02T18:47:00.000-08:00

March Edition 2009

this issue

accepted artwork and poetry submissions
... page 2

a note
from the editors

In this edition we will be displaying submissions from both emerging and established poets in the same section of the review. We have also mixed the artwork with the poetry so we hope you enjoy the cross-section of talent and variety being offered and look forward to more submissions from you for 2009. We welcome contemporary poetry, articles and reviews from all parts of the world. Please follow the guidelines at the bottom of this page and don't forget to include a short bio as well as a photo of the author.

Regards,

Bernard Alain
Editor
visit my blog

Joy Leftow
Production Editor
visit my blog

featured
chapbook release

When Hephaestus Fell & other poems

by Sarah Tampus Cabrera
Phillipines

Concept and content: “When Hephaestus Fell & other poems” is an art & poetry chapbook celebrating the triumph of hope in times of adversity, the strength of the will and the person’s enduring spirit in times of struggle. It contains 50 poems and 25 artworks on the pain and pleasures of self-definition, love, memories, societal contradictions, self-expression, spirituality, and the process of forging strong guiding principles to live by. It also contains other poems by featured poets.

The book launching will be held at Kukuk's Nest, Gorordo Ave., Lahug, Cebu City, 7 PM, on March 13, 2009. The event will involve poetry reading of 10 poems from the book (by different readers), intermission performances by young musicians and performance artists, and will culminate with an open-mic poetry reading. There will also be a call for submissions of poetry, short-stories and artworks for the next chapbook. Approximately 100-150 people are expected to attend, coming from schools and universities all over Cebu.

Publisher:Lightbulb Publishing
Language: English

To obtain a copy of this release by Sarah Tampus Cabrera please use the following link:

http://lightbulbpublishing.blogspot.com/

Link to Sarah Cabrera's website: http://www.sarahcabrera.co.cc/

emerging artist

Bettina Burch

I have been published in international and local magazines and newspapers; have my work in several private collections; have attended the Museum School, Harvard University, and have my B.A. from Principia College.

For more information contact:

email: bettinaburch@gmail.com
website: www.bettinaburch.com

jimi by Bettina Burch

links to other sites

Wheelhouse Magazine
http://www.wheelhousemagazine.com

in the spotlight

Tiziano Fratus
Italy

Tiziano Fratus (1975) is poet, translator, editor, director of Festival and Edizioni Torino Press. He published nine books of poems in Italy; his poetry has been translated and published in Usa, Argentina, Portugal, France, Switzerland, Poland, Germany, Uk, Slovack Republic, Singapore, Hong Kong. Last books: A Room in Jerusalem (Brooklyn, 2008), Doubleskin (Singapore, 2009), 5PX2 (Edinburgh, 2009). It’s forthcoming the anthology of all of his poetry, La bottiglia di Klein (Klein’s Bottle, Lugano/Torino, 2009).

selected poem

american chlamydosaurus

[to thomas mcgrath]

in a murky photograph you’re wearing a jersey jacket that’s probably black or dark blue or anthracite gray
and I imagine you walking out of your house sticking your shirt cuffs into the first sleeves you come upon next to the door tossing your head into the frame of the mirror without paying any attention to what the glass reflects you combed your fingers through your hair pulling it back knitting the wrinkles on your brow and narrowing your eyelids
maybe you had even just finished writing that poem in which you describe the indifference of people to the news of (your) death
as I reread you in your language that is as discreet and stealthy as a cat’s sense of timing I told myself how you were capable of writing new verses after bleeding to death for roughly thirty years
working yourself up over cities that disappeared after an inky voyage and not just from the plowed-up soil of north dakota all the way to the rivers of roads in the realist paintings of that asia minor of the intellect in which you asked yourself for refuge
on the old continent they are still blinded by the clothing that was applied to protect the decency of the nudes in the sistine chapel and deafened by the few names that are ill-digested and always the same recycled in the anthologies that are photocopied from generation to generation
nobody wants to be tired out or be given too many alternatives of species

by Tiziano Fratus

Note:

he is a poet who wrote a long poem in four parts, Letter to an imaginary friend. The complete version was published by Copper Canyon Press in 1997. The exact quote is Los Angeles Asia Minor of the intellect Exile. In Italy, there is a trace of this poem in the book Nuova Poesia Americana. Los Angeles, Mondadori, 2005.

Translation: Gail McDowell.

featured site

Bentspoon www.bentspoon.blogspot.com
Ross Priddle
Calgary, Canada

Bentspoon is a blog run by Ross Priddle from Calgary Canada, an eclectic mix of links to visual poetry, covers, poster art and small press with links to artists including himself and other publications from John M. Bennet, Lawrence Upton and many others. Featured (below) from a link I found on this site is XAM by Ann Bogle with a link to a PDF download of this publication. A good find.

XAM by Ann Bogle

When I wrote XAM: Paragraph Series in 1998, I was in those cities and locations cited in these passages. I see the pieces as related prose poems. A prose poem, as I have practiced it, is two pages or fewer in length and uses language, rather than temporal events, as the first given. Glimpses of action, person (not as in fiction, “character”), and scene may also appear in them. Prose poems are less calculating than fiction and less tightly crafted than a short story or short poem; they are less pre-meditated. Perhaps they are more rhythmic. My friend,

Michael J. Kelly, admitted to finding the rhythms in XAM to be difficult to follow. It reminds me that rhythm is something also personal. The best rhythmic writing would be “beatest.” Yuan is my codeword for today.

—Ann Bogle

ANN BOGLE's writings include letters, journals, poems, prose poems, literary essays, short stories, and short novels. She has written a book of mixed-genre prose (story, aphorism, essay, and diary) called Work On What Has Been Spoiled. Her short stories have appeared in The Quarterly, Fiction International, Gulf Coast, Washington Review, Black Ice, Cool Hearts, Submodern Fiction, and Poetic Inhalation. A selection of mixed-genre passages titled "This Was Called War at One Time" appeared in Neuromantic Fiction, an anthology published by altx. She received the MFA in fiction from the University of Houston in 1994. She was awarded a Minnesota State Arts Board grant for mixed-genre writing in 1998 and has since been nominated to have a chair named for her along with other Minnesota writers at the Minneapolis Public Library.

XAM
with Lithokons by mIEKAL aND
2005
28 pages
8.5x11
b&w and color
ISBN 0-9770049-1-0
ISBN 978-0-9770049-1-1

A PDF of this publication available for download here from XEXOXIAL at www.xexoxial.org

A review of Daniel Borzutzky's
'one size fits all'

by Joy Leftow

      Borzutzky’s poetry is a strange exotic and eclectic mix; a conglomerate of words that while I read I wonder who is this dude who strings these words together like this. Sometimes I know what he is saying from one sentence to the next. Sometimes one sentence follows the thoughts and sequence of the one before and sometimes it doesn’t. I don’t exactly know what to do so I follow along because he’s strange enough to make me want to. Although I read the lines in bewilderment I laugh and feelings are aroused.

      'one size fits all' published by Scantily Clad Press opens with the prick of misgiving glides on references to Milton and Blake that seep out in dry sardonic humor, closing with "Suddenly I was old, and had no one to fucking talk to.", the classic death of the poet. Borzutzky outright admits that poetry becomes the property of the reader once published ...woohoo :), I like that! “I do not own this poem; it is the responsibility of the poetic community.” And, “If you can’t feel the tickle on your genitals that this poem provides,” please masturbate safely within the confines of rubber walls and maybe then size won’t matter.

      I visualize the scenario from his poems with his unique illustrations and I treasure his concepts; i.e., you don’t have to be a winner to win. Sometimes you may as well scratch your ass instead of your head for all the good anything will do you in society’s grip.

      Borzutzky has trapped me and remade me in his image. This collection is written for the poet exorcizing familiar demons in spurts of more traditional views and references. The general notion being if you haven't lived it how could you possibly write about it and if you did live it would you be crazy enough to write it and if you did write it would anybody understand or read it ... right? I laugh and go back to what I read before. I think that could be me, that is me he’s talking about not only himself. I relate to the artist’s lament about how the industry prostitutes ethics.

      “The problem, said the critic, remains one of imagination and its insistence on the distinction between thought and action”. We all have to live with criticism, poets especially, since strong and different works always raise suspicions and hard penises. “Poetry lives here,” she replied, “but he will chop you up and kill you, and then he’ll cook you and eat you,” along with attachable and detachable prosthetics to demonstrate how we either give or shed an artificial piece of ourselves - very unique imagery and this is what makes Borzutzky more cool. A daring risk-taker appeals to me. “I vomit a poem onto a stack of bloody cows and win a Pushcart prize.” I do understand - I think I do…

      What I like the most is that Daniel Borzutzky does not fit the mold. I like his differences, the folly and play in his voice, his humor and sarcasm; I feel his triumph and growth develop. The voice of Marguerite Duras mixes with Milton and “the colored girls go.” I can ask for no more; I’m getting all the visceral stimulation I need.

featured artist

by Meme Arte
Mexico

About Meme's Art

A tradition long in years and venerable in custom sometimes gets lost in the shuffle of critical estimation. For reasons of ambivalence rather than judgment, I call it didactic art. Its claim to instruct and to reveal aspects of human behavior; social, personal, political, to the moral scrutiny we might otherwise neglect.

This narrative and realistic art in modern life is relegated to the bin of "illustration". Illustration" and art, plus helps us see sardonic humor..

The man inhabiting the exquisite graphic landscapes and interiors of Meme's world, his eyes drooping with melancholic acceptance of his choices, none of which will ever pan out in his lifetime is "everyman" living in the existential dilemma, where, as the Rumanian-French philosopher Cioran says: "To wake at three in the morning and contemplate suicide appears to be that which is most normal." Meme is Godot, and Quixote too, and Dante. He is Bruno Schulz and Dimitri Haramozov and he is Adam.

In Meme's pictures the wry humor and tough characterization sharpen the image into a condensation of wit more punchy than brutal. Memes predecessor may be Draumier. Meme's depiction of his principal protagonists possesses tenderness and tension of sexual desire not found in the great French graphic artist.

These canvases filled with beautiful, adroit drawing and painted with love, whose protagonist lives the existential dilemma of fugitive in his own body and an emigrant in his own country make us laugh in self-recognition and ask our indulgence to sympathize with anxiety where the only memories are those of the future.

Meme Arte's website:
http://www.meme-arte.com.mx/

March 2009 page 2

2009-03-02T18:44:00.000-08:00

Content Links

Links by contributing artist:

Bettina Burch
Teresa White
Willow Gray
Alex Bustillo
Meme Arte
Randall Radic
Anatholie Alain

Submissions

january 2009 by Bettina Burch

I have been published in international and local magazines and newspapers; have my work in several private collections; have attended the Museum School, Harvard University, and have my B.A. from Principia College.

For more information contact:

email: bettinaburch@gmail.com
website: www.bettinaburch.com

One poem by Dubblex

DubbleX currently resides in New York and has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools.

Tribute to John Coltraine

Be-bop
Rip rocken
Sure shocken
Be boppen
Get things poppen
Drown in the avalanche of sound
Smooth riffs of saxophones
Drum and bass a cacophony of tones
Jazzy melodies and 20-minute solos
In the flow it goes
Listen to him blow up and down the scale
Climbing to the top the cat sure can wail
He's a musical genius, tremendous
The bass and sax make you tingle and relax
He's a legend of jazz
Pushing it to out of breath
His breath control circular breathing
Look close, you can see his chest heaving
Covering the night club with a musical flood
Sound so bold and bright playing deep into the night
Fingers quick in a split kicking off licks
He makes it look so easy and sound so ready
Accompanied by a throbbing bass and drumming pace
Like busting through darkness
His sound drips then gushes
He lived that lush life high as a kite, drinks or smack he could play that sax
Expressing emotions and feeling his be bop beat no one else could compete so unique and complete be free style or off the sheet
he captured the vibe of city streets
Back in the day that man could play
Fast or slow sweet and mellow
He played like the sound of a sunrise
He played like the sound of the dawn
Quiet like whispers of nightfall
The beat of heavy rainfall, deep in the jungle call
Notes squealing and squeaking like his instrument was speaking kept peaking the next level seeking
Made you feel something playing music sounding like running so stunning backed by drumming bass fingers strumming
He uncovered explored and opened sounds to his sax roar
want more want more
how that melody did soar in score after score
The cymbal and the high hat the toe tap
Plays filling the empty spaces a colorful oasis with rhythm chases
guides our ears through a maze of amazing solos the way you blow
Like no other like no other
Saxophone smothered
There you go again blowing like a northeasterly wind
So free so easy so easy so free
Holding those high notes making music float playing in the haze of your dope
Your music stands the test of time
It is everlasting forceful blasting
I like to listen to you in my different mind states help me escape
I want to ride that Blue Train
With My Favorite things
Making that soprano sax sing
Want to make my Ascension with Giant Steps
To the Afro Blue Impression
To Meditations
Got to hear that Love Supreme
From the Blue Note to The Village Vanguard
You were kicking it heavy and hard
Getting down with Monk and Miles
That free jazz invented your own style

One poem by Joy Leftow

“Poet Laureate” of Washington Heights, Joy Leftow is a double alumna at Columbia University and has her second Masters from CCNY in Creative Writing. Joy’s style is - in your face reality. When Joy is not busy doing people & cat rescues, she meets her muse & reflects on relationships with more sarcasm than you’d get in an entire season of Seinfeld.

Spreading Wildcat Fire

Caught on fire ~ sizzle with desire
Cause havoc when I prance cross city streets
Barely escape slaughter as I
suddenly appear out of nowhere,
the sun gleaming in my hair
You barely miss me as I spin past your fender
You smile and wave goodbye
And are glad for I
Suspend the silver gloom around you
Momentarily the
Sunshine of my heart beats
Scarlet on top purple beneath
My true colors
For you I throw in some sunset red
I tattoo myself on you
Winged fairy of time
Imprinted on your soul & memory
I raise your energy
The twitter stops
Nervous laughter
I speak my first line
Only fool falls asunder
Lightening strikes twice
And Jill came tumbling after
Jack fell down
It's beyond the fruits of my labor
She probably meant to save him
Either that or she wanted his crown
I surrender…
I learn to connect to unconnected to survive to live
In ways I couldn’t see how to before this

One poem by Janice Brabaw

Janice Brabaw is an established production coordinator and production accountant in the television field. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New York with her menagerie of cats and fish and plants. She is the author of two books that detail her struggle with depression, borderline personality disorder, and binge eating disorder - And Again: A Memoir of a Life Disordered and a collection of poetry called Universe, Disturbed.

website: http://www.janicebrabaw.com/

Anxiety.

It starts in my shoulders
I find myself stooping, slumped
Blades retracted, too close
Cramped, I am withered and hiding.

Then my jaw, clenched, tight
I try to release and relax
opening and closing my mouth
like a silent little gold fish

It manifests through my arms
down to my finger nails
This buzzing, anxiety in my veins
I feel like I am shaking when I'm still

Rarely does it reach my stomach
Somehow it skips to my bladder
Sends me trembling through the house
I don't close the door anymore

My biceps are conductors
and the electricity prickles and pulses
I am fizzy, tortured soda pop
Threatening to erupt, to explode

I'm not always sure
why lightning strikes
or why I can't shake
the thunder

Coney Island by Willow Gray

Willow Gray lives and works in NYC. A former architect, she currently makes images and objects, often including text.

email:
ambiguityfarm@gmail.com

Three poems by Heller Levinson

Heller Levinson lives in NYC where he studies animal behavior. He has published in over a hundred journals and magazines including Sulfur, Hunger, Talisman, First Intensity, Laurel Review, The Wandering Hermit, Ampersand, etc. His most recent publication, SMELLING MARY (Howling Dog Press), has been nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Please visit www.hellerlevinson for more information.

with

hilarity, ...     remorse

calumny           adjutancy           alembic

the calculus unremitting & curly

cantankerous

landfills purring fortifying credit

stoppage on a par with demonstration the King is dead

distribute wake-up calls democratically

arousal is intersection spiced with anticipation

the time to repea(n)t is when graciousness steals bases umpires storm the fields in holy

garb rant for conclusivity

interference the penalty box diameter insufficient

the road to no road aptly

with

electronics, ...     horseless

ness                     age of

geographical erasure                 current upbraid

conducting ion wattage cathode ampere chariot amber nunnery mummeries bloated in

inundatory mimetic mnemonic coat

pow-er ...

the here of the here is here not

which is to say

that the is of the here is is not

which is

what?

where do we go from here

transmissions in exchange for abolishment? the history of electronics is ever greater

diminution

to have a beer at a deep rich mahogany bar in Brooklyn thinking of Walt Whitman is

electrical but is not electronics ... history will define Homo sapiens sapiens as that species

which ushered artificial intelligence onto planet earth ...

mud and pigs are not electronics, are they a form of counter-conductivity?

               instantaneity closets                 the withdrawn

                     screens replace mirrors

                               incantatory coventries belie

smelling Mary is electrical but not electronic

as we mounted the horse, electronics mounts us

spurs us, reins our lives

ruling the visible we are ruled by the invisible

sensorial reset

subterranean jollities

annihilation javelins

savage the way we surrender

from loquacious this easel

westward drill

intent with summons

counterfeiting larkspur melodies

numinous geographies

deploring

the low ground

canvas misfirings

pigments mistressing

ignorant of station

(containerships necklace the seas

                -- bleed matriculates

banking pneumatic corollas

hilariate

windspray vineyards

the trump magnificence of sunsledding overlords

brushstrokes

defiant

hemotrophic

fat

with color

One poem by Demetrius Daniel

Demetrius Daniel is a spoken word artist and musician residing in Washington Heights. He has read throughout New York City in venues such as the Nuyorican Poet’s Café & the Knitting Factory. Demetrius has read at the Monkey Room & the Archway. He has also hosted a reading series at the formerly known Bahamas Restaurant back in 2003 & the “WORD” series at the OSA church from 2004 to 2005. In 2006, Demetrius was a featured guest on Rockland world radio as well as the local TV show, “The New Yorkers.” He has performed at the Uptown Artstroll since 2005. Demetrius also plays trombone with the Latin jazz bands Masacote and IC Express. He has a CD entitled “Words Speak” on cdbaby.com. He has also been published in the “Silent Journey.” Demetrius teaches English and poetry to middle school students at Eleanor Roosevelt Intermediate School. He has also featured at STAINS lounge in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. He has been a featured reader at STARK’s and Nightingale Lounge’s Saturn series. Demetrius currently plays in the band DEEP INTENT. He currently features at various open mics around New York City.

I Want My Cuchifrito

I want my cuchifrito
While my bed’s still warm
Sun’s golden rays gleaming
I want my cuchifrito
After hitting the snooze button
Alarm clock still screaming
I want my cuchifrito
Afternoon, during lunch break
On top of long mahogany desk
Between sheets of paper
I want my cuchifrito
Before the supervisor finds out
And like Biz Markie says
Catches the vapors
I want my cuchifrito
In the evening
Just after tedious talk shows
Before nightly news has begun
I want my cuchifrito
Right after Letterman, Jay, and Conan’s
Final joke or pun
I want my cuchifrito
Uptown, downtown
Spring, winter, summer, or fall
I want my cuchifrito
Walking down the block
For no good reason at all
I want my cuchifrito
Tender, a little oily, and caliente hot
I want my cuchifrito
MMMMMMMMM,
Always hits a righteous spot
I want my cuchifrito
With that African-Caribbean…
Pinch of European flavor
Tasty titillating juices
Exploding, I must savor
But lately, my doctor says
You simply have had cuchifrito one way
It’s way too much
Why don't you try it differently?
Cuchi grilled, cuchi baked, or cuchi raw
Not too spicy and such
I guess cuchi-Frito
A little variety
Will have to do
Just remember though
Cuchifrito
Like the song says
I will always
Love
You!

One poem by Tatjana Debeljacki

Tatjana Debeljacki, born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia HDS Montenegro-HUSCG&HDPR,Croatia. Up to now three collections of poetry have been published: A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS, published by ART – Užice; YOURS, published by NARODNA KNJIGA Belgrade and VULCANO by Haiku Lotos, Valjevo.CD-BOOK, A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS. ART+ Uzice. "AH-EH-EEH-OH-OOH" published by Poeta Belgrade. 2008.

THE TIME OF BIRTH

I will conquer the fear of flying
I will jump with the parachute of kiss
While walking I’ll dance to the drum rhythm
Dream in the clothes of the penguin
Thumb through the book
Goodbye my sixteen years
with premises in the mind
that I will carry them
in my fifties
real and modest
and at least once a day
I will laugh out loud
Really enjoy
In intimately woven world
When the moon passes its seventh round
And Jupiter falls on Mars
Our world will be the leader
And love will be the path for the stars
That would be the time when
Aquarius is born
To my grandchildren, grand-grandchildren
I will tell stories about times
When people were people.

One poem by Brenda Cook (Bebe)

Bebe Cook lives in Texas comes from a southern U.S. oral tradition of story-telling. She has placed in local and national poetry contests and continues to write poetry to record her own rooms and moments in order to bring that tradition to the page. Her work has appeared in Flutter Poetry Journal, Autumn Sky Poetry and Six Little Things. She enriches her writing with the diversity of gardening, photography, and working as an environmental scientist.

Resonance

The blues
      live, so I learned
in the MoPo district of New York

                              City; inside a seed of a bar. A room
                              sliver, long and thin like a bass
                              reed dressed in red.

                        No Cover:
                        two drink minimum,
                        strictly enforced. A pick-up bar,

      packed full of young
            urban
                  professionals,
                              loose ties
                              and
                              lusty hearts.

                              I sit
and shuffle a deck
                                          of cards, purchased
                                          at a novelty

                  shop two doors down; George Bush in drag
                        on 52 cards. I came

for the blues.
A tiny Asian women
in a midnight dress
steps
out from behind
the crushed crimson curtain;
                  a     songbird with a deep
                              full
                              voice.

                              She opens
      her mouth and sings.

                              I feel her melody,
      her siren speak,
      her soul slides
                              along my chords, baby
                              she can belt the blues.

                                                      You strike the
tuning fork.
                                          I feel the metal vibrate,
                              hear its melodic hum
                                       and I answer it
                                                   with my own.

      Your harmonic signature resonates.
            I hear
      the pitch, feel
      the tone. Who
                        is
      the signature? Who is
                        a harmonic
                        shadow? Am I
background noise
or the 4th
overtone?                                 I long for the resonance
                  of the words
                  brought to life. My muse
                  dresses in scarlet, her spiked toes
                  tap, and sometimes she croons

                   to me.
                   Bebe,
I just want to be the blues.

A Whisper, Perhaps, From the Universe's Dark Side
by Alex M. Bustillo

Alex M. Bustillo was born in Miami, Florida in 1965. He graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in English from Florida International University. He resides in France, where he is he is a business coach and trainer. He develops blogs for visual artists. He has recently started to work on photo and image manipulation in the "mandelbrotia" Blog . Alex has no formal training but is intensely curious and somewhat ironic. He has lived in Latin America, Canada, Italy and The United States.

website: http://bustill.blogspot.com/

One poem by Kush Arora

Kush Arora is a 22 yr old Indian national and a student of engineering in India. Writing is his passion, Tagore and Gibran are some of hia favourite writers.

I shut them out, those memories

‘Gilded tombs do worms infold’
-- William Shakespeare

I worded them out, those memories—
When they came to me
To ask of their rightful place
In a corner of my heart
Instead of honouring their needs
And listening to their voice
And giving them permanent abode in my heart
I promptly shut them out:—
Didn’t listen to them; instead ‘taped’ on them my voice
As I ceremoniously put on them the coruscant crowns of poetry
Which became their yoke and their cage
With time, they were so flattered with their riches
They turned themselves in their image:
Their shrieking were numbed so
It sounded like a bird’s sweet call
And my heart it no longer battered
And so it no longer mattered

So, instead of preserving them in my heart
I preserved gilded tombs of them in poetry
Poetry speaks for them now and they are mute
Mute; perhaps shied away because of the wiles and ways of Poetry
They lack charm and sophistication
And decent, social ways
They rather let Poetry speak in their turn
As she knows its way around
The hearts of others and mine better, you see

Well, the Bard said it true,
‘Gilded tombs do worms infold.’
In poetries
I worded them out, those memories—
I shut them out.

Geisha by Teresa White

Teresa White is the author of two books of poetry: In What Furnace and Gardenias for a Beast, the latter endorsed by Billy Collins and in the running for the Pulitzer Prize in 2008. Teresa is finalizing the manuscript for her third collection due out later this spring. Read more about Teresa at her

website: www.teresawhitepoetry.com

Three poems by Sarah Cabrera

Sarah Cabrera is ready to emerge from her private diaries and journals. Poetry is her meditation, therapy, art and weapon of choice. As a psychology major, law student, student organizer, social activist and feminist, she finds it necessary to strive for mastery over words and her own voice through poetry--not only for purposes of persuasion and strengthening debates, but also to stretch and test the boundaries of logic and her imagination. To her, writing poetry is its own reward--an exercise of personal freedom. For her, a lot of irreverence is necessary for creativity. A total opposite of the culture of conformity in most law schools. By and by, she writes to reclaim the precious space in her head and her own humanity from the intrusion of the cold clutter of legalese and repressive unwritten norms of society.

She is set to publish more than 30 of her poems and some sketches in the art & poetry chapbook "When Hephaestus Fell & other poems," to be launched in the middle of March 2009, in Cebu City, Philippines. This project is in collaboration with the Jose Joya Awardee artist, Christian Galinato.

Bitch-speak: Several Condescending Ways to Say NO

Your hard
drive
is so incompatible with
my soft
ware.

We are so
alike
that we
repel.

You're so weak where
I am strong;
no, no honey we
just don't
belong.

Our compasses point
to different
Norths,
so abort your
mission,
just abort.

