by Ed Kauffman
bitterness was dripping
into a pool of discontent
drowning future experiences
before
their first breath
i studied her
from across the bar,
swelling the room with smoke,
taking part in filling the ashtray
between me & a slurring,
alcoholic-eyed pappy,
wondering why,
it was so hard for her,
because even those
born blind,
never even seeing
one ounce
of this world’s beauty,
know
how to smile
Lost Petition For An Endangered Species
Applauding Clarissa Pinkola Estés
where are you my wild women on
the brink of brutish but upholding
a close upkeep of grace & beauty,
growing taller than those old bones,
swelling & singing deeper than you
ever thought possible, does that
dark man visit your dreams, breathe
down your neck, sayin’ hey lady you'd
better pay attention, i told him last
night that i crossed that sacred,
shallow river seven times, he said
woman, do it slower next time, you
gotta be silent to hear the crackle
of the fire, i said that i've seen too
many fingers go quick to lips, that my
flames burn on the inside & they're not
hard to miss, that our submissiveness
has been the cement holding together
our mother’s mismanagement & it's
his mess that bloats all our hearts,
popping red balloons too heavy to
float, we have held in our tender
hands the same hopes & worries
of our mothers & their mothers &...
our minds have caged the same bird
too many times over, so i will not go
gentle into this night & when i open
my eyes your ghost will not guide
me to my death because i run with
a pack of wolves, we meet our men
halfway speaking the same language,
we roll around in our rusty double
beds, mama & papas of god shouting
thunder, spitting lightning, so don't
you tell me that silence is golden,
our hands have been in our pockets
cupping loose change & lost buttons
for far too many years now, so this
is my call, my plea, my appeal, where
are you my wild-wild women, let’s
meet our men in the middle & show
the world what it means to be
free
Insurgency
i know our love
is as small as a
single note played
on a dusty piano key
by a passerby
on their way
to the kitchen
to brew their
sunday morning coffee
in the grand
scheme of things but
just think
of how that
lonely note yearns
to be part
of a symphony
Bob Pajich
Missing You
Cracked my left wisdom tooth
the one on the bottom
and all I can think of is cocaine
how it numbs your teeth
and how much I wish I had some
on this Monday night in October
this last Monday of October in Las Vegas
and I bet I could find a bag of cocaine
to dip into and rub on
the back of my mouth
a cabbie could lead me to
some cocaine for the ache
that’s running from the bottom of the jaw
all the way into my eye bone
and I’ve done nothing wrong recently
to deserve it, I haven’t scaled
any levels of deceit
so I know the pain is not
a payback by a guilty mind;
it’s real. It’s dark and I’m tired
and hurting for cocaine, once again,
cocaine, always, always cocaine.
Beer Without Sugar
My weakness for bad songs
is costing me friends.
They don’t understand that
“I’m still living with your ghost”
says more to me than any line
from “Hey Jude,” and
the three chord riff
in that college death anthem
“Santa Monica” makes the hair
on my arms stand up
and headbang. “Lonely and
dreaming of the west coast”
simply rocks, especially
if I’m heading to a bar
to sit in a black vinyl booth,
drink beer without sugar
and argue about Bill fucking Collins.
It’s a song about love drowning.
Collins should be lucky enough
to have written: “I don’t want
to do your sleep-walk-dance
anymore.” And the chorus,
optimistic, somber, as eager
as a Big Mac, a naked picture,
it goddamn moves me: “We can
live beside the ocean,
leave the fire behind,
swim out past the breakers,
watch the world die.”
I’m there. Elevate me.
Some days, I play it
over and over and I don’t care:
“