Oh go
away, don't
waste my time
'cause I really
hate to
have to rhyme.

It's really
tiring, being too
polite
so just for once
please
get it right:

...it's not me
it IS you,
don't act so
surprised.

Sisters

They came
all dressed and
dolled up.

Pretty ladies in a circle
share a pitcher of
frozen margaritas.
Glasses tipped with salt,
girls brimming
with youth,
glowing.

She says to one, "Enjoy
and play it
by ear"
to the other
"Drop him,
He is no good"

Then they raise
their glasses, a toast
for the best.

They cross their legs
under their type-A skirts
and move closer
to share secrets
between
sips and a few
puffs.

They dry their tears
to enjoy
each others' laughter.

They talk about lovers
and romance--
How to take delight in and
how to reveal.
They tell stories
about families
and plans.
They talk of endings
and beginnings.

They are women
of the mind,
Women of discipline
and women of the heart.
They bloom
with each experience,
each lesson,
each tear they allow to fall
and each mountain they conquer.

Expressing Oneself
by Randall Radic

Randall Radic is an Old Catholic priest, former pastor, and convicted felon. He lives in Northern California, where he reads, writes, smokes good cigars, drinks wine and visits San Francisco as often as possible.

email: doctorradic@msn.com

One poem by Joseph Goosey

Joseph Goosey is hiding in the library. He recently lost his girlfriend due to a few poems he wrote about how sexy he finds the girls in the Canadian band, Pony Up! Also, he has a chapbook available via Poptritus Press and thanks you for reading.

SIDE ITEM

For too long
have I tap danced
on the edge
of a decent
artistry.

Yesterday,
I purchased a salad
simply because Lucy
with her large
red spectacles
was browsing
the salads.

It was only
a simple side
item.

No bacon, of course.

It's possible
that Lucy
is a vegan,
not unlike,
so many
other traps.

One poem by Stephanie Edwards

Stephanie Edwards was born in Lansing, MI and is a senior at Albion College, pursuing a double major in English with a Creative Writing Emphasis and Economics. At Albion College, she is president of English honorary Sigma Tau Delta and works as a Poetry & Fiction Editor on the Albion Review, a nationally circulated undergraduate literary magazine. At school, she also works as a writing consultant in the college's writing center. She spent the spring of 2008 semester interning with Member of European Parliament Peter Skinner in Brussels, Belgium, where she wrote political speeches and press releases. She spent the summer of 2008 as a research fellow at Albion College, researching the effects of place on the poetry of James Wright.

C-a-n-c-e-r

On nights like this, some kneel down to pray.

I kneel down in my garden under the stars,

searching through crab grass for something holy.

The word sticks in my throat a little when I try to spit it out:

c-a-n-c-e-r—a six letter word, worth ten points in Scrabble.

Cancer is a crab, fourth sign of the zodiac.

Its children are forced to walk sideways through life,

gifted with hard shells to protect their delicate centers.

Yahoo says Cancers should enjoy this July's "summer good times."

Hippocrates thought the cut surface

of a malignant tumor looked like a crab,

legs splayed out on all sides, invading healthy tissue.

I rip the crab grass out of the dirt, struggling not to leave any fugitive roots

to choke out my tomato plants. The small green bulbs rest peacefully,

wholly unaware that I nurtured (dare I say saved?) them tonight.

¡Ella sin el en el sillon verde!
by Meme Arte

In Meme's pictures the wry humor and tough characterization sharpen the image into a condensation of wit more punchy than brutal. Memes predecessor may be Draumier. Meme's depiction of his principal protagonists possesses tenderness and tension of sexual desire not found in the great French graphic artist.

website: http://www.meme-arte.com.mx/

Two poems by John Yamrus

John Yamrus has been a fixture in American poetry for four decades. Since 1970 he has published 2 novels, 18 volumes of poetry and more than 900 poems in magazines around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into several languages including Spanish, Swedish, Italian, Japanese and (most recently) Romanian. His newest book is 'New and Selected Poems' and is now available online at http://www.lummoxpress.com should you like to obtain a copy.

in dog obedience class…

for once,
my little Abby
did everything right.

for once,
she didn’t
bite, jump or pull.

this time
she paid attention
and sat and stayed
and came
and listened…

just like all the other dogs.

i can’t tell you how much
i hated that.

she loved the literary types…

men who used
and understood
the language of words.

this made it
all the more
disconcerting
when the latest object
of her desires
rejected her,

saying:
“i’m not your type.

really.

you’re looking for
a straight declarative,

and all i’ve got
to offer
is a dangling participle.”

Two poems by Yahia Lababidi

Yahia Lababidi is the author of a critically-acclaimed book of aphorisms 'Signposts to Elsewhere' - selected for 'Books of the Year (The Independent, UK, 2008) as well as 'Year in Books' (Sun Sentinel, USA, 2007). Yahia Lababidi is also an internationally published poet and one of few contemporary writers to be featured in the encyclopedia of "The World's Great Aphorists" - a compendium of wit and wisdom- by former TIME magazine editor and author, James Geary (Bloomsbury, 2007).

website: www.janestreet.org/press

Fanciful creators

What fanciful creators we are:
bestowing shock absorbers on cars
sprinkling tenderizer on meats
and stitching wrinkle-resistant shirts

Such wishful thinking, this
gifting what we desire.

I saw my face

I saw my face this morning
hovering at the base
of a coffee cup

eyes liquid black
and thirsting
lips parted as if

some great spoon
had stirred me to the depths
and left everything, swirling.

Intertwined
by Anatholie Alain

Anatholie Alain is an canadian artist who has been exhibiting her works with galleries in the Ottawa area and currently dabbles with mixed media.

website: http://anatholie.spaces.live.com/

One poem by Don Stabler

Donald Stabler has been writting seriously for about 13 years now and a member of The Ontario Poets Society. (TOPS) For about 4 years and published in their newsletters and anthologies. Don reads for different occasions and parties and likes to surf the you tube poetry videos.

Medicine

The generation voice
All souls grow dazed
As the brilliant sun
Drifts across the afternoon.
I heard you in a season
Where life was answered
By an excellent question.
On your door I place
Corners of mystery knocks.
The response boldly sings
A spirit chanted to a clear heaven.

Those hours where
The medicine cropped
A chance at continuing.
You who are far.
I bellow like the valley
Antlers cold in a dream.
Where the light comes
To sustain beauty.
And you are divine voice
Like the learning in a silence.

One poem by Tiziano Fratus

[unity]

(From A Room in Jerusalem)

the body is laid on the faded old yellow and blue towel
the years blow on the breeze coming in off the sea accompanying the waves as they approach and break on the reversed edge of the beach
I acclimatize myself to the breathing of the surf
the shrill cries of boys and girls as they play in the water
this raging war seems so far away where fathers and sons subsist with curtailed breath
ready to bombard with technology’s help
the egyptian army and the meager phalanges so arrogantly sent by damascus
while the newspapers of the european capitals brandish yet again the terror of a resumption of the
shoah right where it had been interrupted
the generals from tel aviv write down in secreted notebooks the details of a proclaimed crushing victory
they know the weight of the arab armies
whose equipment and preparation is not unlike that of the fascist army
which at one time had a certain amount of difficulty in conquering albania thus delaying the beginning of the german advance on moscow
I read in the sand the word i s r a e l as it cancels itself
every morning a dark girl wearing a white dress her hair bound by a pink sash
walks barefoot to this protected beach
she sheds a dose of tears and mixes it with the salt water
in her palestinian blood circulates the memory of an israeli soldier
who was killed in one of the wars that enflame the sand and the stones
each morning she kisses the forehead of her newborn son lying in his crib and goes to the sacred place
bound to a love that is now physically rent
with her finger she writes a name that will be cancelled by this evening
it is the destiny of a people

One poem by David Cheezem

David Cheezem owns Fireside Books and www.goodbooksbadcoffee.com, an independent bookstore in Palmer, Alaska. He earned his MFA in creative writing from the University of Alaska Anchorage in 1997.

A Conversation with Pol Pot

So what’s it like, Pol Pot?
Tell us what’s it like.
To be cheered on the streets of Phnom Penh
By the people you would kill?

Pol Pot scraped his toast.
It was very good bread. We baked it at home,
Sliced thick and toasted, perhaps too dark.

Pol Pot scraped his toast, scraped it with a knife.
Scratch, scratch, scratch, the knife on the bread.

Flakes softly fell to the plate: soft and black
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Little flakes, overdone,

Softly buoyed in air until they settle on the plate,
Dead little flakes of dark bread.

Pol Pot smiles, nods for some butter:
“Death is whatever you don’t remember.”

Three poems by Charles Robert Hice

Adult male seeks readers for free poetry by a JesusFreak (the flesh is dead eye am a). Check out my latest works from the CharlaXBio.

Website: http://www.poetrypoem.com/charlax7

Absense of Snow

The way is clear and not encumbered.
No shoving with my feet and labored,
breath.
I walk and smell no roses.
I feel my life instead of death.
The sky is blues and sunny.
The clouds are white and far away.
The snow is absent around about me.
I sense the absence of the snow.
It must be what Heaven will be.
No snow or ice or death.
I will kiss you all someday.
When I am there.
Gone away.
To rest.

Flowers Fade

I saw the flowers on the roadside,
they were all so pretty to me;
they seemed permanent to me,
But snow will frown--
wind and rain and sun.
The flowers are all gone.

Forking Ill

John M went camping and took his friend Timmy. Off they went to the Forking River Dam.
They went to the Forking Campground near the Forking Dam. They decided to visit the
Forking City. They had to go to the Forking Market. It was near the Forking Gas Station
closer to the furcating Forking River bending near the Forking swamp turning into the
Forking Quicksanding place there where they turned off the Main Forking Road. They
turned Forking right there. There is a Forking left turn as well but they had to get to
the Forking Store. They bought some Forking Beer made in the Forking Brewery. They were
still in Illinois. Forking, Ill. Ill is the abbreviation for Illinois, so we aer all
Forking, Ill. For now. The men were Forking camping so they bought some Forking beans
made at the Forking beanery. The Forking Meat CO. provided. The Olympic branch of the
Mount Olympus Water CO. Donated the Forking Water. They went to the Forking River Motel
to steal the soap and the towels. They paid for the room and took two Forking Dam
showers. They kept the Forking Dam Ashtray. It has a picture of the Forking Dam River.
The Forking Dam Police were searching for the Forking Dam Campground to arrest the
Forking men. They were not from Forking at all but just out of townies they had come to
Forking Dam to Fish for Forking Fish. They went to the Forking Boat Dok and rented a
Forking Boat the Indian Man in charge of the Forking Boat Dock said you out of townies
speak with Forking tongue. But money green in Forking Dam. Good to see you Forking men.
The Men in Forking Dam City are Forking gay. The Forking City Future Club is Oddfellows
Hall. Eye am Forking, Ill. From all that Forking Fish they gave to me the nibbles and
the bites the love all tied up in Forking Ville. They said that visit day is FrYdaY
at the Forking Prison Institution they have a Forking Fish fry for religion they want
me to go to Forking, Ill. And visit.

February 2009 Front Page

2009-02-01T20:00:00.000-08:00

this issue

accepted poetry submissions
... page 2

accepted prose and article submissions
... page 3

a note
from the editors

For this edition we will be displaying submissions from both emerging and established poets in the same section of the review. We hope you enjoy the cross-section of talent being offered and look forward to more submissions for 2009. We welcome contemporary poetry, articles and reviews from all parts of the world. Please follow the guidelines at the bottom of this page and don't forget to include a short bio as well as a photo of the author.

Regards,

Bernard Alain
Editor
visit my blog

Joy Leftow
Production Editor
visit my blog

featured release

Payday Loans

by Jee Leong Koh
UK

With Koh's chapbook, Payday Loans, a sequence of 30 sonnets, the reader lives a critical month with the poet trying to reconcile vocation and job, love and desire, immigration and home. In his first full-length collection, Equal to the Earth, Koh writes in a variety of forms, speaks with a range of voices—ancestral, recent and contemporary—and travels a span of ground to investigate the imaginary claims of community and self. Here you visit Montreal and Montauk, Nebraska City and Fire Island, and a bar where Hart Crane, W. H. Auden and Cavafy hit on you. The question of love is at the center of this investigation and Koh's work. Understand what Richard Marx Weinraub meant when he wrote about Koh, "I felt I was encountering an important new poet."

Publisher:Poets Wear Prada
Language: English

To obtain a copy of this release by Jee Leong Koh please use the following link:
http://poetswearpradanj.home.att.net/

in the spotlight

Patricia Smith
Westchester County NY

Patricia Smith is the author of five books of poetry, including "Blood Dazzler," finalist for the 2008 National Book Award and "Teahouse of the Almighty," a National Poetry Series selection. She is on the faculty of the Stonecoast MFA program at the University of Southern Maine. Born in Chicago and currently living in Westchester County, New York Patricia Smith is the smokin' hot goddess of American letters, winner of the Hurston-Wright Legacy Award in Poetry, the Carl Sandburg Literary Award, the National Poetry Series award, the Patterson poetry award and the Pushcart prize. In 2006, she was inducted into the International Literary Hall of Fame for Writers of African Descent.

Patricia Smith's website can be found at the following link:

http://www.wordwoman.ws/

selected poem

Jumper

Tappan Zee Bridge, August

The Zee's threaded span, shrill and glory, scrapes its steel nail
down the sky's middle back, believes most cities are strugglers.
Our filthy river, so anxious to be beloved and unbloodied,
hurts itself toward sparkle, shimmies frantically on a core of fuel.
In the right lane, you soft brake the Corolla, the Civic, the Wrangler
and clamor out onto the beautiful shelf. Your dutiful engine hums
while the waves do their desperate rhumba and fit their mouths
around the hot verb of your name. The Hudson, giggling at the game,
pumps up the voltage and gleam. 287's blurred drone shivers
your root, whips a whisper at your back and rocks your heels.
You grab a rusting tendril, balancing for the one slow climb.
Every last glimpse over your shoulder is shaped like you, climbing.

by Patricia Smith

this edition's featured emerging poet

Jee Leong Koh
Queens NY

Jee Leong Koh is the author of Payday Loans (Poets Wear Prada, 2007). Of that chapbook, Marie Howe says, "Smart, irreverent, often unnerving, these sonnets smirk, smile, argue and bless." His poetry has appeard in Crab Orchard Review, Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide, The Ledge Magazine, and Mimesis, among other journals, been included in the Best New Poets 2007 and Best Gay Poetry 2008 anthologies, and was nominated in 2008 for the Pushcart Prize. Born in Singapore, he now lives in New York City, and blogs at Song of a Reformed Headhunter (http://jeeleong.blogspot.com).

A book of poems is forthcoming in March 2009, Christopher Hennessy previews "Equal to the Earth" at

http://equaltotheearth.blogspot.com/

selected poem

Florida

This evening walk around Lettuce Lake
begins on the planks of good intentions.
Palm fronds droop, like fingers over railing, over land
sliding below wetland, and weeds
yielding along an indeterminable wave to duckweed,
a false green carpet to the door of the lake.
Bald cypresses, wearing beards of moss, sit
surprised in water, their grayish knees
breathing above the rootless bladderworts.
Here, the wading bird is king, the Great Egret
picking its way between land and lake,
spearing the temporary frog to an unexpected hump of ground.
Here, the roseate spoonbill swirls the mud.
Even the osprey, which nests in feathertips of trees,
must bury itself in the lake, wings held up
like an archaic angel landing on a gravestone,
before rising with silver in its beak.
And here, reads the sign in stainless steel raised by park authorities,
is Alzheimer’s Walk
that travels two feet above the bog, two feet
from the leafy stink, but does not sink.

by Jee Leong Koh

February 2009 page 2

2009-02-01T19:58:00.001-08:00

Content Links

Submissions

Two poems by Renee Dwyer

Renee Dwyer writes while working at her job as a purveyor for the Transit Authority of Dreams. She will graduate from Ramapo College in 2009 with a degree in Literature. Originally from South Korea, she now divides her time between New Jersey and Elephant Island, Antarctica.

the truth about Truth (d.2)

It’s like last night’s dinner
left out on the counter overnight
in the morning
it could poison you
and you could end up in the hospital
even though you can’t afford it
and even though you keep trying to leave
the nurses keep pushing you back down
see, it starts out real good
like potatoes and steak and A-1 sauce
except it’s not always good to the last drop
and later you get indigestion
and end up sitting on the toilet for an hour
Truth is like that, sometimes.
and sometimes there are warning signs
cramps in your gut
and you know to be making your way to the
bathroom
and sometimes you get caught unaware
like in the middle of Target
while you’re standing there
looking at the Tupperware
and suddenly your intestines are aflame.
if it smells funny, throw it away.
that’s the number one truth about Truth.
all the rest of it’s just shit.

a poem about zen.

this is how you become empty:
take the glass and turn it upside down.

i have just as much compassion for potted
plants as i do for human beings.

what is the sound of a heart collapsing
if no one is around to hear it

i meditate upon the breath during sex
and forget to orgasm.

the amputee in the corner claps with one hand.

Two poems by Will Hames

I'm a full-time carer with a lot of time on my hands but hardly any freedom to go out of the house. Fortunately, I am able to keep in touch with my fellow poets through Facebook and long, rambling phone calls. I would describe myself as an amiable lunatic.

Violet Brown

Violet Brown was known in this town
For the tartar that tainted her teeth
Her hobby, of late, was directing her hate
At the folk in the flat underneath

Clues there were none, as to what they had done
To make her so bitter and twisted
But she'd fume and she'd squint at the tiniest hint
That the people downstairs still existed

They didn't deserve all the loathing she'd serve up
Each day at the drop of a hat
But Violet Brown had a need to look down
On somebody, the nasty old bat

She was ugly as sin, without and within
This evil-intentioned old harpy
With a stoop and a hump and a face like the rump
Of a recently-rogered okapi

She'd hated her Mum, 'til the Reaper had come
The loss made her bile even stronger
And her husband, it's said, had preferred to be dead
Than to live with old Vi any longer

He'd worked like a slave to make her behave
But that hadn't done any good
So, shouting "Oh, f*** it!" he'd gone to the bucket
And kicked it as hard as he could

Now lone and aloof, she'd stand on the roof
Surveying the pavement below
And screeching, "Just die!" as the neighbours went by
It was her way of saying, "Hello"

One day, letting loose with more verbal abuse
She'd picked up her tomcat's excreta
To throw at their car, but she leaned out too far
And the pavement came rushing to meet her

Now, up in the sky, I'd swear I could spy
A cloud with old Violet Brown on
She'll be happy at last, with her pain in the past
And the rest of the world to look down on

Fridge Poetry

A while ago, at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden, I picked up a little box of random words printed on fridge magnets. I thought my children might find them fun, and for about five minutes, they did. Five minutes was about the amount of time it took for them to establish that there were no swear words in the mix. I've just found the box stuffed under a small mountain of teddy bears and boldly aromatic socks in my son's bedroom. Nobody was watching, so I took the box down to the kitchen and started fiddling around, sorting out the nouns, adjectives and so on into different areas of our magnetic notice board.

This is what I came up with:

TROLL FANG
Somewhere in the mysterious forbidden forest
I found a cold newt potion
Yet there was no rainbow fire carpet
No giant lizard for a troll fang
Ask a small screaming hobbit to leap & dance
These owls of gold are bloody fierce
It must have flown beneath my dragon house

I think I'll leave this up on the board to remind me not to waste so much time. My children think I'm a mystic.

Two poems by Don Schaeffer

Don Schaeffer established Enthalpy Press and has published 5 chap books including "Time Meat" and "The Word Cow and the Pig O' Love." ISBN series: 0-9687017 Recent poetry has been published in The Writers Publishing, Lilly Lit, Burning Effigy Press, "Understanding Magazine," "Melange," "Tryst," "Quills," and others. His first book of poetry, Almost Full" was published by Owl Oak Press early in the summer of 2006. He holds a Ph.D. in Psychology from City University of New York (1975) and lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba with his wife, Joyce.

Ninety Seconds at KP

The little girl friend
takes a leap out of the bus
with her wirey fingers,
bare pale flesh against the cold.
Then he comes out
tall with his hoody almost
biblical. She takes a toke
of his cigarette and vanishes
jaywalking skillfully
across the avenue.

Then he turns
and I get a look at his face.
He is tall and lean
and those eyes
seem so unchanging,
still young but
eternally old, pupils
sunk low in the eye-display
as if resting.

Nothing was ever really right,
his eyes say. And nothing will
ever change. I must be cautious,
his eyes say. I must be
dangerous

Oliver Twist's Friends

When you wait for buses
in the cold you have time
to contemplate wanting.

Come to think of it,
there was only one of us in the orphanage
who was able to ask for more.

Don't worry, I know
that we have become
a bunch of want nebbishes.

You look at us and say
nah, it's not
worth the trouble.

Three poems by Dianne Borsenik

I am a former flowerchild and a current redhead, and I co-produce/co-host (along with John "Jesus Crisis" Burroughs) the monthly Lix and Kix Poetry Extravaganza in the historic Tremont district of Cleveland, Ohio. My poems, lyrics, and modern haiku have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies, including Slipstream, Nerve Cowboy, The City Poetry, Zygote In My Coffee, The Magnetic Poetry Book of Poetry, Haiku World: An International Poetry Almanac, Modern Haiku, and Naturally. Actor Jonathan Frid used three of my poems in his performance "Genesis Of Evil".

PET THIS

What a mess this is!
Your passive-aggressive tendencies
and my latent insecurities

slugging it out
smack in the middle of our stressed
relationship's squared circle!

What a brawl!
But I must confess
that my hair-trigger temper was to blame
for throwing that first punch,

after your overblown ego jabbed
its hard elbow into the yielding
flesh of my trusting nature,
and left an oh, so ugly bruise. Of course,

that pissed off your brooding resentment,
which then tackled my emotional outburst
at the knees, and wrestled it screaming
to the ground. It then became
a free-for-all,

nasty imprecations
against injured pride,
smoldering doubts
against unreasonable expectations,
withheld affections
against mounting suspicions,
pained expressions
against lack of communication,
and a massive roundhouse
blow by chauvinism that decked
the hormonal surges with a shout--

Now, all of them are down--
the count is
one
two
three
and out!

Tell me, my dear--
are you ready for the next bout?

MR. PENSIVE

he's pensive
in touch with
his feminine side
penis inoffensive
pen in hand
a poet
a political warrior
a new age man
intense
open-minded
an intellectual
penthouse
and sensitive

he's restive
a festival of
carbon black
and fulsome blues
emotionally undressed
faith a little rusted
used, tomorrow's
confessional news
tried and tested
yin is love and
yang is lust
pending the outcum
of trust

mister pensive
penetrated
by a data storm
of contradictions
his insisting on
taking a path
of least resistance
a pent-up send-up
but... no bars, no fences
bubbling over like a bottle
of Dom Perignon
opened, uncorked
ex-pensive

FIRECRACKER

such a temptation
this thick fuse of yours

oh god
I want to set my
match to it
I want it
to sizzle
spark and burn

sensation climbing
the length of it
tension building
the width of it

I want to fill you with flame
moment by moment
until you detonate

into a universe
of technicolor sparkles
mirrorball fractals
fireflies, snowflakes

each one a tiny piece
of starstuff
each one a tiny piece
of me

Two poems by Sadiq Rahman

Sadiq Rahman is 24 years old. Apart from being an Academic, he is a poet, short film maker and a Radio Jockey. He was born on the 29th of October 1984. He completed his graduation from Calcutta University where he studied English (Hons). He completed his Masters in English from Jamia Millia Islamia where he was a topper and a Gold Medalist. Sadiq is Fulbright Scholar and taught in the Asian Studies Department of the University of Texas.

His first book of poems The Dream Seller was published in 2003, when he was only 19 years old. Dreamseller got wide reviews from leading Newspapers of the country. The then Governor of Bengal,India Mr.Viren J.Shah inauguarated his book. He was later invited by the chief minister of West Bengal Mr.Buddhadev Bhattacharya for a brief audience at his office in Writer's Building. He was later invited in the University of Texas' presitigeous Poetry on the Plaza to read his poetry.

Prince of Persia

Steal me from myself, O! Persian Prince
Rob me of all my love…
Lock me there - in the deep,
Dark corners of your soul,
Where you hide your million conspiracies.

(And then) with cold, shining eyes
Like the moon over desert nights - watch me
Plunder, O! Persian Prince, take me there
To that distant land.
Make me your slave girl, I have lost it all…
Give no reason, have no cause (my Lord)
Kiss me with the sword, paint my body
With Bridal red…
And as I drown in a river of blood
Hold me, I want to die in your arms

Lines …these lines

Those marks on your palms, crooked
Straight, intersecting lines - like
Grids on a graph, disect your life
Into grief and heath
Loss and wealth.

How they trap your destiny
Inside your fists
And you with stones and strings
Metals and rings
Control your stars….

With wrinkled face,
You chase your happiness
And curse your Gods in defeat!
Do not worship these lines of your hands
As they distort your dreams
Destiny is pre written. Even for
those without arms!

To Aunt Sylvie and Sister Annie

(Dedicated to Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton)


I  talk’d to trees, fought with sound
When kids dance, cycle around
I played too. With Angels in the grave 
Where Jim and Joe would never go.

    And I went there too
To the doctor who screamed. Dad felt bad
Mom wept. And they  laughed at me

                                                But I am fine, there is nothing wrong with me.

Jane and Lisa, got Barbie dolls
Santa  brought me a chair  
With wheels to play  and run on
They call me crazy girl, don’t play with me.

                                  But I know I’m fine. There  is nothing wrong with me.

Then Mom brought me “A Birthday Present”
It was you - Aunt Sylvie.
                            Alone no more, I had you, and a new life

And we sang, we thought, we laughed ,we wept
With Sister Anne

Beautiful  poetry you wrote
Every night.
                        Wasn’t I your Mad girl? The Insomniac, Paralytic in Plaster?

You gave me life after Aftermath
Cinderella out of a cripple

Not the other I am your Metaphor.
Monologue, your morning song
No more a bed
Or dead – on wheels

I cross Atlantic now
Go beyond the Purdah!
I am Courage, I am strength

I see my little world with you Annie,
Which no one can!
Rock me in your arms Silvie
Fill those eyes with color and ducks
Make me a child
Say nothing is wrong with me.
I believe there is nothing.

Two poems by Dubblex

DubbleX currently resides in New York and has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools.

Free Style Spitting Rant

Addicted to rap like a stockbroker making bank
On the NASDAQ when I hear a fat track it’s like heroin
To a junky getting finished on smack shine
The spot light on the stuff I write
It’s as hot as a laser shocks like a taser rips
like a razor sees the flames rise cause this ones a blazer
hot like a microwave examined with x-rays
sit back and wonder while I amaze my tail
still unravels like rims over gravel
this case is not closed till the bank of the gravel
I blast off my rhymes from Cape Canaveral in the Space Shuttle
me and the microphone huddle
the other mics left without rebuttal
go home with their girls and just cuddle
because when I be kicking verses nothing is subtle
My ammunition is my vocabulary
By all means necessary
It’s a metaphoric snow flurry
If music were food this would be Nutriment
Even anorexics don’t regurgitate what I create
bulimic beats give rail girls weight
Too many kids on Ritalin
It’s belittling - turning pre-teens into pharmaceutical drug fiends
you got a hammer
I got a nuclear warhead
set that sucker off and we’ll all be dead
so go ahead and shoot
It’s self-destruction
black on black crime
a government production penitentiary and cemeteries
too many young brothers names filling up obituaries
you can hear me but you don’t understand me
It’s genocide a slow homicide this epidemic is systemic
While government controls our consciousness
Let’s condemn government
all our forefathers were killers and robbers
too bad the Indians couldn’t finish off the pilgrims
it’s our chagrin
I am not commercial I’m controversial

Manhattan Forest or Zoo...

I walk through the enchanted forest of tall office trees
with small bushes of brown stones
fresh concrete grows daily
and smothers all life underneath it
it grows square and gray and rigid alongside steel trees
wild criminal animals roam and attack until caged in the local zoo
keep the animals locked in the city zoo
they lock up us humans too
my cell block is Manhattan
every where I go shit happens
my job is my prison
they keep me locked in institutions
giving me their solutions
they tell me this is the home of the free
but people around me report everything they see
because I live as I believe that I am free to be me
so institutions looks at me funny
as a matter of fuck this job they can keep their money

A beautiful mist of pollution hangs over Manhattan’s chemical rain forest
Mercurys SUVs Fords Toyotas and Mitsubishi all add to it
Cry out in horn chirps and other species
vehicles for emergencies screaming sirens
EMS FDNY and NYPD
Race over tar covered postmodern dirt roads
Saving us from fire and death is their goal
This city terrain is slighted and a jagged edge covers the horizon
Our streets covered in human daytime congestion
The forgotten get swallowed with gassy ingestion
Few stop and colorful lights to question
This city life is an unseen obsession

Three poems by Stu Hatton

Stu Hatton is a poet, freelance writer and editor based in Melbourne, Australia. He teaches creative and professional writing at Deakin University. His work has appeared (or will be appearing) in hutt, Mascara, Otoliths, Verandah, Poetry SZ, Voiceworks, Bambikino, Unusual Work, Page Seventeen, Frame Lines and elsewhere.

I will not carry

I will not carry
bad blood
because it corrodes,
spreads, leaves us exposed
with too many entrances
and exits.

I will not carry
awkward, bulky items
like red carpets
(for off-chance dignitaries)
or restless dogs
or heavy corpses.

In fact
I have decided
to carry nothing at all.

I will find water on my way,
and the words left to say

(I have no pocket
for a script).

Mid-city meditation

I take off my shoes
so the grass can imprint
abstract designs on my ankles

can't see any other meditators
in Alexandra Gardens

a precious day

sun gushing,
pooling on gemgrass;
river metallic

cars on City Rd
sounding like the ocean
(peaceful cars)

I slow
& stop thinking
for some seconds

then I remember
to take off my sunglasses

& it becomes a lot brighter
behind closed eyes

I notice this,
then revisit the breath

an easy breeze
stroking my face

I revisit the breath,
revisit the breath

until half an hour later
I hatch
from my trance-shell,

look over at my shadow,
my head made of grass

8pm that night
I meet Monica on the bridge

we gaze through the sci-fi city,
make new pledges,
smile out…

a 4x4 crushing
a skater's stray deck
jolts us back to the wheel

For Edwin

"If we continue in our mindful observation there will no
longer be a duality between observer and observed."
- Thich Nhat Hanh

We have always been as weightless as this.

Our modest collection of questions.

Holes full of nets; nets full of holes.

No waiting: all things are present.

Eye observes itself.

One poem by John Burroughs

I am a Buddho-Taoist, poet, musician/composer, teacher, philosopher, and webmaster/blogger. In 1997, I held the official title of "number one blogger" on MySpace. As "Jesus Crisis", my nom de blog, I maintain my own website http://www.crisischronicles.com, which includes, "The Tao, The Ow, The Wow, and The Ka-Pow of Jesus Crisis" blogs, the burgeoning Crisis Chronicles Press, and a free Online Library of both classical and contemporary poets' works. My poems and reviews have appeared in various journals and newspapers, and most recently, in two issues of The City Poetry. At one point, I spent eleven years in prison for a crime I did not commit and I am writing a book about the incredible but true stories leading up to and including my incarceration.

I am very involved in the vibrant Cleveland poetry scene. I am co-producer and co-host (along with Dianne Borsenik) of a monthly show, The Lix and Kix Poetry Extravaganza, in the historic district of Tremont in Cleveland. Next week I will perform as featured reader at Mac's Backs in Cleveland.

PEACE IN QUEUES

Pralines in
Eden,
Apples in
Cream,
Ecstasy
In small packages,
Nursing a dream,
Queer little ripple
Under the skin,
Elated by nougat,
Urgent and thin-
Eat life,
Speak food.

One poem by Joy Leftow

BLUES PART II

The who am I lost & found in who I am, a contradictory introspection of a delusion of who I want to be mixed with who I already am, the me that is so deep it transcends lucidity the me that fires synapses constantly. I am the me with no home inside, listless, desolate, discontent, abjective, retrospective, lost in grim moments of lost wishes and dreams of who I could be if Clinton was my family, or even Obama would be better for me, I love color. I’ll sell myself for a less, I promise I’ll settle.

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
but if you try sometimes - well you just might find
you get what you need, oh baby

Let me sing the blues for you again today like I sang for you yesterday
My eyes run misty blue for you
The holiday a passed disgrace I saved no face my eyes stay misty blue for you
An outcast jew singing outcast blues, my mother sang them before me. I want to sing misty blue for you this season.

Freshly showered I emerge to sing the blues for you, to bring you back to where I want to be
I go back in time to rhyme with you, keep my flow to your flow, the glow of my flow keeping rhyme to your rhythm.
You go Charley Brown; come back to hear me sing misty blues

Your eyes shine misty in return I see beyond your armor, sing misty with me
Come in, stay a spell, let me sing misty blue for you.
I put a spell on you
I’m a give you some real life southern comfort, a few pecans, flow the red river stills your mind without forgetting the questions,
I falter, our laughter fills volumes of silent banter, I stand before you, my sensibility turning chill while I wait for the lantern of my soul to light this space
Make this day holy, my life skips an Eartha Kitt beat
my mind feels my heart sing for rain is misty blue I’m sensing changes maybe I’ll wait for you, what if I don’t know all I claim to what about you do you play misty blue and know more than I know.
Inky blue, dusk settles a cool blanket on the sky glimmers of silver clouds shimmer remain
Do you see the same inky sky I see when I see what you see when I look for you to see if you’re looking where I’mmm looking for you, I want a raspberry sky to roll its toll onto golden unplowed fields of ripe green wheat
Common Daddy let the good times roll
Common Daddy let me fill your soul
Common Daddy don’t you be late I think I may have a date with fate
I’ve got this date for old time’s sake, just let me fill your plate
Let the good times roll for old times, for old soul’s sake
Sing me those old time blues give me a taste of those old soul blues
A blue eyed soul girl singing the old soul blues for you Daddy

Two poems by Don Coorough

A freelance writer for 10 years, Don had articles published in Log Home Design Ideas, and his poetry has appeared in edificeWRECKED, Eleventh Transmission and Blood Moon Rising Magazine. Don currently writes for and publishes his blog, Shoreline Driftwood. Involved in multiple artistic endeavors, Don has 15 years experience in animation, managing, producing and occasionally directing commercials, television specials and CD-roms, as well as 27 years in music, performing in clubs and concerts on guitar and bass. Don also possesses 24 years experience as a songwriter/composer, and his song, "They Died Young," was recorded by The Tooners on their CD "Rocktasia" with both available on iTunes.

Starry, Cloudless Nights

The old black dress
no longer fits. It's
too tight, outgrown.
Unsewn, intuition hints
through de-spooled,
rainbow threads
unwound on cold,
tiled flooring haphazardly,
unconcerned with any
mannequin's silent deception.
Pre-conception of objective
formulas severs creators'
minds from hearts.
Art's fathomed
in the breath,
in the spaces
between, where unconscious
intuition breathily whispers
on glimmering,
starry, cloudless nights.

To Greet a Warmer Dawn

Into a still, dry silence
Venus descends, unthreading
her honey-scented, tightrope
like a beam of light which knifes
through the darkest hour.

Cricket chorused chirps
crescendo as the moon hides
behind the garden maiden's
shawl - her cloaking embrace
wards off frozen fingernails
scratching down my spine.

Dew-moistening Venus'
wet tongue kisses my cheek
breathlessly, anointing this fragile
human flesh in her ancient
yet eternal rite, wrapping me
with the sticky scent of oleander.

In the moment before
the first mist rises,
the purple-robed lady
sculpts out from deformed
clay a new, serene countenance
to greet a warmer dawn.

One poem by Paul Niziol

Paul Niziol is not a critically acclaimed and award-winning creator of anything....yet! An avid fan of the written word, especially science fiction and fantasy. When not busy expanding on the human condition, Paul lives an ordinary life in Ontario, Canada where he ages with all the grace of a hippo in orthopedic shoes.

THE PEREGRINE

If I could be born again
I'd like to be a peregrine,
On wings so swift: I would be gone
To soar above the rising dawn.
Above the rooftops, quiet, dark,
Above the silent sleeping park.
Id' see the twinkling city lights
As the morning woke the night
From dark slumber, while far below
The streets and cars become a glow;
And climbing higher still I fly,
Pre-natal colours would fill my eyes
Swirling greys & misty pinks,
Solitude, my place to think
The winds so strong I would not fall
The problems of our world so small
And far below & far away
Would not belong to this new day!
...Ah! If I could be born again,
I'd like to be a peregrine!

One poem by Tanuj Solanki

Tanuj Solanki hails from Ahmedabad, India. He plays the rational management student in the day and the irrational poet in the night and claims to be in love with both roles. At 22 years of age, he considers himself a beginner poet and he finds that writing poetry makes him feel very fulfilled. Tanuj's work has been accepted in Tin Foil Dresses.

Blowing Horns

A certain death versus
an existence dabbling
with the lower fragments
of the poverty line,
the line of poverty.

My government
and My parents
made the obvious choice

They call me a minor girl,
and I wash dishes
with gutter water--
just a part-time job.
A shoe factory
employs me
for more hours though.

Each day is insanely long,
with pushes and shoves and slaps
from knowns and unknowns.
Crevices of my heart
are now filled
with a shaky jelly
of fear and pain

But (smiles) little whiffs
of joy do come
in childish and childlike fashion,
scattered in occurrence
and reminding,
me of my age.

And about three months back,
boys at the factory touched me--
some weird places.

The fear of this night
somehow seems to have started there

My father,
feverish forever
ordered me to please the insides
of this monstrous black car
where two gentlemen
blow their horns

I know how.
I know why.

The generation
you are proud of,
is full of knowledge.

One poem by Bernard Alain

I am a canadian poet born on the east coast and now residing in the nation's capital Ottawa. I am always looking for new influences and ideas by interacting with my fellow poets. Currently I am the editor of The Cartier Street Review and administrator for The Ink Blot poetry forum. I have been published and/or featured in a few online journals recently such as the Orange Room Review, Madswirl, Pirene's Fountain, Mississippi Crow Magazine/RiverMuse Press, International Poet, The World Poets Society Electronic Catalog, Bywords, Bywords Quarterly Journal and others.

out near the curb

the city can be a
pernicious snake somedays
and I have no idea
how it got in front of
me

it's the narrow streets
with longer articulators
swinging their vulcanized hips

backs flex
crowds compress

I swear the sleepers
of the next headline terrorist attack
are going to come from
this town not Yarmouth,
dressed in blue uniforms
hiding behind reflective
shades,
and hissing hydraulics will signal
a beginning to the massacre,
bystanders lapped up
by the treads of 'gotta stay on time'
and 'this lane is mine'

and the second wave
genocide
as misplaced suburbanites
make the final
[c]rush into the last
express, singing
'thank god it's friday'
and 'seeya at the pub',
one more time,
shoulder to shoulder,
as they sink into
the opiate of
slower middle lanes

they started to widen
Bank street the other day,
with sidewalks gone,
a labyrinth of gravel
paths,
peeking in from behind the
construction barricade
I can see the gaping hole,
quite obvious
it's going to take
some time

again
I and the other
supermen are powerless,
little we can do
but rest our capes
and wait

wait for it
to move along

February 2009 page 3

2009-02-01T19:50:00.001-08:00

One short prose submission by
Craig Woods

Craig Woods was born in Scotland in the late twentieth century and will die sometime in the twenty-first. He currently resides in an abandoned railyard depot, conceiving of ways to propagate new human-animal hybrid species who will weave webs of light around rusty pylons. His hobbies include the yo-yo and firing guns indiscriminately.

BROKE THE SKIN OF THE NIGHT

Among the items salvaged from the wreckage of the ruined Jensen was a compilation tape
of favourite songs. A cultural institution in itself, the mix tape has assumed an almost
divine status in the minds and attitudes of subsequent generations.
Stumbling upon a lost mix tape is to akin to taking a dip into the ever-fluctuating
psyches of the nameless compiler; every track blowing open new psychic avenues of
sentiment and memory as our time tracks and lifelines merge in a slipstream with those of
the compiler and the faceless many through whose ears and hearts the compilation has
erstwhile travelled…

“That’s long enough, dear. Think you’d better come out now, hmm?”
Kirsten the Kurse leaned back admiring the amorphous mounds of foam which floated
in the tub around her. She enjoyed the way they concealed her body from view; flabby thighs,
pot belly and undersized breasts mercifully hidden from her self-conscious gaze. She thought
how sweet it would be to achieve a physical state as nebulous and wispy as these white
bubbling bergs… to fade into air or water like a wraith…
“You hear me, Kirsten?” Her mother tapped intrusively upon the bathroom door.
“I hear you. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Well we don’t want you in there too long, dear…” there was an awkward pause, “You, uh,
don’t want to end up all wrinkly.”
More like I don’t want to fucking drown myself. Why don’t you just say it, you old
witch?
Kirsten’s recently augmented record of clumsiness, accident proneness and general
bad luck, which had been remarkable to begin with, had caused her mother to fret over her
every movement. In the last few weeks the woman had secured every power socket in the
house, barred the upstairs windows… hell she had even stopped buying certain kinds of fruit
for fear her ill-omened daughter would find some way of slipping up on a discarded skin and
fall headfirst into a boiling pan or impale herself upon the TV antennae. These days it seemed
any misfortune was possible no matter how absurd.
Kirsten drained the bath, got out and wrapped a towel around herself without incident.
See? I’m not totally useless.
A sharp report echoed across the upstairs hallway as she stubbed her toe on her way
out of the bathroom. A swell of trapped blood blossomed like a dark flower under her big
toenail.
Her mother, alert for the faintest abnormal sound, called from downstairs. “You okay,
honey?”
Kirsten limped silently and sullenly to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
She was in the middle of drying out her hair with the low power hairdryer (complete
with circuit breaker adaptor for extra safety) when her phone rang.
“Alright sweetness, wanna have some fun tonight?”
Gary was something of a local rogue, a couple of years her senior. He had been one of
the dangerous-but-popular crowd at her high school and she recalled watching him with
awestruck schoolyard eyes as he smoked joints nonchalantly by the janitor’s station,
captivating the upper echelons of the school’s female student elite with his firsthand tales of
petty crime and weekend drug experiments.
“Maybe,” the word sounded pathetic to her own ears. She’d die for any kind of fun,
particularly if it involved him and he knew it. “Got something in mind?”
“You and me might be taking a little ride tonight. In a special dream chariot. Fancy
it?”
Of course she did.
By the time she had dressed and made herself up, Kirsten’s heart was pumping with
anticipation, thundering in her ears like an orchestral drum. She was more than aware that
Gary wasn’t interested in her for her stimulating conversation. In fact he made it consistently
obvious that the quieter she was the better, as long as she remembered to moan in the right
places while he had his forceful way with her. Likewise she was under no illusions about the
nature of their relationship which was based entirely on his fairly accurate assessment of her
as a prim-girl-turned-easy-lay-out-of-sheer-desperation. He made it no secret that she was but
one in a collection of female trophies to whom he returned regularly to relieve his primal
urges. In another life, Kirsten would have been appalled at this sordid predicament. Now
though, she took solace that the hex which hung perpetually over her had at least permitted her
this one outlet in which she could indulge regularly in a more palatable scenario; retreating
into her mind as Gary thrust into her, she would watch the ceiling or wall or toilet cubicle
before her dissolve into a dream landscape of success and personal wellbeing.
“I’m off out. Don’t wait up for me.”
“Now you be careful! And don’t be back too...”
Kirsten shut the door on her mother’s plea with a smug self-righteousness which
dissipated immediately as she was pulled immediately backwards by some unnameable force
at her back. She turned to notice that her purse strap had been caught in the doorjamb and
wrenched from one of its buckles. Sheepishly, she reopened the door and retrieved the severed
strap.
“Not too late, dear.” her mother advised solemnly.
Gary stood in the driveway in all his insolent glory. He had apparently arrived on foot.
“Where’s the ride?”
“We’re takin’ a short walk first, sugarbuns.” He grinned a devilish grin and gave her
rump a suggestive pat.
Kirsten shivered in the hostile night air as he led her around the block and on to the
old dirt road which ran along a brick wall beyond which the forest loomed in black silence. He
walked with a purposeful stride and she kept appropriately quiet. At the end of the road they
arrived at an old battered shed coated in black corrugated metal, rusted at the edges. A heavy
padlock hung on a chain from two wooden handles. From inside his jacket, Gary produced a
heavy claw hammer and slammed the head against one of the handles which gave way after
four sharp blows. The echoes of the assault spread out in ghostly cycles through the unseen
trees.
“Come on.”
With the grace and untamed vigilance of a fox, Gary ducked quickly behind a nearby
bush and produced a jerry can and two bottles of cheap white wine, clearly stashed there some
time in advance. He exhibited the goods in an open-armed pose, suddenly and briefly
possessed by the incorrigible pomp of a sideshow magician. Yanking vigorously at Kirsten’s
arm, he pulled her into the shed. Her heart threatened to explode within her chest.
He flicked a lighter and the flame cast an eerie glow upon the shed’s innards. There in
the centre sat the sleek dark shape of an old car which huddled close to the concrete floor with
all the silent elegance of a pent up feral cat. Though the jet black bodywork was caked in thick
layers of dust; cobwebs decorating the fenders, side mirrors and radiator grille, the machine was
still a sublime wonder to behold.
“You know what this is, love?” Gary’s eyes sparkled with liquid fire.
“A car?”
“No ordinary car. Jensen Interceptor. 1968 model, one of the first with power steering.
Fucking beauty.”
“It is nice,” the banality of her words fell flat like cowshit on the concrete, “But who
does it belong to? And why-”
Gary hushed her with a finger to his mouth. He stepped towards the rear of the car
where he pulled open a flap in the bodywork and proceeded to pour in the contents of the jerry
can. When the can was empty, he snapped the flap shut and pulled open the driver’s door.
“Come on, get in the car. Let’s go for a drive somewhere.”
By now her whole body was aflame as she sat quivering in the passenger seat of the
ghostly vehicle while Gary hotwired it to life. The engine purred triumphantly and the
headlights seared the dirt road ahead with the burning light of heaven. He thrust a wine bottle
at her.
“Open it, babe. Let’s have some fun.”
The car roared out of its gloomy prison and thrust Kirsten into the chemical night…
As Gary charged the vehicle through the quiet streets of the town, Kirsten lost herself
in the fleeting streetlights which seemed to bleed into one another and up into the screaming
stars overhead. A sour moon wept above her like a great gouged out eye upon the sky’s
tenebrous curtain. Wine fizzed upon her tongue and immersed her brain in a dreamlike haze.
Gary spun the wheel expertly, swerving and zigzagging along backstreets and boulevards.
“Gimme some of that juice, baby.”
She passed the wine bottle to him and he took a long swig while continuing to steer the
antique machine with one strong hand. Captivated by his roguish and coarse charm, she pulled
the bottle from his lips mid-gulp and pressed her mouth to his. A portion of the sweet alcohol
passed from him to her and she savoured the raw sensation as their tongues darted against each
other in a fervent duel of hot flesh. Gary let out a slight and uncharacteristic cry as the front
wheel climbed a kerb. Despite herself, Kirsten found herself laughing aloud as he struggled to
regain control of the vehicle. A thorny fire burned between her legs and her breath came in
short gasps. Gary turned to her, grinning widely.
“You like a little excitement, dollface?”
She said nothing, leaning into him and letting an inebriated hand slide down to his crotch.
“Let’s take this wagon somewhere more interesting…”
At that, he flicked a switch on the car’s radio unit and an ancient cassette voiced a
storm into existence;

‘I won't hurt you
as much as you hurt me
let me take you there
before the sun goes down
come on give me your love
come on baby all you have
I wanna take your breathe away’

The motorway spread out before them in a luminous panorama of acidic radiance
which broke the skin of the night in phosphorescent lesions. Kirsten was one with the
dissolving stars as she fed on Gary’s salty flesh and the sugar enchantment of the wine as it
passed between them. Flyovers and lay-bys swept by her in a blur of speed while she worked
with one hand at Gary’s fly, finally pulling free his stiff member from its textile confinement.
He winced and grunted in pleasure at her rhythmic caress while veering the car wildly from
left to right as it tore through the night. Car horns blared and the cries of aghast drivers came
through in staccato bursts before dying on the wind. The wine bottle fell free from Gary’s
hand, splashing some of its contents across Kirsten’s lap before landing with a thud at her feet.
He brought the hand down to her soaked thighs and thrust it between them.

‘Come on baby all you have
I wanna take your breathe away
come on baby
just like that, you say
you make me feel so crazy’

“Gimme some of that sugar, honey.”
The night exploded behind Kirsten’s eyes as she lay with her head in Gary’s lap, his
shaft in her burning mouth. Maintaining a steady rhythmic progress, she fell into a world of
bleeding stars and benevolent roaring machines… a curse lifted admiring the amorphous
boulevards… secured sockets a blood blossom in the grey hungover dawn, old faded photos of
herself floating in the sour moon… soft breeze rifling a tongues darted… sailing a percussive
wind through flyover railings produced a heavy claw of the night… severed telephone
voices… howling trains endlessly with a cold… bleeding stars of lips slam dissolved…
schoolyard scent of petty laughing and a hammer from behind the foam… thorny fire of sweet
charm… coarse fleeting mirrors let out a ghostly vehicle… neglected flesh frozen upon a filthy
toilet seat and the lunchtime bell… not in these mounds a dream… hand stubbed a flight
inwards tore through the night… gone last kerb… gone over… sharp veering wildly a distant
razor…

Gary was killed almost instantly in the collision. His torso had been impaled by the
windshield which caved in on itself in an array of scimitar-edged shards. The top of his head
was sheared off with the Jensen’s ruined roof, plastering his brains across the twisted metal.
The female driver of the other car was dead also, her flesh smeared ruthlessly over the tarmac
in red streaks. When the paramedics arrived on the scene they had to prise open Kirsten’s
broken jaw in order to remove Gary’s severed manhood before it choked her. Though barely
conscious, she recognised her own big toe and the blood blossom mocking her still at the end
of a leg which now hung twisted and useless from her shattered hip bone.
The smoking shell of the devastated Jensen dominated the scene, as timeless as
volcanic rock. In the moment of impact, the sleek machine had burst through the barrier of
time and space and immortalised the two drivers in a sky of dissolving stars and merciful foam
clouds. The machine which lay obliterated on the midnight motorway was but a pale shadow
of that which multiplied itself in timeless infinity beyond the sour moon…
Fragments of Kirsten’s cartilage gleamed in the light of the ambulance beacons, as
fixed and rigid as the pitiless tarmac.

'stirring up silt from complacent neural beds' with Dave Besseling

Born 1979, Peterborough, ON. Canada. Currently interloping in Bangalore, India, have spent the last 9 years living and traveling in a variety of countries to nurture a lateral appreciation of human diversity/mania and nurture to some degree a relevant capacity for self-awareness. All this and a deep appreciation for pretentious headshots.

My artwork is an exercise in documenting the subconscious mind and exploring the relationships between past experiences with personality and the images that seem to get all mixed up under the Id. Living in different cultures seems to afford somewhat of an objective view of what makes up the mind; what has been learned, seen or felt can be placed in a quantifiable context as opposed to identifying unconditionally with the persona of "Dave". The symbols and iconography cultures create to represent possible states of mind beyond the intellect are always an inspiration to me.

Dave Besseling currently has four publications in circulaton, Nakayubi One: the cynic, the critic, the masochistic anemic. (poetry), Nakayubi Two: The Barnstormer. (poetry), Nakayubi Three: the unmeaning and the holy city (poetry) and Kusuriyubi One: Fun With Memes! (prose).

He pushed aside a worn and sullen drape from the narrow entryway into the plywood booth in the backroom of a dingy bar. He placed two bottles of Budweiser on the imitation Formica, but didn't give the ceremonial offer of touching collected rivulets on the bottle to show the beer had been appropriately chilled, he just cracked them open.

"Current problem," said the bar manager, Prakash, leaving one to wonder how he could think the perennial catastrophe of a pub serving warm beer was limited to the present time frame.

He said he'd had this problem for the last month, and had petitioned, along with various other shopkeepers, none other than the Chief Minister himself regarding the predicament. Yeddyurappa would set things straight and see to it the pub was kept in cold, frosty suds; surely he would. He must.

But the Karnataka CM had not responded to their plea, said Prakash, and by the time one got around to wondering why neighbouring businesses would care if Prakash kept his beer refrigerated or not, the understanding dawned that the bar manager was referring to electrical current.

Electricity was something Malavalli was craving as much as Prakash's clients pined for rotgut whiskey—the town's power grid as parched as the cactus-tongued knackers seen shuffling down the main street, too hungover to see anything but the trails on their corneas dance, like the after-image of a flashlight waved round in a lightless cave.

"For the last month power supply has been a problem," explained Prakash, clearing any confusion over unintended double entendres as he poured the tepid Bud into beveled glasses, chipped and decaled: "Blue Grape."

"We have complained to Vidhana Soudha to get a constant supply," he said (electricity, not Blue Grape whiskey).

For those made to suffer the injustice of warm pints, incredulity and outrage made demands for a personal investigation, especially in a town reputed to have various forms of power generation plants in its vicinity. One's character became all the more resolute when, for the sake of research, a few more bottles were tested. They were, as expected and now proven, lukewarm.

The sun had set by the time the long evening of fieldwork had been completed, and crossing the dusty main road was done as much in the spirit of a seafarer as had been drinking in such a dive. Following the shops' candles down the alleyway leading to the Sri Ganesha Lodge, the pocked, unpaved ground was as unsteady as a choppy sea, each storefront candle another lighthouse closer to slumber.

Once inside the lodge, the lights came back on, and the room, it turned out, was like Shimla: spotless and white at the top, darker and progressively grimier on the descent. The handprints in the hair oil residue that made up the accrued bas-relief of filth around the bed made it easy to turn one's thoughts inwards, away from the grunge, to the ironic power plights of these rural folk.

The questions of why Malavalli, a short distance from the only biofuel power plant in the country and a hydro-electric plant on the Cauvery River should be subject to such frequent power cuts—its citizens deprived of the essential civility of cold ale—begged a visit to the plants the next morning.

Twelve kilometres away in Kirugaval, the Malavalli Power Plant is garrisoned by barbed-wire fencing, and then a second wall—tonnes of sugarcane leaves, coconut fronds and corn cobs, all waiting to be fed into the hungry boiler that will produce the steam necessary to transmute biomass into electricity, the lifeblood of ceiling fans and beer coolers everywhere.

But the plant's management consultant, Bala Subramanium, said the power produced at India's first and only "environmentally friendly" facility was not for the nearby villagers, but sold directly to the state power grid where Yeddyurappa's crew doles it out as they see fit.

But the plant was not opportuning; all the matter that farmers would have otherwise burned now fetched local agrarians some easy lucre. A farmer that drove his overloaded wagon to the plant's main gate said he had about five or six tonnes piled in that precipitous inverted pyramid of combustible waste. The farmer said the load was worth about Rs. 1200.

Back at the village intersection bus stop, any bucolic melancholy cultivated by verdant rice terraces or swaying palms were shooed away as quickly as the simian hordes making jabs for a waiting villager's chicken. Even their looted coconut zirconias were already meatless from the curs. The monkeys gnawed away all the same. It was lunchtime for everyone.

The hydro plant was just past the other extremity of the hamlet, said Prakash's elfin barkeep, Kumar Malavalli, opening a room-temperature bottle of lunchtime Kingfisher in the rot-smelling bar.

"There is not enough water in the river," orated Kumar, so local he was eponymous to the town, "When the river is high, we have power. When the river is low, we don't have power."

Kumar was visibly pleased to be so helpful to a strange outsider asking strange questions. The second bottle of Bud was also warm. Something had to be done.

The hydro plant bricked in a section of the riverbank, which flowed past at some speed. Yet the inside the plant—only dark. No harnessing seemed to be happening besides the reigning in of local couples' affections, who found the Banyan shade and rolling waves of the water soothing, conducive to their goals. It was a different kind of electricity at work on the picnic blankets. Currents there were flowing freely.

Back in Malavalli, the traffic kicked up dust higher than the single-storey buildings flecked with paint jobs in various states of crusting. Browned iron truss-rods stuck out the tops of the sub-par corner pillars; steel weeds sprouting from rotting concrete stumps.

The quest for a cold beer in Malavalli seemed all in vain. Chasing windmills again. This could be why temperature insouciant whiskey seemed to be the order of the day at the main drag's decuplet of wine shops.

Just before the bus station, a bedraggled man in clear contention to place first in the Drunkest Man In The World competition stopped, gaped, and in a surly pirouette, slumped over and fell into the open sewer flowing along the roadside. Looking over his unmoving soma, the sunlight was almost intrusive in a town where the lights are out more often than on. The man did not stir, darkness could not hide his early afternoon incapacity. His synapses weren't firing when another local attempted to rouse him. Current problem.

January 2009 Front Page

2009-01-02T10:03:00.000-08:00

this issue

accepted poetry and short prose submissions for this issue
... page 2

note
from the editor

We are looking forward to more submissions for 2009 and welcome contemporary poetry, articles and reviews from all parts of the world. Please follow the guidelines at the bottom of this page and don't forget to include a short bio as well as a photo of the author.

regards

Bernard Alain
Editor
The Cartier Street Review

new release

Duetcetera

by Ira Lightman
UK

Deutcetera is about voices taking each other for granted, saying “etc etc” and not listening, nevertheless turning out to duet. It contains double- and multi-columned poems, where each column can be read in its own right (or left), and also read across the columns. Most of the poems (and translations) were written separately from each other, but happen to fi t together. The poems play separately in diff erent rhythms and moods yet sound with and against each other. Ira is recording many of them as duet-videos for his YouTube channel.

The themes of the collection range from celebration of marriage and fatherhood, to the contrasts in Protestant and Roman Catholic thinking. The book ends on an extended sequence written half in the voice of a six-year-old boy, and half as a set of statements about what’s influencing the language and ideas of the overall book.

“. . . both compelled eyes and ears (and mind) and sent me back to 70s’ Ashbery and even a dip into Beowulf (Howell Chickering’s) because of that uniform divide and bridge of a caesura—thanks, man.” —Fred D’Aguiar

“King of the Tyneside experimental language scene . . . a restless spirit, who likes to play with defi nitions of what writing and performance can be . . . we love people who like to experiment, and by extension then, we love Ira Lightman.” —Ian Mcmillan

Paperback: 84 pages
Publisher: Shearsman Books (26 Nov 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1848610114
ISBN-13: 978-1848610118
Product Dimensions: 22.9 x 15.2 x 0.5 cm

To obtain a copy of this release by Ira Lightman please use the following link:
www.amazon.com

Editor Picks for 2008

Links for the following poems are selected from 99 nominations and 424 submissions for 2008. Entries are in no particular order.

Diane Recapitulated by Don Schaeffer

i make her a sandwich by John Yamrus

Budapest by Dave Besseling

Ghost in the Machine by Don Schaeffer

On such nights by Nicoletta A. Poulakida

Little Girl Lost by Ross McCague

Stealth of Age by Dunstan Attard

Bukowski's property by John Yamrus

Seven Cockerels by Ivan Carswell

Truth by Nicoletta A. Poulakida

Vicrariously selective sadism by Dave Besseling

Cancer by Ross McCague

in the spotlight

Nabina Das
Ithaca NY

Nabina Das lives two lives, shuttling between Ithaca, NY, and Delhi, India. Her short story “Tara Goes Home” has been selected to appear in a winning collection of fiction by writers from India as well as around the world (Mirage Books). Her poetry has appeared in the “urban” poems anthology SHEHER (Frog Books), in Kritya poetry journal, Lit Up Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly and Muse India. Earlier this year, she was declared one of the winners of the 2008 Book Pitch Contest at Kala Ghoda Literary Festival in Bombay. Nabina is also a 2007 Joan Jakobson Fiction Scholar from Wesleyan Writers’ Conference, Wesleyan University, CT., and a 2007 Julio Lobo Fiction Scholar from Lesley Writers’ Conference, Lesley College, Cambridge, Mass.

Nabina was Assistant Metro Editor with The Ithaca Journal, Ithaca, NY, and has worked as a journalist and mediaperson in India for about 10 years in places as diverse as Tehelka.com, Down To Earth environmental magazine, Confederation of Indian Industries, National Foundation for India and The Sentinel newspaper. She has published several articles, commentaries and essays during her tenures. An M.A. in Linguistics from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, her other interests are theater and music.

selected poem

in Perspective

Earlier it was mile-long street-corner speeches
Popcorns peppered with stinging remarks

Holding hands standing close behind the bustle
Listening to arguments acrid as boiling oil

Partying after elders went home to sleep
Smoking, rehearsing lines for street plays

Riding a rickety bike through the outskirts of
Towns seen on TV - now cindered, broken

Lovemaking endlessly, sleeping in, sharing
News and rumors about paramilitary in town

How they called after lonely girls, after school
Clicked their guns, exhibited silly manliness

Before the cameras and boom mikes it was nice
Every one called every one a friend, at least once

Nagaon, Baramullah, Imphal had weekend markets
Veggies, flowers, knick-knacks people loved

Before insurgency, every one got happy and drunk
Now they have closed tea-shops fearing bombs

Clothes dried in the sun before threats were heard,
No one walks or plays in those courtyards now

Newspapers quote: ‘Things seemed calmer before’
And we wonder if they’re still stunned like the dead.

by Nabina Das

January 2009 page 2

2009-01-02T10:00:00.001-08:00

One Poem by DubbleX

DubbleX has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools.

HIDE AND SEEK!
by DubbleX

Thing get lost in my one bedroom apartment
I think somewhere there must be a hole
I have lost my toothbrush and flash drive
I stroll around the house and wonder where they went
My apartment is not big mind you about 650 square feet
a place to eat, a place to sleep, a place to peep and a place to leak
so it is quite the strangest thing when things just disappear
until I suddenly realize there must be a hole some where
How else can it be explained that in such a small place
so many things can remain unclaimed
To put it plain it’s a hide and seek game
that is slowly driving me and my lover insane
why just today all the lighters were gone
This includes two long black and red kitchen lighters
A light green and a dark green bic lighters
A Philips screwdriver, two nail clippers my lovers left
blue croak two cartons of sidewalk chalk Bob Marley talking CD
A million times one of the three remotes to plasma TV
has gone missing, still can’t find my flash drive
and my ipod disappears for weeks
my pens and pencils at least a squad and
Now a large sharp kitchen knife is gone for two weeks
Make me wonder if my lover wished to be my legal wife
or take my life in a fit of strife
Two weeks later the knife reentered the apartment in the refrigerator
In a salad in the vegetable compartment
my protein-shaking cup is gone plus twenty bucks
Joy’s make up disappears and a piece to my melodica is gone
With a Marijuana oz of exotica
Lately this game has gone deeply strange
My toothbrush appeared on the sofa
in uncooked turkey meat I was about to eat
I had to look all over then the usual piece of paper with a phone number
I have given in to this losing thing roll
And have step up my search for the hole

One Poem by Joy Leftow

ALIEN PLANET OF LESBIAN LOVERS
by Joy Leftow

SHE lived under the delusion that SHE was the Queened Princess of an Alien Planet of Lesbian Lovers. All the rules SHE lived by and all her behavioral responses provided evidence of this. Much of my life centered around helping her live out this fantasy, painful as it was to me. Besides, my Catholic guilt forced me to accept the proposition that sacrifice nourishes and purifies our soul.
Still, I was not so locked in to my servitude that all other devotions were excluded. I met Sue May as I was attempting to crawl from the claws of the newly crowned Queen from the Planet of Lesbian Lovers. But I kept losing energy in my battle to escape. When I came upon a new route, the Queen would crack her whip, blocking me. I could not break through.
I was lost in the spheres locked between fear, time, and oblivion when I met Sue May on the F train. I was carrying my sports jacket, an attache case and a shopping bag, while balancing a coke in one hand and my shades in the other. I sat down next to Sue May, also known as, The Speaker From The House of Discreet Charm, and proceeded to reorganize myself. My jacket slipped from my hands and I gripped it tightly to prevent its fall. As I grabbed it to crush it closer, I heard a highly toned, cultured voice, "exx, exxcuse me."
I turned and looked her in the eye, "God," I exclaimed, catching sight of my hand clutching her knee in my peripheral vision. "Sorry, I thought that was my jacket." SHE smiled the way Speakers from that House do, completely disarming me, compelling me to do her will. So I offered her an early dinner as SHE was wont to do.
Sue Mai thought SHE was Speaker of the House of Representatives from a small mid-western state where manners meant everything. The Speakers from this house pretended to live in a time when discreet words and charm, and all behavioral nuances were aimed at serving the vast quantities of man's needs.
YES! But behind that sweetly beckoning smiling face, and in perfect rhythm, was the firm grasp of her delicate hand. It was hard to see that Sue Mai possessed the same determined sharp focusing of energy as the Queened Princess. And I realize now, both were bent on making the world, and especially me, think of nothing else, but meeting their needs.At the time I never realized this. I don't mean that the thought never entered my mind that I was allowing them to control me.
But of course now in retrospect, I realize that I have realized this many times. But then, I was just so much Under the Influence. I have always lived Under the Influence. It's that way because I have always loved women, holding them in the highest regard. And I kept searching for the one for me. Not just the one for me, you understand, but the one who would save me from the Queened Princess and serve my needs.
Now I had the Newly Crowned, Queen Princess from the Alien Planet of Lesbian lovers in conflict with Sweet Sue May, Speaker from the House on Discreet Charms befitting maidens from places like Kentucy and Tennessee. Sad to say, they couldn't get along at all.There was just too much conflict of interest. Both were invested in controlling my subconscious.
For the Lesbian Queen I preformed sacrifice upon sacrifice, submitting to her will, making her wish my command. I lived under her delusion that this would provide peace to her Alien Planet of Lesbian Lovers and to me.
Meanwhile my sweet and tame Sue May exerted her control by doling out her loving commands, their sole purpose to provide her pleasure. I devotedly applied myself to make her every wish my command.
All for naught. Between the two, there was no respite. The Queen and The Speaker hated each other. But the truth was, that didn't matter. What did matter was, that ultimately, between the two, I was left with no energy to serve myself.

Two Poems by Nabina Das

A Town in Catskills Summer
by Nabina Das

Standing maples
Perhaps singing
Next to white houses lined up on a hill crest where trees shouldn’t grow

Whistling hems
Likely swinging
Foxtrot on silken roads that belch loneliness where footsteps fall and melt

It’s a variable sky
Somewhat pale of hue
Unlike the indigo noon she knows where heady mogras motion themselves

There’s a corner park
Where old folks sit
Munching seeds with bubblesome coffee come from a faraway falcon land

Brownstones sneeze
Snooze in a sedated sun
Forgetting tongues they spoke when froths subsided from the Eastern Seas

Rusty pick-ups dream
For the corn season to dawn
Time they can leave silent streets, head for forgetful yawning rural roads

She sees a sad steeple
A couple of plaques
Houses with people, alien saints with fern-faces and gray everlasting seams

She spots a lively yard
Kids hop scotching as if
Nothing mattered after the last of the extant cargo trains had puffed and left

A gracious sidewalk
Holds her weary bags –
This is it, not so other, she says, walks in the surprised woods as the sun melts.

Essence of Exhibits
by Nabina Das

Most of the canvases – gouache or oil – are
Wide to the point of distraction, left or right
Most of it a rainbow garden or just too apparent
One appreciates them better with closed eyes

The terracotta is always standing, spirited
Arms or sabres raised, hooves high in the air
Ceramic orbs sport slithering lights on silken heads
After a while they too melt in our infinite stare

There are of course those perky glass forms, bright
Like our eyes scanning them, not seeking at all
They grow like vines on walls or kitschy pedestals
Forced to wait, until we finish skimming over the rest.

Two Poems by Don Schaeffer

The Hope Laughter Dynamic
by Don Schaeffer

He seems very playful today
and everyone wonders why
with things going on in his life
that make younger people sad.
Does age give them some kind of
immunity from feeling? The younger people ask.
I would be a little put off by that.

If you take away hope,
he tells us eventually,
you are in toyland,
in a flippy care free game.
If none of the broken parts of life
can be repaired, you are free.
Hope is an easy sacrifice to make
as the screws of life begin to loosen;
and freedom lays before you along
a laughing path.

Jackie
by Don Schaeffer

The ambassador passed
from table to table
mending wounds and carrying
Transcona honey balm,
sweet especially in Winter.
Family miracles danced
side by side past the doors
toward the outer snow,
singing names,
sugar plums.

A Gratuitous Insertion by the Editor

the herd
by Bernard Alain

it's the fear of being
found out that makes
a wild horse run, I'm
not sure what the tame
ones have to lose

and I couldn't put a
number on the
soirees of 'drop by soon'
and 'great to see you',
where the snapping
point for etiquette
was 'how about Friday'
followed by a
short lapse of vertigo

I always thought that
if you meant it
you should say it,
be draconian, and
that timing was
a matter for old engines
and carburetors
in constant need
of tweaking,
and if you didn't mean
what you said you
were an asshole
for presuming and
not asking

I knew eventually
the herd of purebreds
would break loose like
they did, escaping to
the safety of the
mountains and pockets
of green pasture

I think about them from
time to time

I don't worry about
how or what they're doing,
knowing most of them
live roughly in the same
neighborhood, in roughly
the same houses with roughly
the same cars

and
I can imagine roughly
what they'd say if I dropped
in to say 'hello',
never doubting for a moment

they already imagined
on my behalf

January 2009 page 2

2009-01-02T10:00:00.000-08:00

One Poem by DubbleX

DubbleX has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools.

One Poem by Judy Leftow

Two Poems by Nabina Das

Two Poems by Don Schaeffer

A Gratuitous Insertion by the Editor

November 2008 Front Page

2008-11-28T11:03:00.000-08:00

this issue

accepted poetry and short prose submissions for this issue
... page 3

Reviews

John Yamrus reviews 'Blind Whiskey & The Straight Razor Blues' by Todd Moore
... page 4

new and upcoming releases

Notes of a Digital Ghost

by Don Schaeffer
Winnipeg, Canada

So I am a digital ghost. I have converted. A percentage of me has retreated completely from the world of physical things and invested in a dark world of words and shared souls. ... see October 2008 page 3

"Where the contemporary poet is concerned, Don Schaeffer is probably one the most complete packages available to the canadian poetry community, offering a unique blend of the artist and the poet, dabbling in texture-rich dimsensions that are compact and easy to read while not lacking in emotion or accessibility. His poster work, a combination of visuals and text is as exceptional, eliciting a warm connection with the human element through the use of color and distortion. Don's work is derived from real experience, earmarked by it's simplistic delivery, revered for it's precision and consistent voice. These characteristics have not been compromised in the production of 'Notes of a Digital Ghost'."--Bernard Alain

Scheduled for release with Publish America.

New and Selected Poems

by John Yamrus
United States

A 23 year retrospective look at the poetry of John Yamrus who has been writing since 1970.

“Two major qualities prevail in his recent work: economy and punch. No word is unnecessary or out of place; the timing is impeccable; and, most difficult of all, the endings hit just the right balance of summation, revelation, and surprise.” Gerald Locklin

“Yamrus gambles with an all or nothing gesture to make the poem and the language his own. It dances right at the edge where all great poetry dances.” Todd Moore

ISBN: 978-1-929878-00-0
Pages: 138 US
Price: $15 + $3 S&H (US & CAN) = $18 (from Lummox Press)
WORLD Price: $15 + $10 = $25
(from Lummox Press)
Publishing Date: November 2008

To obtain a copy of this featured release by John Yamrus please use the following links:

for a signed copy, order from www.lummoxpress.com - $18 (PPD)
Also available at www.createspace.com and www.amazon.com

in the spotlight

Ira Lightman
U.K.

Ira Lightman wanted to be a vicar. He is a poet who makes Public Art, mainly in the North East of England, where he lives. His pieces include The Spennymoor Letters (photo on right), ten 2-metre high poems made to look like the letters S, P, E, N, N, Y etc, the Gatesheads (photo on right) and the Blythscopes, coloured text in head and binocular shapes, Glade (a river of text) and the Family Tree Forest. He appears regularly on Radio 3’s The Verb, writing Pi mnenomics, Miltonic verse while blindfolded, and a poem entirely out of words containing a double l, as a collaboration with Peter Finch. He likes to make formal innovations for special occasions.

selected poem

The moon chirps

The moon chirps
over a cottage I borrow
high as the heating
the tenant never began,
the times she used heat
were wood in boxed glass.
Fly off.

Always there, in windscreen dark;
to see it, I peered, chin on steer;
excitement in the man as I iron
to clothe one day warm limb in
county coincidence at reception -
the woman's been where my shirts last hung,
carries, sorry, a mere swoop of a mouse.

by Ira Lightman

current release

Duetcetera

by Ira Lightman
UK

Deutcetera is about voices taking each other for granted, saying “etc etc” and not listening, nevertheless turning out to duet. It contains double- and multi-columned poems, where each column can be read in its own right (or left), and also read across the columns. Most of the poems (and translations) were written separately from each other, but happen to fi t together. The poems play separately in diff erent rhythms and moods yet sound with and against each other. Ira is recording many of them as duet-videos for his YouTube channel.
The themes of the collection range from celebration of marriage and fatherhood, to the contrasts in Protestant and Roman Catholic thinking. The book ends on an extended sequence written half in the voice of a six-year-old boy, and half as a set of statements about what’s infl uencing the language and ideas of the overall book.

TRYING TO IMAGINE BIRTH AND DEATH

by Don Schaeffer
Winniped Manitoba
Canada

If perception is a blank slate then it must have height and width. If it is solid, it must have depth. If it persists, then it must be extended in time. These appear to be basic principles of sensation. The blank space of perception must have extension. Height, width, depth and time are the extensive dimensions. These dimensions stretch the fabric of perception so that senses can work. Lack of consciousness may be partly describable as a lack of extension, a lack of sensory ... more on page 2

public art

Spennymoor Letters

by Ira Lightman

Gatesheads

by Ira Lightman

A double-column excerpt from Duetcetera

LOVE in a cold
climate o all
blue if a warm
January 5 next
morn as a dawn
icerink I walk
cool in a slow
measure I will
step as I know
symbols o love
take on a peak
passion I salt

SNAPPED a town
shut of a late
evening I find
best on a week
emptied o work
will to a calm
seizure o good
take be a film
Chaplin I know
copy as I film
century a warp
cuts on a weft.

November 2008 page 4

2008-11-28T10:57:00.000-08:00

A review of Todd Moore's
'Blind Whiskey & The Straight Razor Blues'

by John Yamrus

      Maybe it’s the attitude. Maybe it’s the intelligence. Maybe it’s the wit. I don’t exactly know what it is, but there’s something about Todd Moore’s in-your-face approach to poetry that has fascinated and entertained me right from the beginning, so many years ago.
      The prolific movie director, Roger Corman, the king of quickie movies…a director of talent and nerve, who wasn’t afraid of succeeding or failing by following the adage “first thought, best thought” (although in Corman’s parlance it was more likely “first shot, best shot”) once directed a 1958 gangster movie titled “I, Mobster”. For some reason I can’t seem to get that movie out of my head. It starred B movie legend Yvette Vickers and even had a part for aging strip club goddess Lili St. Cyr.
      It’s a wonderfully tacky movie, filled with all the blood, gore, sex and guts that 1958 would allow.
      Why all the tackiness? Why all the blood, gore and guts? I don’t know. Maybe we should ask the same question to Todd Moore, because his latest book of poems, BLIND WHISKEY & THE STRAIGHT RAZOR BLUES gives us all of that…and more. Starting off with that great title, the book takes us on a roller coaster ride through a wet-slick, rainy night world with a cast of characters who seem to have come straight out of the pages of a Mickey Spillane novel. There are no muted colours here. Everything is vivid, sharp and bright. The characters in the poems all have names like Whitey and Sonny and Taggart and Rio. Tough guy names. And you know it without it even being said that all the women wear red dresses and have garters and nylons with seams up the back of their legs. The book is consistent. Of course, consistency has always been a hallmark of Moore’s poetry. All but 2 of the 36 poems describe violent and deadly activities of some kind. Shootings. Stabbings. Beatings.
      These poems are film noir on steroids.
      Interestingly, though, the poems that tell the most about this great little book are those 2 that aren’t particularly overly violent. The first one, placed smack, dab in the middle of the book, written (I think) in Moore’s own voice, reads:

the way

i write
is strictly
fuck you
no cap
ital letters
no punc
tuition
the words
jammed
together
or all
smashed
up like bro
ken glass
crushed
pop cans
& used
condoms
the ameri
can sen
tence is
either a
stutter
or a
scream
& i’m
waiting
to watch
it explode

It’s almost as if Moore’s giving us a quick peek behind the mask, or showing us the wheels, gears and springs inside the clock. For some reason, this poem hit me even harder than the others. It seems to be Moore’s way of saying “Look, man, I am what I am and that’s just the way it is. Take it or leave it.”
Before I move on to the final poem in the book, the second less than violent poem, I’ve got to quote one of the other poems. It’s shorter than most of the other poems, but it’s certainly indicative of what Moore is doing not only in this book, but in much of his other work as well:

luke shoved

the auto
matic
straight
into far
go’s guts
& fired
then
his gun
hand
turned
blood
greasy

      Take note of the hard-boiled action, the short, disjointed lines and the total absence of any type of standard denouement or explanation. It’s pure Joe Friday. Dragnet. “Nothing but the facts, ma’am, please”.
      The final poem in the book is absolutely riveting. To me, it’s either a typo or a coolly, calculated head game, laid out not at the expense of the reader’s enjoyment, but more to make you stop for a minute and do a double-take…to make you ask “did I just see that?” The same thing can well be said about this entire book. This is a magic act by a master magician.
      Look, I’m not even going to quote that final poem. I don’t want to give away the end of the movie. Get yourself a copy of this one. I guarantee you’ll enjoy it. But do yourself a favour…before you open it…before you step into this room peopled with Todd Moore’s special group of low-lifes, killers, bastards and floozies, be sure to roll up the bottoms of your pants, because they just might get a little soiled.
      And it don’t wash out.

John Yamrus
11/10/08

BLIND WHISKEY AND THE STRAIGHT RAZOR BLUES
by Todd Moore
Iniquity Press/Vendetta Books
$5.00
44 pages
ISBN 1-877968-41-2
P.O. Box 54
Manasquan, NJ 08736

November 2008 page 3

2008-11-28T10:49:00.000-08:00

One Short Prose by Marco Kaufman

Marco Kaufman is the author of Family Ties of the Tattooed Lady and has had his work published by Glossolalia and One Real Story. He is currently working on a themed volume that he hopes to publish in book form, as well as a novel. A native of New York, he lives in Philadelphia.

Monte
by Marco Kaufman

After Harry moved to the city, he was walking home one day and
saw a game of Three-Card Monte. He knew the dealer always
palmed the queen; it was a standard short con. What bothered
him was that one player was blind. This seemed to make a
harmless confidence game really sinister. Harry went home and
called the police. When they arrived, they arrested the dealer. I
don't understand, Harry said to the cops. The dealer has to make a
living, but why take advantage of the blind? He's doubly
handicapped. Triply handicapped, one officer said. The dealer's
blind too.

A collaboration by Bernard Alain and Ira Lightman

UK conceptual poet Ira Lightman and canadian contemporary poet Bernard Alain collaborated on a double-column poem recording. A melding of the metaphysical as Ira blends a poetry collage with Mallarme.

A BRONZE horse rears
in a susurrus
of familiar maples
stone
giants sleep
beneath mossy patina
copper
clad hats
the carillons
of autumn past
crisp
as leafy zephyrs
monoliths awaken
in a stream
of urban ink
vapor
of a stallion
erupting
in nostrils
of city streets
to a tango
of hailing cabs
and foxy haste

[Bernard Alain]

THE ARCHED EYEBROW of
clear notating you
affect it always reduced
my style of riff,
in its mid-st
is, as code, flabby
and "merely"
dust-bedecked
I might shake
all off & ape your
god who's nakedest;
total sun lavishes:
bright feats I can't chew down
in stunning shucked blouses
with which glaziers live to do;
wife and child,
and paper plate,
of sandwiches taken
to the pithead
shall have held him
up to punctuate in that
in world
of being wedded.

[Mallarme]

Two Poems by Don Schaeffer

Don Schaeffer established Enthalpy Press and has published 5 chap books including "Time Meat" and "The Word Cow and the Pig O' Love." ISBN series: 0-9687017 Recent poetry has been published in The Writers Publishing, Lilly Lit, Burning Effigy Press, "Understanding Magazine," "Melange," "Tryst," "Quills," and others. His first book of poetry, "Almost Full" was published by Owl Oak Press early in the summer of 2006. Don's most recent books include "Body Event" and "Notes of Digital Ghost" and published by Publish America. He holds a Ph.D. in Psychology from City University of New York (1975) and lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba with his wife, Joyce.

Two Dialogs with Someone a Third My Age
by Don Schaeffer

1.

D : Whats new?
L : nothing new.
D: no new glories?

D: Are the old ones getting stale
L: yes
D: uh oh. You need a new glory, fast, maybe today.

L: I was joking.
D: I know so am I. A half joke.
L: It's still a joke.
D: There is no such thing as a joke. A joke is a time eraser.
L: yes it is
D: Thats like a perpetual motion machine. It can't exist in physics.

L: Here you go.
D: baaaaaaarooom im taking off.
D: (this is going to become a poem--warning).
L: I know.

D: Sorry. I'm learning something.
L: What is that?
D: I am not a saint.
L: lol. Nobody is.
D: So they say. Why not?
D: Is a saint like a joke,
D: or a perpetual motion machine?

2.

D: Its not as if we know each other and talk every day
L: Of course we do.
D: ghost to ghost
L: yes
L: lol
D: Across the vacuums, across the voids.
D: You cant imagine the distance between us, miles of rock and water and forest and wind,
D: and years of age.
L: Yes.

D: This is unimagininable. Yet I know as much about you, I bet, as your mother.
D: lol (a false joke designed to make you laugh).
L: My mum doesn't know things that you know.
D: You didnt laugh. Well she knows a lot i dont know too.
L: Yes.
D: I popped into your life and passed through you like a ghost.
L: But that time I needed her more.

D: I guess thats the advantage of having your own ghost.
L: yes
D: I am a magic mirror.
L: yes.
D: I can be that for you as long as my computer works and you need me.
L: Aww thank you, d.
D: Please understand as I do, that I'm not a saint.
D: I get stale to my friends. I decay.

Social Instruction
by Don Schaeffer

Phase 1.

Talking to me
is no different
than playing with dolls
or imagining pirates
or Peter Pan.

Phase 2.

Now listen!
That arm you
gently curl over your face,
once it enters
my eye
is mine.

One Poem by Joy Leftow

A Freudian Slip ...
by Joy Leftow

Do you suppose - it’s an accidentally on purpose mistake - a Freudian slip? Do you want to throw rocks or count sins, and then who’s will you count first, yours or mine?
Inadvertently 5 years of saved emails were erased. I can’t understand how these things happen in our cyber world lives. I use a convenient excuse. It happened as a side effect from my most recent software upgrade. These upgrades appear while I’m on the computer no matter what I’m doing. Soft grade available here for your computer. Click here for more information or to upgrade now - I’m instructed.
As the result of my last upgrade, my computer desktop divides itself into pretty pixilated boxes, slowly disappearing as I click on various parts of a document, website or photos, so I can finally get my desktop back. You see how far this has progressed that the computer screen has become my virtual desktop and is where I store everything. As I click on the pixilated boxes, my document slowly appears like magic out of nowhere.
Now do you think it’s inadvertently or purposefully that I’ve deleted emails stretching over back over 5 years. They have sublimely and subliminally disappeared forever, gone in a millimeter flash of one second, 5 years of stored memories. In my universe my mails have disappeared from society’s grip.
I want the solace of a moment of silence, a reprieve from the stampede of your judgments stalling my way. Do you think that’s why I tossed them coincidentally, transcendentally removing the spirit of lost words to whence they come?
Yo, it’s rough on a sister out here. My neighbor says to me as I pass her by, “Nice to see you. People don’t make their judgments of important life events on temporary situations.”
“Good to see you too,” I said. “I’m so glad it’s an existential society.”
“What?” she said, mouth agape.
“You know,” I said, “we have the power to recreate ourselves continuously.”
“Oh she said, I don’t get it, your life is so unreal to me, like a story.”
“I know, I said, “I’m so blessed to be living it.”
“People were different back in my day,” she said authoritatively.
“So glad to have entertained you,” I said making my way back into my lonely apartment hiding space.
I am back to my original thesis; do you think I deleted 5 years of emails accidentally on purpose? I feel like I’ve erased 5 years of my prior life. And really, don’t tell me. Is it that easy? Don’t be offended now when you say to me don’t you remember and I tell you I no longer remember some long forgotten email I’d previously valued which is now destroyed and only exists in some alternate cyber universe.

November 2008 page 2

2008-11-28T10:44:00.000-08:00

Intensive and Extensive Dimensions

Trying to Imagine Birth and Death
©2001 by Don Schaeffer

My sight has always been tall,
pulled wide to make space.
My vision was opened like creation,
first stretched with light
then colored and formed.

My sight was
raised from the
un-stretched, unlighted void,
the space of the dead.

Time is a rack that
holds my life. The
flavors and sounds of my life
are stretched on
pegs of time.

My life was resurrected from
the timeless void: from never, from silence.

The purpose of this brief article is to provide a simple framework and a vocabulary for the way I experience. If perception is a blank slate then it must have height and width. If it is solid, it must have depth. If it persists, then it must be extended in time. These appear to be basic principles of sensation. The blank space of perception must have extension. Height, width, depth and time are the extensive dimensions. These dimensions stretch the fabric of perception so that senses can work. Lack of consciousness may be partly describable as a lack of extension, a lack of sensory function. I assume that every conscious being experiences extension and that all life lives in an extended sensory world. As human beings and vertebrates, our experience stretches existence “spatially” into visual extension, and beyond that, depth. For us, these appear as assumed qualities of the world. Perhaps there is a kind of logic of brain making that make that a priori-ness universal. Many less “organized” life forms experience just time extension. Time extension may be a simpler form of extension. Thus, a non-visual organism may only know experience in terms of presence or absence, the when, rather than the where of perceptual objects. The experience of spatial extension requires “circuitry” for motion and feedback of motion, or a matrix of locatable, differential sensors, such as eyes. Objects populate the extended world of perception. An object is a grouping of sensory values that appears different from other sensory values around it. These differences appear along non-extensive or intensive dimensions. Intensive dimensions are the output of sensory organs to the brain, for example, colour, brightness, loudness, pitch, fragrance. A temporally extended object may be duration of pitch or loudness change. A spatially extended object may be a two-dimensional or three-dimensional region of colour or brightness altered from surrounding regions. Beyond this basic outline, the phenomenology of spatial and temporal extension and intensive dimensions can become very elaborate Secondary and tertiary intensive dimensions derived from the original sensory inputs define “abstract” or “reasoned” objects. Temporally and spatially extended objects can each be “transparent” but in different ways.

Recently, a man from British Columbia was given artificial eyes in an operation performed by a Portuguese doctor. Connection to a digital camera was made through an implant to the visual cortex of his brain. Although he had been completely blind for many years, the man described the new visual sensations as being added to his visual field, not as being a brand new visual field. As a conscious being, the man had always experienced visual extension (height

and width), but without meaningful visual objects.

Let’s assume the visual field of the man consisted of hundreds of horizontal and vertical locations. This would represent a matrix of millions of points of sensation. Extensive dimensions would be the horizontal and vertical mapping of the locations. Intensive dimensions would be the color and intensity of the points in the matrix. An object would be a region of the matrix definable as distinct from surrounding regions. The shape of the visual object would be determined by the outline of the variance identified with the object. The shape of visually extended objects could be lasting and stable. In a temporally extended field, an object would be a period of changed intensive dimension values, such as pitch or loudness or fragrance. The shape of the object would be the pattern of variation. In temporally extended fields, shape can not be permanent or stable. The experience of the temporally extended field is one of a tracing of the present moment through time. Shape is traced by the present moment and then fades as new shapes are experienced. Shape and movement are confounded. Sometimes the experience is one of a moving present and sometimes it is of a shape or form that resides in temporary storage in memory, retaining quasi-stability.

A Mind Experiment In Temporal Extension

Don Schaeffer, Ph.D.

When I was a student I performed a rather naive investigation to see if principles of apparent motion applied also to sound. In visual space, in order to induce the appearance of motion between two points you perform the following steps:

1) Make point A visible and point B not visible,

2) Make point A not visible and point B visible.

The parameters of time between steps 1) and 2) and size, intensity and similarity of the visibility of A and B determine how real the appearance of motion is and the apparent speed of motion. In visual space, a similar procedure can make one shape appear to change into another when the principles of apparent motion are applied to all points along the shape of the visual object. I wanted to see if a similar procedure can induce the experience of motion in sound. The question of what motion in sound meant didn’t even occur to me when I started my little experiment, but ideas on the subject evolved from my work. I rigged a turntable two produce sounds when a wire circuit was closed by hitting a strip of copper. There were two strips of copper to produce so that two sounds (call them X and Y) were produced in rapid succession. My experience of the results was that principles of motion are very different for visually than temporally extended spaces. For one thing, I could not bring X and Y close enough together in time to produce a sense of transition from one sound to another. The reason was that my primitive equipment produced not pure sounds but small sound objects including an initial click, a sound, and a final click. The most I could get was a point when the two events appeared to merge into one sound object, click sound click click sound click. I concluded that shape and motion are confounded in temporally extended space. Any qualities that articulate an object will militate against its merger with another object. Further observations were that if a shape is articulated, it will probably be experienced as a separate shape. Brief shapes appear to retain quasi permanence, apparently stored in a shape buffer. Longer shapes will be experienced as movement of the present point.

Current Issue

2008-11-05T16:57:00.001-08:00

this issue

POETRY AND DELIRIUM:
An Explanation

by Ross McCague
Toronto Ontario
Canada

The imaginative impulse acts on a sudden realization, dissociates images from their normal setting, and realigns them in associations that are largely derived from feelings. The intensity of such feelings in the realm of speculative thought is difficult for most people to understand. Whether these are unfinished acts that have never been played out in the artist’s life or the intense realization of what has ... see page 2

DIGITAL GHOSTS:
Introduction

by Don Schaeffer
Winnipeg Manitoba
Canada

A few years ago I made the discovery that the land over the rainbow, the land of enchantment was real. It exists in an amalgam of shared minds, connected by waves in the ether passing through the sky. It is, in effect, a juxapositon of souls. When I can touch the souls my mind makes the images of bodies and creates models of complete people shaped by shadows passed through space in coded ether waves. It is the land of chat ... see page 3

Accepted poetry submissions for this issue
... page 4

Book Reviews

a review by Bernard Alain: Dave Besseling's 'Nakayubi Three'
... page 5

featured book

Nakayubi Three

by Dave Besseling

My artwork is an exercise in documenting the subconscious mind and exploring the relationships between past experiences with personality and the images that seem to get all mixed up under the Id. Living in different cultures seems to afford somewhat of an objective view of what makes up the mind; what has been learned, seen or felt can be placed in a quantifiable context as opposed to identifying unconditionally with the persona of "Dave". The symbols and iconography cultures create to represent possible states of mind beyond the intellect are always an inspiration to me.
--D. Besseling

Dave Besseling currently has four publications in circulaton, Nakayubi Two: The Barnstormer. (poetry), Nakayubi Three: The Unmeaning and the Holy City. (poetry), Kusuriyubi One: Fun With Memes! (prose) purchase, Nakayubi One: the cynic, the critic, the masochistic anemic. (poetry).

To obtain a copy of the featured book use the following link:

LuLu http://www.lulu.com

in the spotlight

Joy Leftow New York, NY

     Joy Leftow is a writer with a unique perspective and voice. Joy D. Leftow was born and raised in Washington Heights, in upper Manhattan, where she still lives. Growing up in the Heights, combined with a less - than - ideal family life, taught Leftow many lessons from a unique angle. She is a Jewish woman who has lived her entire life in an area which has always been comprised of ethnic minorities and has now become predominantly Hispanic and African-American. This perspective gives her the advantage of seeing poverty from the inside out and experiencing the differences in several cultures outside of her own.
     After dropping out of high school and living for some time on welfare as a single mother, Leftow restarted her education under the auspices of the New York State Higher Education Opportunity Program and obtained a B.A. from Columbia University. She continued her studies and obtained a postgraduate Masters of Science in Social Work degree from Columbia University in New York City, and more recently an M.A. in Creative Writing from City College of New York.
     Leftow has been active in the New York City poetry scene since 1993, frequently reading at poetry evenings at CBGB's, the Wetlands, Cornelia Street Cafe, Bowery Poetry Club, the Back Fence, Palmer Vineyards and the Paris Cafe and making appearances on local public radio shows, such as Poetry Central, Teachers & Writers Collaborative, Everything Goes, The Sounds of Poetry on Adelphi Radio on WBAU-FM, Jazz Poetry Café with Phillip Gregory on WFLO, Cool On The Groove on Rockland World Radio Program and on the television show, The New Yorkers. She also organized and hosted the Spoken Word Event at the 4th and 5th Annual Uptown Arts Stroll event in 2006 and 2007.
     Leftow has been performing on the New York poetry scene for some time and has published A Spot of Bleach, a book of poetry and prose. Her story, Foolish Pride, came out Spring 2007, in an all female anthology called The Lipstick Diaries from Augustus Publishing. Joy writes and gets her work published when she is not busy doing cat rescues and meeting her muse.
     Leftow is a clinical social worker proficient at understanding character. She uses these skills when describing characters. Writing from her own experiences and those of her close friends, Joy focuses a new light on the wacky, humorous, and sometimes painful adventure of “Life in the Big Apple.”
     Leftow's first book, A Spot of Bleach & Other Poems and Prose (Big Foot Press, 2006), was praised by the Aquarian East Coast Rocker (March 15-22, 2006 issue) as "bringing a bold energetic humor to the matters of everyday life. Growing up in a not so “Leave It To Beaver” household, she reflects on her relationships with family members and friends with more sarcasm than you could find in a whole season of “Seinfeld.” Her prose is like a catchy tune, keeping the reader engaged within every line and pause, allowing her words and loud voice to linger around in your head. Her observations and analysis of human nature represent the cynicism with which we think but never have the guts to say out loud."

selected poem

Being Jewish

The plague of my life has always been
I’m not Jewish enough to be Jewish
Although over the years I’ve had several
Jewish girl friends, I can count them on one hand

No Jewish man has ever wanted me except
for some really despicable Jewish male perverts
and I’ve never figured out the reason
why I’ve always been an outcast among my
own people, and then, even my therapist told me

“It’s all because you don’t know the difference
between a schlemiel and a schlimazel,” I said
to my therapist, “Andy, don’t be a schlemiel,
a schlemiel is a jerk and schlimazel means
an inept jerk who’s persistently luckless.”

“No,” he said, “you’re wrong and even Ellen
knows the difference,” “Oh com’on” I said,
“what is there to know, you’re making this
up to tease me,” “Oh no I’m not,” he said,

“a schlemiel is someone who
is Jewish who doesn’t know
how to tie his tie properly
and the other is what you said.”

I do wonder what Andy’s going on about
My mother was Jewish orthodox and
my father was Russian Jew and how
much more Jewish can you get than that?
The point is, ... I’m still not Jewish enough ...

Then he said “Even a Jewish atheist would know-
-but the gist of it is, that you don’t know enough
about the culture to be with a Jewish man
who gets pleasure from being around other Jews
who can understand the language they speak.”

What can I do?
Being an outcast
is difficult at best!

by Joy Leftow

August 1 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T16:53:00.001-08:00

Dave Besseling

Born 1979, Peterborough, ON. Canada. Currently interloping in Chiang Mai, Thailand and have spent the last 6 years living and traveling in a variety of countries to nurture a lateral appreciation of human diversity/mania and nurture to some degree a relevant capacity for self-awareness. All this and a deep appreciation for pretentious headshots.

My artwork is an exercise in documenting the subconscious mind and exploring the relationships between past experiences with personality and the images that seem to get all mixed up under the Id. Living in different cultures seems to afford somewhat of an objective view of what makes up the mind; what has been learned, seen or felt can be placed in a quantifiable context as opposed to identifying unconditionally with the persona of "Dave". The symbols and iconography cultures create to represent possible states of mind beyond the intellect are always an inspiration to me.

Dave Besseling currently has three publications in circulaton, Nakayubi Two: The Barnstormer. (poetry), Kusuriyubi One: Fun With Memes! (prose) purchase, Nakayubi One: the cynic, the critic, the masochistic anemic. (poetry).

featured poem


GMT + 2 
Europe 
Austria 
Voralberg 
47 31 00 N 
009 46 00 E   
  
BREGENZ 

I thought you were pretending  
                    to sleep  
                    so I’d carry you to the car,  
                    but you’d just had too much beer. 

             For you that’s half a glass - half a glass too full –  
               some would say half gone, 
                                          maybe I would as well, 
               your blood unwilling to forge and smelt;  
                                                                     to perform the hops transmute. 
 
In these Teutonic pubs the schnitzels are what weigh my lids, Chérie. 

                         You look as peaceful as your blind cat as you sleep. 
        What a China doll would look like if a China doll could weep. 
             Your closed eyes - calligraflourish slits best not seen but felt, 
                                                      like a blind man’s sense of smell.  
                                                                                                     Acute.  

                                                              You’re like the apocalypse.  
                                                               Lightning waits in clouds. 
                                                               Dynamite stuck down a flute.

by Dave Besseling

July 19, 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T16:48:00.001-08:00

Bobby Slais

Bobby Slais was born in 1961 and has been a resident of Michigan in the United States his whole life. A single father with two children in the house, raising them alone while working a high level engineering job in the Detroit metro area. One of his children is a special needs child, certainly providing many challenges in all their daily lives. Bobby’s passion and determination has shown through in all aspects of his life. He was a nationally ranked marathon runner in college but had to take time off school to help raise his siblings when his mother passed away. An innovative engineer currently holding ten US patents for product lines his company manufactures. For fun and relaxation, he swings a metal detector, finding buried treasures when the Michigan weather allows it. Two gold coins and many gold and silver treasures adorn his treasure chest. He had the feature article and appeared the cover of a prominent treasure hunting magazine in early 2007. Poetry is a big part of Bobby’s life. His innovative and empathic nature spills out of the verse as he weaves emotion found in life’s journeys and surprises into his work for all to read and relate to. Several of his poems have been published in poetry magazines and he is currently refining his first manuscript.

featured poem

The Spin

I head outside for a smoke, killing time
trying to minute away seconds from work’s furious wind,
the rush of emails, paper reports, faxes, and phone calls.

In front of me, a commotion, broken leaves and debris,
scraps of paper, twigs, and golden pine needles
swirl around on the thin strip of concrete driveway

leading into the loading dock. They tumble on in
from around the building corner, an unseen twirling force
pulls them into this vortex. It’s a bizarre confusion

with an appealing, somewhat mesmerizing beauty
as they topple and dance like puppets on strings,
at times almost being set free, being sucked back in

spinning into the mix again. They are being forced to work
by something they cannot control. In the center of it all,
a brownish clump of dampness, compressed by last night’s rain

unmoving, not affected by the howling as if they just don’t care,
like dead weight co-workers. The rest continue to move
in their taunting and repeating pattern, around, in and out,

and around again. I almost feel sorry for them. They are trapped.
Content with the bit of fresh air I have taken in, I weave my way back
toward my place, hitting the fax machine on my way by,

picking up some printed copies, answering a coworkers question.
Finally turning the corner into my cube, I notice it,
one leaf clinging onto the cuff of my black dress pants.

I pluck it off, setting it free and place it on my desk.
We both sit still for a brief moment
and let the world spin around us.

by Bobby Slais

July 12, 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T16:45:00.003-08:00

July 12 2007: John Yamrus
John Yamrus has been a fixture in American poetry for four decades. Since 1970 he has published 2 novels, 16 volumes of poetry and more than 900 poems in magazines around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into several languages including Spanish, Swedish, Italian, Japanese and (most recently) Romanian.

featured poem

did i ever tell you

did i ever tell you

about the time
Linda said i was good,
but that i’d never be
Bukowski?

Linda was a poet.

one of Bukowski’s
girlfriends
in the ‘70s.

for a while
she edited and published
a pretty decent little magazine.

she wrote to me saying
that she loved my poems...

actually, it’s been so long now
i really don’t remember
if she loved them
or liked them,
but it doesn’t matter...

she said that i was good,
but i would never be great...

because i wasn’t
mad.

Bukowski (she said) was mad...
and he was
great.

i wrote back
saying that she was right...
Bukowski IS mad
and Bukowski IS great,
but if one of the qualifications
for being mad
and being great
was having to put up with the likes of her,
then i’d be more than happy
to settle for what i am
and what i’m
going to be.

that was 30 years ago,
and do you know what?

i’m still not mad
and i’m still not
great...

but, every now and then,
when the moon’s just right
i’m not
half bad.

by John Yamrus

July 5 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T16:45:00.001-08:00

July 5 2007: Dimitris P. Kraniotis

Dimitris P. Kraniotis is an award-winning Greek poet. He was born in 15 July 1966 in Stomio, a coastal town in central Greece. He studied at the Medical School in Thessaloniki. He lives and works as a medical doctor specialized pathologist in Larissa, Greece. He is Founder and President of World Poets Society (W.P.S.), the Editor and Director of the online poetic libraries “Greek Poet”, “International Poet” and “Hellenic Words”, the Editorial Director of the Greek medical magazine “Hippocrates”, President of the Economic and Social Council of the Prefecture of Larissa, a Member of the Editorial Board of the Greek literary magazine “Graphi” and a Member of the Board of Directors of the Larissa Medical Association and Larissa Medical Society. He is a Member of several organizations including the Hellenic Literary Society, International Society of Greek Writers, Larissa Writers and Poets Society (former Vice-President and President), Greek Society of Medical Writers, World Academy of Arts and Culture (WAAC), World Congress of Poets (WCP), United Poets Laureate International (UPLI), International Writers and Artists Association (IWA), Union Mondiale des Ecrivains Medecins (UMEM), International Society of Poets (ISP), Poetry Society of America (PSA), The Academy of American Poets, Poetas del Mundo (Chile) and Bilingual Poets and Writers for Peace (Argentina). Also he is 2007 Poetry Ambassador (by the National Poetry Month Committee, USA) and Love Ambassador (by The Love Foundation Inc., USA). Four of his poetic collections have been published: “Traces” (poems in Greek), Larissa, Greece 1985, “Clay Faces” (poems in Greek), Larissa, Greece, 1992 , “Fictitious Line” (poems in Greek and translated into English and French), Larissa, Greece 2005 and "Dunes" (selected poems translated into French and Romanian), Bucharest, Romania 2007. Central theme in his poetry is contemporary man, his impasse, his worries, his fears, his hopes and dreams. His poems have been translated into English, French, Romanian, Dutch and Portuguese. He has won a number of international literary awards for his poetry (in Greece, USA, UK and France), which has been published in many countries around the World (USA, UK, India, Algeria, China, Korea, Brazil, France, Australia, Canada, Germany, Belgium, South Africa, Italy, Nigeria, Argentina, Taiwan, El Salvador & Turkey). He is featured in several encyclopedias (the online encyclopedia “Wikipedia” in 35 languages, the online Greek encyclopedia “Live Pedia”, the “Big Encyclopaedia of New Greek Literature of Haris Patsis” and the “Who is Who in Greece”).

Dimitris P. Kraniotis

Poet and Medical Doctor
President of World Poets Society (W.P.S.)
http://www.dimitriskraniotis.com

featured poems

Rules and visions

Life counts
the rules;
the sunset, their exceptions.
Rain drinks up
the centuries;
spring, our dreams.
The eagle sees
the sunrays
and youth, the visions.

by Dimitris P. Kraniotis

Denials

A roar of cars
seals the dawn
with short-cut answers,
with unyielding denials
that are repeated
explicitly
every sunset.

by Dimitris P. Kraniotis

One-word garments

Waves of circumflexes
storms of adverbs,
windmills of verbs,
shells of signs of ellipsis,
on the island of poems
of soul,
of mind,
of thought,
one-word garments
you wear
to endure!

by Dimitris P. Kraniotis

June 20, 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T16:40:00.000-08:00

Shell Heller

Shell Heller is a U.K poet who writes about constant recovery of the heart from impossible situations. Her works also include poetry about animal welfare & rescue, reincarnation and the spirit. Shell's most recent publication is 'Solo Songs', and as she says it so well, "there is only One song...and we are all part of it...uniquely and collectively so. I have been through the same kinds of experiences as everyone else. My journey to and from and then back to Love is surely what Life is about. At one time I believed that the scars left on my mind by dark times were indelible proof that I was a tainted soul. I lost any sense of my true self and became a victim of every circumstance. Then the Universe showed me this was not the truth of it at all and I began to write. The poems in this book you are holding now were created from the aftermath, some from the afterglow, usually arriving on the wings of another sleepless night. I have learned that every event contains a blessing and that emotional scars are signs of healing, not of damage. I honour this understanding by reaching into the essence of experience to find the beauty and the blessing in every soul event. The results are often surprising. There is only One song... and we are all part of it"

featured poem

vessels

Inches from the sterile charnel heap lodged
in crowded suitcase tombs beneath my bed,
I half-slept beside you.
Inches from your heart.
Time beat a worried path through bone,
Yet sometimes, in your arms, I felt almost loved.

By day the waxen femur in my hand left yellow
stains - death reduced to pollen in my palm.
I studied grains and lines,
breathed warm on them
as if life’s echo might recall a memory,
a moment when another’s hand touched thigh.

With sorrow’s heavy headed resting on soft ribs
I wondered how alike were bones and blood,
hollow vessels drifting
in slow dreaming marrow,
and I, sad daughter, mourning relics of a
time when it was your turn to feel almost loved.

by Shell Keller

June 13 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T15:47:00.001-08:00

Dunstan Attard

Dunstan Attard was born and lives on the Mediterranean island of Malta. A rewarding thirty year career in banking has not dented his enthusiasm for the complex joys of rural frugality, joys that preserve the individuality of the human spirit. His current publication is 'The Island I Call Home', a first-hand poetic testimony of the ongoing conflict between Mediterranean Island Paradise and raw commercial values and how this Paradise looms into sight when the soul withdraws stoically from the indulgence and envy that feed this conflict.

featured poem

Jasmine boat

is that the scent of jasmine
my darling
that fills this night with moons
that floods the virgin maybes
with gentle orange tunes
that brings to leafy memory
the noons in my childhood street
full of narrow weightless dreams
embracing summer heat
among the gentle urban sounds
of horses sleeping in their barn
remembering the shadows of our tiny footsteps
rejoicing in a state of time.

is that the smell of jasmine
my darling
or my longing for those childhood days
that to my street i may return
through gallant trodden ways
knowing
that those tiny footsteps
lead to your lingering notes
where time is forever present
in perfect jasmine boats

by Dunstan Attard

September 2007 page 4

2008-11-05T15:42:00.001-08:00

Dave Besseling on Dystopian Space Babies

(from the davebesseling.com blog i am too lazy to update or fiddle with, for better or worse, here you are...)

This is the rundown on the basic themes of the series. It was written as part of an application to ****, *****, *****, to which I wasn’t accepted, although the painful process of cajoling abstract themes into relatively succinct linguistic snippets has left us with this rambling amble through the creative process. I’m still not sure if I want to share this, thinking it may kill some of the fun, so this post may just disappear one day.

Anyways, here you go….

Dave Besseling- Description Of Works. ****** ***********, 2006

SERIES 1. Dystopian Space Babies.

This series is a metaphorical expression of an all too common trajectory traced from the birth of an idea to its eventual transformation when exposed to subjective individuals on a large scale. The clearer the idea, with all the greater the fervour will egos latch onto it, digest it and regurgitate it into a watered down version suitable for mass consumption, essentially killing any brilliance or lucidity of the original observation. This seems to be the case with any enlightened spiritual path once it becomes an organized (homogenized) religion. Same goes for the transformation of social theory or criticism when applied as a political system. I have tried to represent both these paths in this series. The chosen ideology is that which can be found in Chairman Mao’s little red book, but I hope to illustrate how it can be interchangeable with other ideological or dogmatic entities. The milk jugs found in each piece are key; the life giving liquid is the constant thread of the series, and we can see how the various personages react to it at each stage. Of course by the end of the cycle, the original nectar has soured in the hands of greed. As I see it, this process of devaluation, this misguided sprint to utopia can be explained in six steps. I like to call them the six tenets of dystopia.

Step 1: CONCEPTION. This is the idea in its initial moment of creative insight. Abstract associations coagulate and take form in the silent mind of an individual. This contemplative moment is the root of all forms of creativity. At this stage, no moral pinnings have classified the idea in any context of right or wrong. This is freedom unfettered my the clusterbomb of the monkeymind.

Step 2: ABSORBTION. The idea, now essentially a meme (here I use the word “meme” as it is described by Howard Bloom. see his book “Global Brain”, and also “Spiral Dynamics” by Don Beck) is shared and absorbed by other individuals, who with their own subjective worldviews take the original concept and make sense of it through their own filters, this creates the initial compulsion towards hierarchical power struggle.

Step 3: POPULARIZATION. This is where the real spreading of the idea comes into play in order to promulgate a distilled version of the ethos so the masses can latch onto it more quickly. Propaganda is issued, preying on the base desires that people are most easily tempted by. Fundamental urges are played to- in this case, I’ve used siren like sexpots to sell the idea (no, not an original concept to be sure, more of a comment on the ubiquity of propaganda/advertising that uses sexual longing, guilt and inadequacy as a vehicle to peddle wares). We can see the milk bottle as more of an intoxicant by this point….

Step 4: INSEMINATION. The idea is well and truly an ideology in this image, hedgemonically compact enough to gather a large scale group to rally around a leader. Here we can see some fleeing the impending fascism (literal or metaphorical) and the milk being controlled and doled out in doses as the power figure sees fit. Here it is an espece of mutated mother figure.

Step 5: DISSEMINATION. The machine is in full swing, the clones are under control and more and more entities are being pandered to and brought together under the umbrella of the ethos. Seeing them as insects is apt. the proliferation of clones, inebriates blind to the germinal ideology that now borders on religion as the banners of law and order fly.

Step 6: INDOCTRINATION. All semblance of the original idea has been corrupted. Control is now totalitarian. Any nutrition from the original holding vessel is empty. The snowball effect of greed and ignorance has created this monster, unaware of his own emptiness. The casualties of the fight for truth and preservation of the seedling hang from one of its legs. The cycle is over, it’s had its time and soon, it will be replaced by another idea, another despot, another martyr - and the cycle will begin again.

This is a frank observational series of work, perhaps even slightly pessimistic and melodramatic; however the sense of helplessness in face of seemingly impenetrable ziggurats is one that many of us can relate to on various levels of understanding in this world we find ourselves in today. The thinking individuals that managed to escape offer hope that this destruction will not keep repeating itself. I am waiting for the inspiration where I can find a positive and active way to illustrate what can break the cycle. This is something that must be lived, i suppose.

by Dave Besseling 2007

So, you wanna get published!

the following is an article i recently published concerning people who want to write for publication. it just scratches the surface, but i think some folks might get something out of it.

Wanna get published?

One of the questions i’m most often asked is “how does somebody go about getting their poems published?” you know the kind of stuff…someone will invariably come up to me after a reading and say something like: “my son wants to be a writer. he writes the nicest poems and wants to publish them some day…can you help him out?” my first response is always to tell that person to always have a fall-back, because if he or she thinks they’re going to make any money at this, then they’re deluding themselves or have been sorely misinformed. i’ve been publishing for 38 years and it’s only in recent years that i’ve made anything more than lunch money at it. no, poetry’s a game for amateurs. that’s not even true. an “amateur” is someone who does something solely out of love for what they’re doing. if that’s all you’re doing…if you’re not compelled to write poems…to dig into your heart and see if you can come up with something fresh and true and alive…if you’re only writing poetry because you “love” to do it then go post your poems on some internet site and be happy with everyone commenting on your words with statements like “thanks for the great read” and “well said” and “nice write”. if you want to be a writer…if you TRULY want to be a writer (and i’m not saying “poet” here, because that term’s been so devalued these days by everyone and his brother calling themselves poets that it’s become practically worthless. even after 16 published books i refuse to call myself a poet because i feel i haven’t yet earned the term.)…anyway, if you TRULY want to be a writer who stands out of the crowd then you MUST be in print. okay, you can cut a lot of corners and go directly to people like Publish America and Lulu who will print your book for nothing or practically next to nothing…but if you don’t first do your homework and lay a good solid foundation, then i absolutely guarantee you that your book won’t sell more than a hundred copies and most of them will be to family and friends and few of those copies will ever get read because they’re only buying your book to be nice to you or to get you off their back. guaranteed. no, the only real way to get published is to do it the hard way…one step at a time. and that takes work and dedication and perseverance. let me back up a bit right now. as a writer you have to be able to split yourself in two. there’s got to be the artistic “writer” side of you…the one who does the writing and thinking and loving and growing. then there’s got to be the level-headed “business” side to you as well. i can’t stress this hard enough or often enough that unless you work at it with a plan, and work at it as often as you can, then you’re setting yourself up for failure. let’s face it…becoming a published, respected writer takes a plan that’s followed and maintained and modified over the years just like any other venture. first of all you need to start sending things off to magazines…print magazines. and if you’re thinking right now “where do i find print magazines that publish poetry?” then stop reading this right now because you’re wasting my time and yours, because you don’t care enough to do what it takes. Go to Borders or Barnes and Noble…check out the magazines. there’s tons of magazines. buy a couple and start reading. chances are they have ads in them for other magazines. check those out as well. start doing your homework. start making lists of magazines you’re going to submit to. better yet, go into any one of those stores and buy yourself a copy of “Poet’s Market”. for someone just starting out it’s an indispensable tool. it lists thousands of small magazines and small publishers who publish poetry. and if you contact any one of them and they mention money…YOUR money…run for the hills. you’ve seen the ads…”Publisher looking for poets”…”let your poems earn big bucks”. the only thing these people are looking to do is part you from your big bucks. Poet’s Market lists all sorts of good things…the magazine or book publishers who do poetry, and the listings contain all sorts of great information like the contact people, the type of poetry they’re looking for, the guidelines for submission etc etc etc. like i said…have a plan. start small. don’t think that you’re going to get anywhere by starting off sending your work to The Paris Review or The New Yorker. you’re wasting your time. start small. take a small first step. let’s talk about basics. it’s like anything else. the more you do it, the better you’re going to get at it. sending stuff out to the magazines is an acquired habit just like anything else. do something every day. write something. send something off to a magazine. edit something you’ve written. send something off to another magazine. i don’t care what it is, but do something every single day. and don’t give up. and don’t send some poems off to a magazine and sit back and wait till you get an answer. no, put together another batch of poems (different poems. never have duplicate submissions circulating) and send them off to another magazine. keep records of what you’ve sent to each magazine and what the results were. this will keep you from duplicating efforts and also give you a better idea of which of your poems they liked or didn’t. chances are you’re going to start off by getting rejected. don’t worry, it happens to everyone and never goes away. like i said, i’ve been publishing for 38 years… i’ve had nearly 900 poems published in magazines around the world and still get more rejections than acceptances. if i had to make a guess, i’d estimate that over the years i’ve had something like 3000 rejections. that’s just part of the game. too often i talk to people who say “i want to be a writer, but i sent some poems to two different magazines and they got rejected”. tough. send more out. getting published is not brain surgery. anybody can get published if they want it bad enough and try hard enough. it’s strictly a numbers game. almost like sales. the more doors you knock on, the better your chances are. so, keep things in the mail. and when you send things out to magazines, respect the editors. don’t send works in progress, or sloppy work. don’t expect the editors to do your job for you. they’re too busy for that. years ago i used to edit two different little magazines and while the circulation was next to nothing i used to get 15 to 20 submissions a day and anything that i opened up that didn’t look complete or professional didn’t even get a second look. it went right in the can. i’m jumping around a bit here, but i’m trying to cover a lot of territory in a short space of time. so, that being said, let’s talk again about why i’m suggesting you start with the print magazines…because like it or not, no matter how small or ratty the magazine is, publication (whether you admit it or not) commands respect. that’s where the real audience is. unlike the internet, where everything’s free, people have to shell out their hard earned cash to buy a magazine. that means something. that shows they’re serious. okay, so you start sending stuff out to magazines and you’re getting some feedback…usually at first it’ll be negative because you don’t know anyone and nobody knows you. when you get a rejection, don’t just throw it away and move on to the next one…send the editor a thank you letter or e-mail or note. thank him or her for taking the time to read your work and say “i know you didn’t like what i’d sent, but might you be interested in seeing something else? or, do you know of another magazine that you think might be a better fit for my poems?” network. build up your contacts. then, when you finally get something accepted somewhere (and i guarantee you will, if you try hard enough and look hard enough), use that to your advantage. send more poems out to other magazines with a note saying something like: “i recently had some of my other poems accepted by Buttcheek magazine. i’m hoping you’ll find something here that you like”. it’ll take time. it won’t happen overnight. but, sooner or later you’ll start to build up a readership. people will recognize your name. then, after a while you’ll start to know which magazines also have a book publishing side to them and by that time you’ll be more familiar with the editors and you won’t be afraid or embarrassed to ask them if they’d be interested in seeing a manuscript for a book. that’s it. there’s no big secret to it. no mystery. it’s just a matter of hard work and determination. then, when you finally get your book published, people will know your name. a few at least. certainly more than your Aunt Mary and your fat cousin Tony. please, don’t let yourself be counted among those “artistes” who think the world’s going to beat a path to your door because you’re just so damned good and deserve to be published and known the world over. it’s just not going to happen. it’s up to you. you’ve got to make it happen. when i was a kid, growing up, just starting out wanting to be a writer, the guys i hung with also wanted to be writers and they had so much more talent than me…but they couldn’t be bothered to look at the “business” side of this because they were above that…they were artists. they figured that they were so good that word would get around about them and people would come to them. they’re still very talented. and they’re still waiting. that’s it. i’ve talked enough. now it’s your turn. let’s see if you’ve got what it takes.

Since 1970 John Yamrus has published 2 novels, 14 volumes of poetry and nearly 900 poems in magazines around the world. Recently, selections of his work have appeared in translation in the Romanian magazine Antiteze. His newest book of poetry is SHOOT THE MOON.

by John Yamrus 2007

September 2007 page 3

2008-11-05T15:37:00.000-08:00

Milner Place

Another great (and i don't use that term lightly) poet is from the UK...Milner Place. his poems feel timeless...like they've been washed over with firelight, wine and the dust of the ages. Milner is 77 now and i treasure every word he writes. here's one of his called...

the great river

We sailed in on the breath
of Africa,
into the crimson scent
of shadows
and the lamps were lit
in Sanlucar
de Barrameda.

We rode the tide
drawn by a crescent moon
to mountains,
to a gypsy song
torn from the throat
of history,
the caravel
laden with bloodstained gold
for Santiago in the name
of the Most High King.

We steered through mist
to the deep song
of black water,
steered
for the golden tower,
on the sweep
of the great river,

Guadalquivir.

do a google on him and lend your support and buy his books.

by John Yamrus 2007

Bukowski

Okay, i guess it's time we talked about the 800 pound bear in the room. like him or not, you've got to admit that Charles Bukowski is without a doubt the most influential poet in the last 50 years...since Ginsberg. and, like Ginsberg, he's had profound positive AND negative influences on the genre. people who read one or two Bukowski pieces miss the art that's behind those deceptively simple lines. all they see is what's on the surface...loose, conversational lines that describe daily events, like diary entries. because of that, they think they can do it themselves...and they give it a try...oftentimes spending their entire writing lives trying to write like bukowski and because they see his poems as just so much talk, they end up doing it badly. bukowski (once you get past the carefully cultivated bad boy image...and believe me, he was very much aware of how that image added to his book sales), even with all of his demons, was a very well-read, dedicated artist. he WORKED at his poetry. he didn't sit there all day waiting for inspiration to happen. he wrote and wrote and worked the lines, oftentimes writing dozens of poems a day. because of that, a good many of his poems are repetitive, but he had a way of picking something up and looking at it and describing it. and then he'd pick it up (his subject) and look at it again from a different angle and describe it again. he was never satisfied. and, as he aged, his work matured. i'm not going to say that his style changed much because it was pretty much set from day one....but what he wrote about changed dramatically over the years. it was always about him, Bukowski, and the way he viewed and experienced the world. but he also had this way of taking us along with him on his journey through life, from start to finish... from roadhouse barfly magic man, to up and coming writer...to movie script writer...to international stardom and acclaim, all the way to the end...an aging, dying man, contemplating his own demise. yes, no matter what you think of Bukowski, it's undeniable that he was a very great artist. like us all, a flawed and fallible human being...but, a very great artist even to the end.

by John Yamrus 2007

Modern Poets in General

It's a very difficult and personal thing to assess or even comment on, but i'll try. now, i'm going under the assumption that we're talking about modern poets...and what i'll try to do here is bring to you a few names (very few) of some people that are as good as it gets, who you will only very very rarely encounter in any bookstores anywhere. (if at all) at the top of my list is one of the most widely published poets in the world, who you've probably never heard of with the exception of my review of his latest book on this site...Gerald Locklin. Locklin's been publishing some of the best poetry in the world since the mid-60s. at the latest count he's published over 130 books and more than 3,000 poems in magazines around the world. someone said to me a while back, concerning the sheer NUMBERS locklin's put up..."sure, he can crank them out, but i'm talking about QUALITY poetry, not quantity." well, i'm talking quality, too. for my money, locklin is the greatest living poet in america. check him out. next on my list would be R.D. Armstrong...AKA Raindog. he publishes his own stuff mostly thru Lumox Press and he's obviously well worth your time. in addition, his Little Red Book series, publishes not only his own work, but poetry from some of the most creative writers from around the world. if you're looking for the same old stuff you can find everywhere else, don't look to Armstrong or his stable of writers....he publishes only leaders, not followers. third on my list is a woman who to date has published only two books...She's published one under her given name...Anita L. Wynn, and the other under the pen name Autolykos. i wrote a review of her first book a few years ago and i described encountering her work for the first time as talking a walk in the forest and finding an angel with her hair on fire. her work is brutal, searing and real. check her out. check them all out. you won't be disappointed.

by John Yamrus 2007

SOLO SONGS by Shell Heller

As a rule, first books are often awkward, gangly, unsure things. First steps. Indications of things to come. That’s what I was prepared to face last year when I first got Shell Heller’s debut book of poems, SOLO SONGS. I’ve been around long enough to know what to expect…poems filled with some promise and more than a little bombast and boast. Poems in which the author makes the mistake of all first-time authors…trying to say everything at once in a grand statement. I expected to find poems with titles like LOVE DECIPHERED or HATE or THE WAY OF THE WORLD. Poems that made you feel the author thinks he or she has it all figured out and that he or she is the first person ever to feel this thought or that emotion. Instead, I was blown away by poems that from the first page to the last, were invested with humanity and understanding. In her poems she’s smooth and subtle, content to allow the readers to come to their own conclusions. She doesn’t hit you over the head with anything. Achieving restraint like that takes time and more than a little talent. I hate quoting bits and pieces of poems because I don’t think it does a poem justice. And I hate quoting complete poems because I think readers should come to them on their own and find them whole and as the writer intended them to be. But, I suppose no review of a book would be tolerated without at least one small quote. I’ll submit this as an example of Shell’s relaxed use of the language. She doesn’t talk down to her readers. And she doesn’t use any poemspeak…you know the kind of crap I’m talking about…poems where the writer uses lines only because they sound “poetic”, often using them with total disregard for the meaning they impart. Well, here’s the first stanza of one of the finest poems in the book. It’s called “the always”:

“i send you
nothing
less
than angels
to embrace
you, love, as you
cry and reach for me
in dreams.”

There’s nothing fancy here, it’s just real as hell. Yes, Shell Heller is a bona fide poet. Not a pretender to the throne. Do yourself a favor…order a copy of SOLO SONGS and when it comes in the mail, wait until it’s late at night and everyone’s asleep except you, and yours is the only light left on in the entire house. Then, one by one…poem by poem…make your way through this excellent book. I guarantee you it’ll be an evening to remember. Finally, let me say this and then I’ll get out of your way. If this first book is any indication of things to come, then we’ve all got a lot to look forward to.
John Yamrus
July 5, 2007

SOLO SONGS
By Shell Heller
Published by Publish America
$12.95

A review by John Yamrus 2007

A kinda/sorta review of Gerald Locklin's New Orleans, Chicago, And Points Elsewhere

I’ve known Gerald Locklin for 30 years now. Back then I was managing a clothing store in Reading, Pennsylvania and publishing a cheap literary quarterly that leaned toward poetry because that’s what I wanted and so that’s what I did. Distribution for the magazine was small…the number of subscriptions was even smaller. But every couple of months I’d get a stack of poems sent to me by Locklin, who by that time was already a big name in the underground press. And, gentleman that he is, he wouldn’t just submit his poems, he would also write these long, wonderfully chatty and informative letters about anything and nothing…about the water dripping in his sink and about the literary lions he’d occasionally meet up with. Anything. Nothing. Things that meant a lot to someone publishing an under-appreciated and hardly read little magazine. I can’t tell you how much I looked forward to those letters and those poems. The poems were fresh and vibrant and funny and alive. The letters, equally so.

Now, all these years later, he’s still turning out some of the most consistently good poetry you’ll ever hope to find. It’s astonishing to me to think that he’s published somewhere around 130 books. Not only that, but California State University in its Locklin collection has catalogued more than 3,000 of his published poems! That’s just the ones they’ve found! My guess is the real number is significantly higher.

His newest book of poetry is called NEW ORLEANS, CHICAGO, AND POINTS ELSEWHERE. The poems in this 94 page volume are arranged roughly around the cities in which the action in the poems takes place. For my money, Locklin always seemed to be at his best when writing about either great art or great jazz (he’s a knowledgeable connoisseur of both) and the central section of this book is titled CHICAGO AND THE ART INSTITUTE. In it, he writes some pretty slick stuff about his visits to the Institute. I’ll quote one of my favorites in its entirety:

monet was one prolific motherfucker

all those haystacks,
all those lilies,
all those seascapes,
all those twilights on the thames…

as opposed to poor seurat,
< known for one painting
(and a musical)
and caillebotte,
mainly for two,
(so far no musical).

but if you’re only going to be known
for a couple of great works,
you might as well make them
big ones.

and hope they end up centerpieces –
logos –
of a great collection.

Such a relaxed style. The man doesn’t even bother with capitals. It’s like he’s just talking to you…one on one…conversationally…friend to friend. Work like this - in fact, Locklin’s entire career as a writer - has contributed greatly to the humanization and demystification of modern poetry. Aw, heck, I can’t resist quoting another poem from the book:

as time goes by

i speak to strangers
all the time now,
out of the blue,
impetuously,
hesitating only momentarily,
unable to stop myself,
on planes,
at the ymca pool,
in bookstores,
crossing campus.

i ask about the food they’re eating,
the wine or beer they’ve selected,
their destination, the weather,
the book they’re reading,
life in general.

to the woman who is on the flight
back from grading
advanced placement essays
in Daytona beach,
i say, of the power and the glory,
“that’s a great book.”

“unh-hunh,” she says,
and goes back to her reading.

well, how was i supposed to compete
with a great book like that?

No big deal here…no attempts to write the Great American Poem. This is just Locklin going through his day, showing us what life is all about. He’s been doing it for 40 years. If you’ve never read a book of poems by Gerald Locklin…NEW ORLEANS, CHICAGO, AND POINTS ELSEWHERE is as good a place as any to start.

John Yamrus

New Orleans, Chicago, And Points Elsewhere
R)v Press
www.rvpress.net
$11.95
90 pp

A review by John Yamrus 2007

HOW TO SURVIVE THE COMING NIGHT

Todd Moore has just published the following review of my books ONE STEP AT A TIME and BLUE COLLAR in St. Vitus Press. With his kind permission I'm reprinting it here.

HOW TO SURVIVE THE COMING NIGHT: THE POETRY OF JOHN YAMRUS

The kind of poetry John Yamrus writes is what most people would tell each other over drinks at three o’clock in the morning if they were conscious enough or literate enough to talk like that. This is not a poetry of metaphor and simile. This is not a poetry of rich literary allusion. Or, lets put it this way, this is a poetry of bare bones literary allusion, the stuff needed to get you through the day or night. Heroes like Steinbeck and Bukowski and though I don’t recall a mention of Gerald Locklin, I think Locklin must mean a lot to John Yamrus. The one thing Yamrus’ poetry is definitely not is academic. This is not MFA/writing school poetry. Instead, it’s the stuff that’s ground out of the blood and the bone of everyday existence.

Though the spirit of Charles Bukowski inhabits these poems, John Yamrus’ poetry has a voice and style that is entirely his own. It struggles with Bukowski. It struggles to define itself in the very real light of the myth of Charles Bukowski. But it wins the right to exist because it acknowledges a debt to the man, a large debt owed by a whole generation of poets.

For as long as I can remember I have been reading poems by John Yamrus. Back in the typewriter font and mimeograph day I used to see Yamrus’ poetry all over the map. And, i was never disappointed. And, still am not. What Yamrus learned early and well is how to write a poem that needs to end somewhere and sometime soon. He never over writes, he never under writes. He has always known just where the poem comes to a dead stop, like the end of a breath or a head on collision. Isaac Babel once said that a sentence should end with a period that is more like a black wound in the heart. This is what Yamrus has learned.

Bukowski’s property

this poem
isn’t mine these
thoughts aren’t
mine these
sentences aren’t
mine these
cadences
aren’t

mine these
lines aren’t
mine.

nothing
i do
or think
or write
is mine.
it’s all filtered down
through you
Mr. Bukowski…
and i wish
you’d
come here
and
take it back.

from One Step At A Time, p. 71.

While there are several poems in both collections which mention old Hank, “Bukowski’s property” works for me as a kind of key to what Yamrus is doing, at least in these two books. Most obviously, Yamrus admits in this poem that Bukowski has been a major influence on him. Essentially, what he says is that Bukowski has made such an important impact on poetry that he basically owns the language and that Yamrus, in this poem and very likely in most of his work, is pretty much borrowing Bukowski’s language just to write the poetry that Yamrus is driven to write. He is doing what so many contemporary poets neglect doing. Yamrus is fessing up to the influence and fessing up big time. In a sense, this is very much like stealing the language from the gods or at least one still very powerful god, even though he is dead. Looked at this way, it is an act of bravery.

However, because “Bukowski’s property” is a key John Yamrus poem, lets take this analysis just a little further. The lines in this poem are not the classic lines that you would find in a Charles Bukowski poem. Most of the best of Bukowski’s work is usually more long lined, though later in life he did write some short liners. Yamrus’ lines in this poem are never more than four words long. Which means this isn’t typical Bukowski. In fact, it comes closer to the kind of poem that Lyn Lifshin might write. The lines are short and more often than not broken in places that you wouldn’t expect. And, there is the kind of poem that I write. The major difference is that I never use stationary titles. My titles mostly leap into the poem and race down from there the way the rest of this poem scans down the page quickly and reads like a close to the bone conversation with a very severe poetic self.

One influence that John Yamrus has not mentioned is Gerald Locklin. As I stated before, I have read through both books carefully and can’t find a mention of his name anywhere except in a blurb on the back cover of One Step At A Time. The fact is, I find as much Gerald Locklin in these poems as I do Charles Bukowski. Equal parts to be exact. But, I do not mean these remarks as a diminishment of John Yamrus’ poetry. In fact, what I am suggesting is that Yamrus, maybe from early on, had somehow found a way to synthesize the styles of Charles Bukowski and Gerald Locklin. This is no mean feat when you stop to think about it. Bukowski met life headon and with no reservations. He was the rowdy, the tough guy, the down and outer slouched over a drink at a bar. Locklin, on the other hand, continues to write a kind of dialed down poem, full of failed attempts and attempted failures, a man who loves jazz and books, a poet who prefers meditation to action, a poet who lives the nondramatic life and who writes from a stance of self effacement.

And, it is this mix of meeting life headon along with a certain amount of self effacement that you will find in “Bukowski’s property” and also in many of the poems in these two books. What I am getting at here is that by synthesizing the styles of Charles Bukowski and Gerald Locklin, John Yamrus has somehow gone beyond both poets and has arrived at a voice and a style that is uniquely and ingeniously his. The irony is that by writing this way John Yamrus has somehow gained title to “Bukowski’s property” and to something I would like to call the John Yamrus poem. Not many contemporary poets can lay claim to that distinction.

by
TODD MOORE

Todd Moore's work has appeared in over a thousand magazines and literary journals. His style has been called pared down and noir. He's one of the founders of Outlaw Poetry and his work is featured in THE OUTLAW BIBLE OF AMERICAN POETRY. His long poem DILLINGER has been critically hailed as"hypnotic when read, cinematic in scope." He has just finished a novel called DREAMING OF BILLY THE KID and his new collection of poetry is entitled LOVE & DEATH & TEETH IN THE BLOOD.

September 2007 page 2

2008-11-05T13:34:00.001-08:00

Poetry Circle: an interview with John Yamrus

This is a link to an interview with John Yamrus by the Poetry Circle. Young and aspiring poets may also find this interesting as John takes it from 'square one'. I encourage you to read it.

http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,2535.0.html

September 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T13:29:00.001-08:00

this issue

Interviews
the PoetryCircle with John Yamrus
... page 2

Reviews
on various poets and books including Milner Place
... page 3

Articles
featuring Dystonian Space Babies by Dave Besseling
... page 4

featured book

SHOOT THE MOON

John Yamrus
United States

John Yamrus has been a fixture in American poetry for four decades. Since 1970 he has published 2 novels, 17 volumes of poetry and more than 900 poems in magazines around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into several languages including Spanish, Swedish, Italian, Japanese and (most recently) Romanian. His newest book is SHOOT THE MOON and is available online now at amazon.com.

in the spotlight

Ross McCague
Canada

Our featured poem was written by Ross McCaque:

I am a teacher of English as a Second Language for Academic Purposes at Seneca College in Toronto. I have taught ESL for 15 years and have a B.Ed. and M.Ed in that field. My first degree was in English Literature. Since I was in my twenties, I have read widely and taken a keen interest in modern poetry. My work is based on a close reading of the English Romantics, the French Symbolists, and the 'Moderns' in all the European languages. I have relied on translations for much of this study, but I benefitted from reading, as a young man, such poets as Vallejo, Neruda, Rilke, Trakl, Cavafy, Mandelstam and Lorca. Much was being done in other languages that is beyond what English poetry attempted at the time. I also have a keen interest in American landscape painting from the Civil War era. It is known as Luminism. The work features the study of light on still, elongated wilderness environments and seaside settings. 'Light' was, in fact, my first word. Finally, I am quite affected by the career and work of Bob Dylan. I began participating on Ukauthors and Creative Poems online about three years ago. I have posted work on both sites from time to time. I have never attempted to publish. I like having a small number of committed readers since my work is difficult and not to everyone's taste. Persons with peculiar Romantic ideals tend to enjoy it.

--Ross McCague

selected poem

Little Girl Lost

(A sketch from memory)

Sheaves of corn under an infinite sky:
Desire forms that endless way for you.
The isolated circumstance of dating and dance
seems so simple and so perfect too,
Not everything can be singled out.
You wear a gold earring as a reminder
what it is to be a startling woman
in a plain-spoken world.
Up late, past the bedtime of the eastern kings:
The stability of a rectangular parlor,
Marriage should hold, sanity, and even love
like a quaint painting in a dusted frame.
What reminder there is of love is found in spring
then birth and rebirth runs the farm as much as men.
The county fair out on a squared field
designated for pies, pigs, pigtails and the arcing of the sun.
The engines throttle so but not those of state:
Did you ever swing out beneath the trees,
Lifting your spirit high and higher?
Apron tossed aside, dress askew,
Mimicking the motion of the overruling sun.
You must have seen children,
A man dreaming in a cocoon,
The future about to spread its overarching wings.
We still need to swing, lie out under those unfenced skies
to know what is, what isn’t, and what just might be.
Far above the rectangular states drawing out time
and lengthening the neatly polished graves,
I see an urban girl, head turned to one side,
A single earring pierced,
The chiaroscuro of a Vermeer:
The light from the window is such,
She might well be reading the finished script.

by Ross McCague

October 2007 page 4

2008-11-05T13:23:00.001-08:00

The ever-expanding Night Bazaar

by Dave Besseling

The Night Bazaar is one of Chiang Mai’s must sees on the city’s tourist trail, and this fact is made all too clear the moment you step into the cramped havoc of it all; of despondent touts; of throngs of pale-faces sweating their way through the markets and stalls ogling the gallimaufry of throw-away trinkets and junk-pile kitsch; the token amnesiac memorabilia of a Singha singlet or a garden fan fashioned out of old Chang cans.

One must immediately call into question the degree of authenticity of the place, with shopkeepers turning ploys so garish as to retard the inquisitive mind and sicken the weathered globetrotter. Thus the question remains: what good is the place if you’re not shopping for your great aunt who keeps her sofa covered in plastic and leaves space in a display case for googly-eyed walnut shells or die-cast figurines?

For many, a perfunctory amble down the closed-in sidewalks through this particled artifice is all the mental residue the Night Bazaar will leave behind. But this said, for the keen-nosed nocturnal hunters of commerce, there are worthwhile things to be sought under the lame haze.

The area implied when mouthing ‘Night Bazaar’ is the stall speckled sprawl of Chang Klan Road, running from Thapae Road to Sridonchai. The building that started it all is on the South side of the road, almost imperceptible until you’re upon it. If you choose to take the stairs downward, a stunning display of craftsmanship can be seen in the shops displaying intricate woodcarvings along the left wall from the entrance.

In the area skirting the interior of the entrance wall, you’ll find artists who reproduce famous portraits of Axl Rose or Marilyn Monroe, or even you and the brood, for a fee. Their talent is unmistakable and the only difficult choice will be which one to choose. A stunning display of craftsmanship to be seen are the intricate wood carvings on the left wall from the entrance.

Should you choose to go up, you’ll find the microcosmic centre of what the Night Bazaar is all about, a mix of local arts and crafts, silver, textiles and the alternative to an artistic reproduction of yourself: the Chaiya Studio- where you get dolled up in local traditional garb, smile a glamour-smile and then have yourself airbrushed to a glistening sheen to ostensibly purvey a majesty not seen in your regular life.

But as the title of this missive implies, whatever one’s philosophical nodes think of the place, it just keeps getting bigger. Just across the street from the main building is the Kalare Night Bazaar, which came into full operation in the last year. The quasi-Lanna aluminum roof leads to a small stage where the caterwauling of Northern Thai folk music accompanies amateur dancers swirling a Tai Chi paced dance with those incredibly bendy fingers of theirs.

The decidedly more trendy, clean and up-market Kalare has a feel of what the French would describe as ‘hey wait, I’ve seen this before…’ This area is part and parcel for the upward clamourings of Chiang Mai, and when seen in this light, one realizes that with the fish on ice, the mongers’ uniforms being well pressed, not to mention the sexagenarian blondes sipping white wine, that this could very well be the Borough market in London. A 180 to the new stalls selling handbags and jewelry reminds us what Camden market has become in recent years. This coupled with the mammoth construction site outside (where the new Le Meridien Hotel will eventually open its doors) allows the observer a glimpse into the future; or at least the future that Chaing Mai and its prized Night Bazaar have in store for themselves.

The most recent expansion sees the Night Bazaar oozing across Sridonchai, where the effluvium of incense supplants the diesel and the lanes between shops are a little wider. The little girl with her violin segues from a Bach fugue to Polly Wolly Doodle, cajoling a sound-byte siren song to assure the lightening of wallets form the largest cross-section of farangs’ cultural backgrounds possible.

No matter how you envisage the place, after a few tours, you’ll need a drink; and thankfully, they’ve thought of that too, with places like the Hofbrahaus and the Red Lion serving Weisenstaphen, Leffe and Guinness to all us homesick wanderers. And almost no mention is needed that for a place this geared for tourists, there are the ubiquitous long-stays of culturally challenged sites, McDonalds, Burger King and Starbucks.

October 2007 page 2

2008-11-05T12:18:00.001-08:00

Grass Sprouts

by Dave Besseling

 
 Grass sprouts from between incongruent paving slabs leading to the 
front stoop of the white house (well, it used to be white) a tasteless attempt 
at displaying a sense of taste with the materials available. 
 Crabgrass has jockeyed and won on what once could have been a                 
 tender patch of front yard typicality. 
 The porch hasn’t been painted since the son 
                of the houses’ first family 
went off to get blown up and sent home in no less than four pieces and lord 
knows what kind of nocturnal scavengers had appropriated the space    
                                 beneath; 
on the edge of the veranda you could see where someone had cut two semi-
circular holes to get the lawnmower handle as far under there as it possibly                     
                                 could reach.
Back when people cared about this town, when it had a few factories 
and a modicum of promise, when it had dreams and pinned requests on the 
stars like every other growing animate thing. 
 Diffident in the face of destinies, 
 willing to stare itself in the face,
 back when the tenants of the white house cut the grass and put logs in                  
                                 the fireplace.

 Spring-exposed couches adorned the flanks of the sagging wood. 
     The studs underneath just a little too far apart than they should
                              be. 
 The couches placed close to the edges so the whole fucking thing 
    wouldn’t collapse and turn the porches sagging, unobtrusive smile into a                
                                grimace for the unapproving neighbours to see. 
 Generations of children stomping in and out of the house,
   and unshovelled snow assuring that time would loll the parallel view 
of the thing into a despondent grin of an overborne silent 
                                                       member of the family. 
 The veranda we traipse upon. 
 Used, abused, and never asked to share its eavesdropped secrets 
                                                        or its silent pleas.. 

 Scattered amber bottles left brown patches on the grass that because 
of them receive no sunlight. 
 No one cares about the bottles’ own feelings of neglect. 
          Their stoic plight.

 Used and abused to facilitate the telling of the secrets between 
midnight’s children, who talk as if any of their shit actually mattered. In the 
morning, over bacon and eggs, even they wondered if it really did.

 !The bucolic alcoholism that must have taken place on this porch 
when the weather permitted the donning of meshbacks and pit-stained 
wifebeaters to lull away an evening and toss beer bottles onto the lawn!
 
 The lost philosophies, moments of hazy clarity and curious prurient 
verbal jousts spurned forth by teenage-grade ecstasy pills surging 
 through bloodstreams, 
 only to be overcome by the repression of the beer battalions sent to 
repress their uppity schemes. 
 It’s a particular gloss to the eye with this particular combination of 
drugs, then Deaner drops by with his bag of particularly good grass he’s driven 
back with from B.C. 

 Bucolic alcoholism in the middle of downtown ************. Hah!

 See, you’d expect this kind of thing in *****, out there in the sticks 
with the tipsy chimps that put gas on bonfires and fix rusty cars on their 
Sundays. But down here the decent folks accentuate their staggered 
flagstones with plastic bumblebees with wings that spin in the wind, and 
chimes that clink tunes the way only the drunks next door in the white house 
could make tops or tail of. 
 It was always beer o’clock there in those days on the porch of the 
white house. Us bums. 
    The good people worked their jobs to save 
         for storm windows and paved deriveways.
                                   Maybe a Lay-Z-Boy. 
 They played passive patriot with the little maple leaf on the railing 
leading up to their front door bought beside the checkout at Canadian Tire. 
 If you ask them why they do it I’m not sure they’ll be able to give you           
           an answer anymore
beyond some sort of robotic chirping, but this isn’t the States- they probably 
wouldn’t spit on your shoes for asking, but maybe ask you to help them 
inside with the groceries. Frozen peas on sale this week. Did you notice the 
driveway? It’s so black. Just had ‘er done this spring.
 The white house didn’t have a driveway 
   anymore. 
just two dusty tracks sunk into the space beside the kitchen window. 
It was like God came by with his rolled-up empyrean brown bill and took         
                                             two great lines of blow, 
leaving the scorched earth behind for Pete to park his pick-up. Fresh from a 
shift at the pipe factory and the mandatory stop at The Beer Store.

 The off-white blow consumed in this house tasted like aspirin most of 
the time, and there weren’t too many brown bills going around; just rolled up 
pieces of notebook paper and torn pages from Penguin Classics that 
would sit on shelves and never be read. Some transient dilettante having 
been to the used bookshops on Water Street 
        and made a half hearted attempt at Dostoyevsky, Wilde or maybe 
Bram Stoker to hope for a piggyback on the film’s imagery; this is what    
   passes for high culture in the Kawartha contingency.

 This stained white house is the rue of everyone else on the street that 
carves out their niche in a town with low pay and high booze tax. 
                                 They, the men that is, 
 dejectedly saunter (or more likely, drive their Acadians or K-cars) 
home from a day at the bank, the mall, the plant, or if they’re lucky, the pub. 
On Sundays, noon is when they come home 
     with the same sour puss from church. 
                                 In this irish-catholic town, that’s the rub.

 They do their best- these stoic bastions of accepted and tiered 
normalcy, goodness, virtue and the Canadian Way; they clip Loblaw’s 
coupons for canned corn as the wives idle the days washing dishes and 
rearranging the China cabinet. They drink Bailey’s at Christmas time and 
sneak thimbles of Schnapps for the rest. 

 Just down the road was the park, where shifty-eyed night stalkers 
would shimmy the stone embankment with their shoulder-tapped bottles of 
Bacardi and skin zig-zag blasters, 
             doobies and gaggers, 
 to do nothing but that for it’s own sake. 
 The town had numerous hovels and hideaways 
 where the young swine could congregate for a few weeks on end until 
the fuzz got wind of it. There was that park, the infamous and aptly labeled  
                               Paranoia Park, 
the deep trails of ******* Park, 
                     ******** Oval and the Speedway. 
 It was a wash, rinse, repeat cycle that kept the pigs on their toes and 
what kept the inter high school communication alive. The white house being 
the rendezvous if any sirens were heard approaching the mobile drug den.
 Who would you meet in the reeds by the ********  River with a few 
beers to swap a glass of rum or whiskey with? Who would have a joint?  
 A quiet pipe? 
 Who would have the balls to dive into the raging current behind the    
      power station to prove an ephemeral yet momentarily salient point?
 
 During the day it was risky but common enough to see longhaired 
shirtless boys plunging into the whitecaps and scampering up to the opposite 
shore. But at night when it was a red-eyed dare, it was different, and your 
heart beat a little faster as you cupped your balls and jumped.
   ...And if you had a car; 
 you could get to ***** Hill, 
                         ****** Hill 
 or sit in the parking lots of elementary schools on the edges of town 
after the last of the janitors had swept, cleaned and locked up. 
                                                  Wiped the toilet seats down.

 This assured more privacy, and if you were with a girl, you wouldn’t 
give your schedule away to just anyone, your mates no less,
 it was a surreptitious endeavour-
                   cars with collapsible backseats were best. 

 For the transient droppers by and interlopers of the white house who 
never took their shoes off, 
 the first park was the favourite due to its proximity to the white house 
proper. 
 There was a wooden bridge that caused many a gash down the bridge 
of the nose to those who mistook its wideness for generosity. The local 
contractors that built the thing must have held the previous post of cleaning 
up the public spaces the youngins of the town had been using for their 
ceremonial depravity, and engineered the wood planks to be just far enough 
apart for someone under the influence of whatever was around to get their 
shoelace or sometimes their whole Converse low-cut caught between them. 
Those vengeful fascists.
 It still escapes me how 
 the average law-abiding families that lived in earshot of the white 
house let our shenanigans go on for as long as they did. Our usual answer         
         was we just used different drugs than they did. 
 They were more of the gameshow/valium breed. 
 Whatever it took to  
                                         hide the fact they gave up the need 
 a long time ago, 
 while we were raging at the great unmeaning 
 while we still had the strength. 
 Our insistence on consumed volumes of non-sustainable substance        
                 must have come form a deep unease 
that we very may well be living in one of their houses after they kill 
themselves, have a stroke or just give up and die of unknown causes; but we  
  know what is really is. 
We didn’t know better.
And we were scared shitless. 

 Some people my age are still there, still raging, but with substances 
far less substantial, far more dangerous and regular,
 their matches don’t catch many sparks anymore. 

 Yet I don’t know if I can really blame, pity or pardon them. Back then 
we wanted something to  
            make us feel like anything was possible
     - an affront to the clear fact that nothing was. 
  And just dreaming wasn’t enough. 
 And the unfortunate souls who had it a little too hard, who went too 
far too fast with no recycled corduroy cushion to break their fall: death in 
varying degrees. Whether immediate or prolonged, death was inside them 
from the start, bred in the bone, bred in the white houses studded snare, just 
getting its fill, waiting to be ejected to find a new host. When death ejects 
before the physical soma is ready to give up- these are the saddest dead  
 people of all. 
 They think they’re still alive. And as far as the government tax bureau 
and the department of motor vehicles is concerned, 
 they still are. 

 They don’t wear Smashing Pumpkins T-Shirts anymore, but you can 
still see the chains dangling between their wallets and their belt loops. We 
share the pin scars in our noses, holes in our earlobes, but not much else. 
They remember where they’re from and where it started, this rebellion with 
no cause. This generation grew up a bit and saw their eyes reflected in Fight 
Club, then they scampered for something to believe in besides Jesus or the 
fact that somehow something non-denominational would catch a fire in their 
craniums and get them moving. 
 Peavey guitars and black eyeliner were replaced sometimes with 
jigsaws and tool belts. Sometimes with plane tickets and L’Oreal painted 
bindis. Some managed to just get away, and then, some managed to get 
away clean. 

 Even when we were all there, you could see who was and who was 
not going to make it. Or maybe I was wrong. Make it where? Here? The goal 
for many was anywhere but there. 
 The town with no energy but for that to just survive and get by. 
                It’s been sucked dry 
 by the dreamers with the good or bad fortune to be born there. 
 With such a lack of essential juju, there wasn’t enough to go around.        
              We raped that poor town. 
                                                    Psychically. 
 We found and nurtured and adopted what wasn’t even there. 
 Our identities can’t be traced to the geographical place, though that’s 
where it all happened. 
 Us selfish bastards. 
 The town our parents built and left to us.
 The houses they bought and built only to watch us flee their plight of 
immobility. We didn’t want what they built, so they check the struts once in 
a while, just to make sure the old girl will make it through another winter, 
but they don’t really ask any questions from the Borough anymore. We left; 
and return periodically to rationalize its legitimacy either as a town worth 
living or as a place in our identities; or to reminisce to make the past 
experience worthwhile. The ones who stay don’t give any energy back, but 
they never asked too much from it to begin with. Some of them are 
downright happy there. 
 And good- 
 the gaff needs them. 

 The white house still stands today, but it’s white again. Somewhere 
along the way Pete and the rest of the nuclear crew were ejected two streets 
over to carry on in pretty much the same way, raging against the anti-
skateboard laws and scoffing at the skate park the city had built for them 
as a truce. The white house revamped and reshingled; 
                   our kind no longer welcome. 
                             Our former selves, bored and reckless. 
 They, the coupon clippers were the clear majority, and with the white 
house eviction, they killed the scouts before the swarms arrived for real. We 
saw what happened to ********* Street.
 
 The white house veranda has been propped up now, the pointy-teethed 
things and their brood forced to live in the woods. But it doesn’t take the two 
front bedroom windows as eyes to complement its sneaky grin anymore. 
New struts have been put in place. 
            Levels have been used. 
 Maybe someone who used to pass out beside the toilet got a new job 
in construction. 
 The deck is straight. 
 And now the house looks bored.

October 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T12:12:00.001-08:00

this issue

Prose
Grass Sprouts by Dave Besseling
... page 2

Articles
article by Dave Besseling
... page 3

featured book

Nakayubi Two:
The Barnstormer

Dave Besseling
Thailand (currently)

A collection of musings and impressions from various cities around the world. Dave Besseling was born 1979, Peterborough, ON. Canada. Currently interloping in Chiang Mai, Thailand and has spent the last 6 years living and traveling in a variety of countries to nurture a lateral appreciation of human diversity/mania and nurture to some degree a relevant capacity for self-awareness. All this and a deep appreciation for pretentious headshots....

To obtain a copy of the featured book or other publications by Dave Besseling please use the following link:

LuLu www.lulu.com

in the spotlight

Emad Fouad
Belgium

Emad Fouad was born in the village of "al Faronija" in the Egyptian Nile Delta in 1974 and settled in Belgium in 2004. His latest book of poems, With a bruise from a bite of remorse, was written almost entirely in Ghent, but published in Cairo, like his earlier collections. Emad Fouad belongs to the generation of the 1990s, which abides by the metrical foot and has no time for the prose poem. Other features of his poetry are an intensive use of simile, his mixture of Egyptian dialect and standard Arabic, and his detailed drawings, which take on microscopic proportions in his latest collections. Emad currently has four publications 'Spirits wounded by the light', 'Boarding house of an old Don Juan', 'With a bruise from a bite of remorse' and 'Silk'.

selected poem

Three

We were three
me... and her
and a green body buried carefully beneath our feet
She said: Why do flowers grow here?
I said: He died in love.

We were three
me... and him and a green body buried carefully beneath our feet
He said: How can he die alone?
I said: Because he is alone, still ... in it.

We were three
She... and him
My green body under their feet
when they stepped on the grass
she stood on my heart, the girl
I ordered the flowers to release their scent
and when I furtively saw him crying
my tears welled up
on the petals of the flowers.

by Emad Fouad

November 2007 page 4

2008-11-05T12:04:00.001-08:00

June 19, 2006
Dimitris P. Kraniotis
Poet
Greece, EU
Muses Review - Long Interview

Legend:

Bold Letters indicate Muses Review.
Non-bold Letters indicate Dimitris Kraniotis.

Part I. Your opinion

1. Tell the readers about your latest poetrybook "Fictitious Line":
My latest poetrybook "Fictitious Line" consists of poems in Greek, English and French which I have composed during the last decade. The lyrics of my poems are meditative and confessional. There the reader can find smile and tears, innocence and nostalgia, bitterness and agony, expectations and experiences, feelings and guilt, love images and romantic paths, thoughts and speculations, music and colours.

2. Describe briefly your hometown in Greece:
I live in Larissa, the fourth biggest town in Greece with a population of 200000 inhabitants. It's the capital city of Thessaly with the Medical School of Thessaly University and the State Higher Technological Educational Institute. One of its archaelogical attractions is the Ancient Theatre. It's a modern city full of life, beauty and a long history. It's crossed by river Penius and it's close to the Aegean sea and to Olympus, the mountain of the 12 Ancient Gods. Hippocrates, father of Medicine died in Larissa. In the roundabouts is Stomio, a coastal town where I was born and raised.

3. Why do you like to compose poetry?
I believe that poetry is a means of expression and communication with other people and it helps me to retain my personal balances. Through poetry I am able to express my anxieties, my feelings, my dreams, to make others become part of my thoughts, to make them see the world through my own eyes.

4. What is your favorite poem you did not write?
"Axion Esti" by Greek poet Odysseas Elytis (Nobel Prize in Literature 1979).

5. How many languages can you speak and write fluently?
Greek, English and French.

6. What are your favorite themes in writing poetry?
The main topics of my poetic inspiration are the suppressed contemporary man and his problems, his anxieties and fears, the impasse and hopes, his wounded dreams, the everyday stress, the conscience, the truth, nature, world peace, history, romance, life, death and time. Poetic words do not have a general and unspecifield meaning and are part of a confession with tense sensational alternations despite the frequently misty atmosphere of our era. Sense and memory are painful black-and-white images that dominate my poems and through them I reviel my personal agony and the social dead ends.

7. Why should people read your poetrybook or any poetry book?
Reading a poetrybook, the reader often discovers thoughts feelings, ideas that hadn't been revieled yet. He sometimes agrees and others disagrees with the poet. This internal dialogue between the reader and the poet leads to a magic trip of life consideration, full of wanderings in routes that belong to the past and the future where each poem is both a starting line and termination.

8. Tell us something about the design for your book cover?
On the cover page the man like a wounded bird flies along the fictitious line that divines the past and the future. It flies along the fictitious line that unites the brightness of the day and light with the red of passion and love. It flies along the fictitious line that unites the blue of every morning optimism with the crimson of the mistakes that hurt us.

9. Who chose the book design?
The cover page was created by Christos Papanikolaou, a Greek painter from Larissa, who has inspired by my poetrybook.

10. Are you more creative as a poet or as a medical doctor?
I believe that poetry is creation. As a result I feel more creative as a poet because through poetry I'm able to create images, thoughts, visions and truth that provoque emotions and lead the reader to different worlds.

11. Who is your favorite ancient Greek poet?
Homer.

12. Where can people buy your poetrybooks aside from Muses Review?
My poetrybook "Fictitious Line" (in greek "ÍïçôÞ ÃñáììÞ") may be purchased at the various online greeks bookshops, such as Books-in-Greek.gr, Bazaarbooks.gr, Diaspora.gr, E-shop.gr and various websites, such as Authorsden, Muses Review, my Official Website and others.

13. What countries have you visited so far? I have visited these countries:
U.S.A., France, Turkie, Great Britain, Italy, Spain, Former Yugoslavia.

14. Did you translate your Greek poems into French and English by yourself? Yes.

15. Why did you choose your career as a doctor instead of a writer?
Since I was a young boy, I dreamt to become a doctor in order to assist I believe that health is of the greatest value. Poetry is a means of expression, communication and creativity. I could never consider poetry as a job. Anyway poetry and medicine are not far from each other considering closely that both of them are related to man and pain that is the main part of his existence.

16. Do you enjoy your career as a medical doctor?
Everyday through medicine I am in contact with to situations that wound my internal ego. Medicine is a demanding science and it restricts time and frequence that I would like to devote to poetry.

17. What event/s triggered you to go into poetry?
From my childhood I have been writing poems and short-stories. My first poem was written at the age of 11 about Stomio, my hometown where I was born. At the age of 14 some of my short-stories and poems were for the first time published in magazines and newspapers of Larissa.

18. What is your official website?
My Official Website www.geocities.com/dkraniotis

19. What are your plans in five years time as a poet?
I have already composed some new poems and I'm still writing. I hope to publish two new poetrybooks in the next 5 years and to establish myself in the literary circles.

20. Describe briefly your job as a medical doctor?
I am a Specialized Pathologist and I have my own Medical Office in Larissa. I'm still the Company Doctor of the Hellenic Sugar Industry and a examining doctor in Greek Social Security Organization for the Self-employed. From 2003 to 2004 I had been working in Thessaloniki Infectious Diseases Hospital. Since 2002 I had been working in the Larissa General Hospital while from 2003 to 2004 I was Director at the Pathology Department in the Private General Clinics "Blue Cross - Euromedica" and "Saint Constantine - Home Care" of Larissa. I?m still a Professor at the Department of Medical Care of State Higher Technological Educational Institute of Larissa and an examiner of the medical graduates in State Vocational Education Institutes of Larissa (Greece).

21. Describe the room where you write your poems?
I can write anywhere and anytime. Since poetry is closely related to the moment, I don't believe that poetry can be composed under certain circumstances and in a specific room. Poetry, in order to take a shape it follows a painful procedure. It is a distillate of soul, that's why the creator never knows when it is going to come the following inspiration. For instance, I have written lots of poems while I was resting or relaxing at my Medical Office or the Hospital. I am main inspired at night, when it rains, when I am in love or when I am sad.

22. Can people make a living out of writing poetry when he is an outsider in literary circles?
I don't believe that one can make a living writing poetry. This can only be happen in certain circumstances famous poets. Anyway, Poetry is a difficult kind of writing and concerns a limited reading audience in contrast to non-fiction.

23. Briefly, what is the role of poets in society?
The role of poets in the society is really important. The poet has a different vision on the events and tries to alarm consciences, to notify the danger, to indicate new roads in the thought and soul of the reader through painting feelings and rhythm.

24. Why do you write in free verse instead of rhymed verses as most ancient Greek poets did?
Through free verse can express myself better and with more freedom, comfort and clearness. In addition free verse should have rhythm and musicality because otherwise we don't talk about poetry.

25. Aside from yourself, do you know any famous modern Greek poet?
Odysseas Elytis, Constantine Cavafy, Giorgos Seferis.

26. Do you have plans to write novels?
Yes.

27. What literary organizations did you join?
I am Vice-President and founding member of the Larissa Writers' and Poets' Society (Greece) and member of greek and international literary organizations: Hellenic Literary Society, International Society of Greek Writers, the World Academy of Arts and Culture (WAAC), the International Writers and Artists Association (IWA), the Union Mondiale des Ecrivains Medecins (UMEM), United Poets Laureate International (UPLI), International Society of Poets (ISP), Poetry Society of America (PSA), Washington Poets Association (WPA) and The Academy of American Poets.

28. Describe your favorite Greek food:
My favorite Greek food is mousaka.

Part II. Your Background

1. Were you interviewed in a literary magazine or newspaper before?
Yes. I was interviewed in the greek newspapers "Imerisios Kirikas" (Larissa, 21 November 2004 and 17 July 2005) and "Kosmos" (Larissa, 20 April 2006).

2. Were you featured/interviewed in television shows?
Yes. I was featured/interviewed in television: "TRT" (Larissa, 2004), "ASTRA TV" (Larissa, 2004, 2005), "Thessalia TV" (Larissa, 2001,2002,2003,2004,2005).

3. Were you featured/interviewed in a radio before?
Yes. I was featured/interviewed in radio: "HELLENIC RADIO ERT-2" (Athens, 1985), "HELLENIC RADIO ERA" (Larissa, 2003), "DIMOTIKO RADIO LARISSA 93,6" (Larissa, 2003), "RADIO PALACE" (Larissa, 2003), "BEST RADIO" (Larissa, 2005).

November 2007 page 3

2008-11-05T12:00:00.001-08:00

Suvarnabhumi

by Dave Besseling

Suvarnabhumi airport is a rather clinical place, with enough unfinished concrete to be en vogue in post-bubble Japan. A living museum of immovable tenure, housing ephemeral waxy countenance of traveling anonymity set to the beat of a stark time signature. Eclecticism is guaranteed but lacks the immediacy necessary to be of any pungent consequence.

Driving away, confronted with ramp-side elephantoid billboards one’s sense of scale faces challenges to its established norm and stretches to accommodate a metropole after being away from one for a while. In Chiang Mai you’re never far from other people. Tuk-tuks offer a full body view of passengers. Hair and limbs suck wind.
The motorcycles are open-air beasts and even the Song Teaw, the ubiquitous red buses afford an unobstructed particle exchange between you and whoever is putting along beside you.

Sat in the sealed pod of an air-con taxi now however, assures the clinical mindset is carried through from the new airport into the city I know as a sweaty stinkhole, yet from here it appears almost polished. And quiet. A Vaudevillian hoax.
The highway is wide and clean and bland. Once you approach the city, the skyline of darting monolithic chess pieces feign evocative void. The people are all sealed in, and besides the blurry zip of fellow motorists, the isolation factor multiplies. It seems the skyline, devoid of life yawns a gap tooth yawn as nothing but a backdrop staged for your private contemplation as you drive in to town. There seem to be more and more of these mutant sprouts springing up all over. The concrete jungle is growing, pushing towards the sun. These rivet-sprigs of your stock portfolio heroes push on, housing their denizens and beckoning to the youth: Higher! Higher!

W.I.P green mesh ripples in the breeze, knotted posts of bamboo the only natural surface and this is what must pass for life as you search for some animate frame of reference. Are we underwater in a salmon farm?
It is both timeless and eternal if only for a few seconds. The green plastic that will not age. The passage of time is insignificant here.
Is this city abandoned or teeming? You cannot tell. It could be riotous, celebratory or vacant and no one would know driving that raised and tolled strip; the only thing breathing being yourself, and of course the driver, who is about to attempt an obscene price gouge. His skin seems treated with formaldehyde, he’s a wax dummy and this is a dream. The wraiths in other cars press on in a journey with no goal.
It’s only after a quick brake-pad snap from your automaton chauffeur, an about face off the Sukhumvit exit that Bangkok becomes immediate and fleshy and claustrophobic. You are a sticky fixture in the globulous landscape that now seems to seethe and breathe, as you teethe to the fact that moments ago the tops of these same oblongs inspired such cold detachment. The city wears different hats, but its coat is crisply pressed. A white-coated surgeon with a heart of hooker gold, it is…..

Money flows, and sex sells in a more invasive fashion than the faroffedness of an expressway billboard peddling model-touted scents to distract from the smog. This place is why Chiang Mai is full of plow-horses. The surgeon city toils to suckle its sycophants and painted facemask ladies. The pettiness of beauty is Bangkok- and we can’t stop the émigré.

The curses laid upon the beautiful are contagious, here aptly patroned by JW Marriott, who is no longer a man but more (and also less). His bodies are not flesh; they only facilitate its waste disposal and absorb the corpsy odours as inanimate memory.
You can see the high rises rising high all around, indifferent, snobby; but the tartar sauce smelling stopover hotels and the street urchin leprosy sweat, the toe jam sour mash are what make this jungle grow. You are the soil that spawns these elevated highways and it’s your birdie regurgie baht bile that nurtures the grey foliage along its squat rise to the prominence of the weightlessness above.
But that was always there.
Nothing personal.

The interesting aspect is this: If the soil were to erode (and in a sane and moral sense it began long ago), the rocky fruits of our labour would obstinately stick around, still connected with the cables of fibrous telephone ivy we’ve connected them with - Their attachment to time being much more understated, lackadaisical and staid than our own. We scurry under the their bolted branches of overpass welds (welts?) and piss against the perpendicular trees. Our soft bellies placate compatibility with the antithetical surge of weight and heft and our lecherous corporeality becomes host to pathology.
Nothing natural.
The buildings don’t move with us.
No sync.

The legless man dragging himself facedown on the sidewalk, pushing a plastic alms tray forward between lunges can’t bear to look up anymore. Not at us, not at the hissyfit neon, not at what’s above that. Certainly not at The Paragon, whose name-dropping designer signage helps us forget he is there. That or marks his exhaust halo on a tourist map of the sewer system.

Landmines under the sidewalk wouldn’t hurt anyone here. Our birthright has been paved. The cellular stress and strain is tangible, and you wonder how it came to be that we convinced ourselves we wanted to be automated versions of ourselves to escape the fear of our automatic tendency to want to be someone else.
You attempt to revive your concern despite invasive blaring pop music and are disgusted with yourself when a modern masterpiece of suffering (played up or not); a skytrain platform pieta misses the emotional mark, even though the filthy child in mother’s arms indeed looks deader than a meat wagon Buonarroti Christ. You are aware of your detachment, and powerless to attempt compassion of any worth.
You can stare. But you can’t cry.
How will you get that back, that which you never knew you lost?
The tracks still grin their symmetrical grin, a grin incompatible with whimsy, borne of the same artifice as your stoic weeds of commercial exchange.
And they wait, happily.
They are that, too.
We made them, and they have no use for us.
These will be the powder sheds of the Olmecs when either we come to our senses or nature demands that we repent and flee. Our bits will be bitten by our ancient, patient watchdog, and our bytes will burst as our history is erased from this fixture of digital certitude that is nothing more than a sour pucker on the greatest timeline that will soon prove it has no use for our little games. We don’t control the microwaves, and we can’t unhinge celestial rotation. I don’t feel much like repenting today.
But I must flee now, actually, the cabaret novelty starts soon.I know it will be crap, but I can’t help looking, I’m caught between two worlds, this peculiar state is the nadir of the modern psychosis: irreconcilable yet in cahoots.

klean mai khaw, klay mai oak.

I step out into the steam and clang, feeling the peoples huddled, bony protection of tarnished yet dimly shining souls, always on the look out for the form to give face to my vagabond, hovering love. I’ve sought her for years, and she’s not here either.
Such density can weigh heavily in the chest and on the mind. But I carry on; making sure the gnarled artifice and all the collected indifference is still capable of bringing me to tears. It takes a while this time, I’m that much less sentient human and that much more Gurdjieffian robot.

It’s not who you are it’s who you know

by Dave Besseling

“It’s not who you are it’s who you know, and its not who they are but who they knew. And once they knew them they became who they are, and they don’t want to introduce you to who they know that made them who they are because that would mean that you are someone too, and that puts them at risk of not being anyone, just someone who once knew someone.

You want to meet the one who the someone knows even more than you want to know them (the someone) because they might be able to make you someone other than no one even quicker than the initial someone, who would see such a thing as pulling rank in the worst way. But it’s that kind of world we live in, that’s what it takes to make it in this cutthroat business. This is what we have to deal with, we tuk-tuk drivers.”

Or at least this is how you may imagine it works when you wonder how waiting tuk-tuk positions in front of the restaurants saddling the banks of the Ping River in Chiang Mai are jockeyed for. After all, this is the sweetest transport fare cherry in town. Gaggles of liquored and pished farangs stumble out of any of the main eateries on a Friday night and suddenly your exorbitant triple-priced fare is but a shrug and a few red bills away from reality.

They say not to give money to the beggars in India, they say not to let the East European gypsies annoy you into giving them what they want, they warn you about giving something to one and the many that will follow because you set the precedent that all tourists are suckers and corrupt the gaff quicker than the isolated grottos printed in the pages of a Lonely Planet; not so isolated anymore.

The jury hung themselves long ago on the riverside, where if you are not a tourist that hears ‘200 baht’ and immediately compares it to what a bargain the ride is compared to a London black taxi, your jaw may drop as the same tuk-tuk driver that drove you from Warorot market to Wat Prasing for 40 baht suddenly looks glassily at you when you protest his sudden fee of 200. You can bitch and wail, but chances are he won’t go for any haggling here, because in five minutes, two blond girls with flowers in their hair, each with a hulking arm from an American college refugee slung limply over them will two-step their way out and perform the above calculation- albeit a New York yellow cab will replace the London blackie. They, unaware of the massive gouge they’ve just been subjected to, perpetuate the vicious cycle of evil.

And if you, local expat, you who knows better, get to the point where you believe physical violence may be your next option, take hope in the fact that walking up to the bridge and catching a tuk-tuk en route that is not part of the mafia-like gangs of drivers clutching at the upward mobility of the illustrious and elite band of chauffeurs that is given clearance to fleece the entire tourist population of Chiang Mai will probably gladly take 50.

Leave the suckers back there, the rubes with the crap luck to be dragged to the Riverside and be subjected to John Denver covers sung phonetically with a revved up beat reminiscent of the theme song from Miami Vice. Good Riddance. Nuts to them anyway.

King of the Khlong

by Dave Besseling

When reading about the history of Bangkok, you may be surprised to hear the city being referred to as the Venice of the East. Amsterdam is known as the Venice of the North, and the proof is in the polders- the city centre is defined by three concentric canals known as the canal belt with hundreds of channels connecting them. When thinking of Bangkok, however, canal systems probably aren’t the first thing to crack the shell of associative traits. Don’t worry, it’s not your fault, most of the canals that acted as arterial waterways through the city have been filled in to make way for the much more romantic travel method of the paved road.

There are still a number of what the locals call khlongs snaking away form the Chao Phraya River, the river that dissects Bangkok in two, the river which for better or worse has never been referred to as the Seine of the East.

The relaxing meander through the remaining backwater channels of Bangkok is something well worth doing on a visit to the city, and longboats depart every 15 minutes from the Tha Chang Pier. If you’re lucky, you may have the entire craft to yourself, though this puts you even more on the spot when the floating concession stand rucks up and suggests you buy a beer for the driver as well as yourself. You know a bottle of Singha shouldn’t be 100 baht, but you don’t want to look bad in front of the driver, so you pass over two red bills and toast the man who is responsible for keeping you from swimming in the mucky waters.

You guessed it, the canals are filthy; though efforts have been made in the last few years to get the levels closer to just ‘scummy’ rather than ‘toxic’. And toxic is not an overindulgent adjective, either…

In 2003, a 21-year old pop singer crashed his car into a khlong. The near viscous liquid entered his wounds and he subsequently developed a fungal brain infection. Now that’s even worse than the foreigners that get dysentery from swimming in the Ganges. It took a wake-up call of a celebrity brain fungus to kick the government into gear, but at least the cogs began to yield grease. Today there are children splashing about at certain points of the canals, but you can’t help but shudder as you wave at them while the occasional waft of human waste effluvia swirls in your olfactory orifice.

The Chao Phraya, like all rivers with cities built up around them, were what got everyone congregated here in the first place. One of the most well known tourist sites along the River is found 80 km southwest of Bangkok proper, and is well worth it if you have the time. The earlier you arrive at the Damoen Saduak floating market the better, as crowds can get fierce as everyone clamours to snap photos of the local produce changing hands from boat to boat as it has since 1868, tourists recognizing idyllic scenes they may have seen in their travel brochures back home.

The Chao Phraya is also a great way to get to Ayutthaya. The former capital is reachable by River Express boats, which leave from Wat Ratchasingkorn Pier, just beside Krungthep Bridge. Along the way you’ll be able to get an idea of the ways of life lived along the river, and how the river is the source of life in many ways for the people living around it. This being all the more reason to keep the runnels as clean as possible so the life supporting waterway can continue to sustain its people, and not buckle at the expense of human progress carried out with no regard for the original source of life in Bangkok.

November 2007 page 2

2008-11-05T09:56:00.001-08:00

an introduction to Ana Stjelja

Ana Stjelja was born on 14th of August 1982 in Belgrade, Serbia. She graduated in Turkish language and literature 2005 on Faculty of philology at Belgrade University. She's student of postgraduate studies, the title of her thesis is '' The divine and human in the works of Jalal'din Rumi and Yunus Emre''.She published three books of poetry: ’’Moira’’ (2002), ’’Atavi’’ (2004), ’’Eden&Had’’ (2006). She ’s writing essays about art, theatre, travels. Many of her works were published in various serbian magazines, so as foreign online magazines. She’s writing poetry, in Serbian, English, Turkish and Spanish, so as haiku poetry. She translated several poems of Yunus Emre from Turkish to Serbian. Since 2007, she’s a member of Association of Writers of Serbia. She's also a member of World Poets Society.

Ana Stjelja's website can be found at http://www.anastjelja.4t.com

DAY

Scarf on the face of the day,
only night can save it from pain
I want to turn my head aside
to avoid its eyes, wounded skin.
Hours, long distant hours,
playing their well known game
I know its rules, but I’m a rebel
I’ll wait for them to make first move.
And, when they do, I will wait
’cause waiting is the sense of life
until the last second I’ll pray
’cause praying is only salvation.
How beautiful the face you have,
oh, night, you who healed the day,
who cleaned the last drop of blood
and made all the pain disappear.
I was calling for you in my prayers
and you came, dressed in white
just like the day should be, poor day,
I can still hear its weeping, its sorrow.
Shiney perls on the neck of the moon
lighten the veil of the night
til the new day bears,
with new face, new life.

by Ana Stjelja

November 2007 Front Page

2008-11-05T07:27:00.001-08:00

this issue

The Travelling Poet
more from Dave Besseling
... page 2

Emerging Poet
an introduction to the poetry of Ana Stjelja
... page 3

Interviews
the Muse interviews Dimitris P. Kraniotis
... page 4

featured book

Dunes

Dimitris P. Kraniotis
Greece

To obtain a copy of the featured book or other publications by Dimitris P. Kraniotis please use the following link:

www.dimitriskraniotis.com

in the spotlight

Nicoletta A. Poulakida
Athens, Greece

Nicoletta is a 35 year old Greek poetess who has been writing on the internet since 2001. Seven of her poems have been included in anthologies; her work has also been featured in various E-mags such as Tryst, Global Inner Visions, Abctales Mag (issue 5) and on the personal webpages of other poets. Also has had poetry featured in Fuselit magazine.

selected poem

The postscripts

Dear Ceiling

No matter where I’ve been
No matter what I’ve seen
You are the sunrise and the sunset of my life!
Yours truly,

The raven.

Raven

What the two of you had is over,
Stop sending letters of love to my love!

The floor.

Dear Window

Is it true? Has the Ceiling forgotten me?
Has it?

The raven.

Dear Raven,

Since the day you left many things have happened,
Now there’s a spiral stairway, and a second floor.
The window has decided to be bricked
After letting you go; so in love
With you it was.
Yours sincerely,

The door.

PS: And a second ceiling of course, and a new raven.
PPS: Have you found a new home?

by Nicoletta A. Poulakida

The Cartier Street Review

July 2009 Edition

April 2009 Edition

March 2009 Front Page

this issue

a note from the editors

featuredchapbook release

When Hephaestus Fell & other poems

emerging artist

Bettina Burch

links to other sites

in the spotlight

selected poem

featured site

A review of Daniel Borzutzky's 'one size fits all'

featured artist

About Meme's Art

March 2009 page 2

Content Links

Links by contributing poet:

Links by contributing artist:

Links by accepted submissions:

Submissions

One poem by Dubblex

One poem by Joy Leftow

One poem by Janice Brabaw

Three poems by Heller Levinson

One poem by Demetrius Daniel

One poem by Tatjana Debeljacki

One poem by Brenda Cook (Bebe)

One poem by Kush Arora

Three poems by Sarah Cabrera

One poem by Joseph Goosey

One poem by Stephanie Edwards

Two poems by John Yamrus

Two poems by Yahia Lababidi

One poem by Don Stabler

One poem by Tiziano Fratus

One poem by David Cheezem

Three poems by Charles Robert Hice

February 2009 Front Page

this issue

a note from the editors

featured release

Payday Loans

in the spotlight

selected poem

this edition's featured emerging poet

selected poem

February 2009 page 2

Content Links

Links by contributing poet:

Links by accepted submissions:

Submissions

Two poems by Renee Dwyer

Two poems by Will Hames

Two poems by Don Schaeffer

Three poems by Dianne Borsenik

Two poems by Sadiq Rahman

Two poems by Dubblex

Three poems by Stu Hatton

One poem by John Burroughs

One poem by Joy Leftow

Two poems by Don Coorough

One poem by Paul Niziol

One poem by Tanuj Solanki

One poem by Bernard Alain

February 2009 page 3

One short prose submission by Craig Woods

'stirring up silt from complacent neural beds' with Dave Besseling

January 2009 Front Page

this issue

note from the editor

new release

Duetcetera

Editor Picks for 2008

in the spotlight

selected poem

January 2009 page 2

One Poem by DubbleX

a note
from the editors

featured
chapbook release

A review of Daniel Borzutzky's
'one size fits all'

a note
from the editors

One short prose submission by
Craig Woods

note
from the editor

A review of Todd Moore's
'Blind Whiskey & The Straight Razor Blues'

POETRY AND DELIRIUM:
An Explanation

DIGITAL GHOSTS:
Introduction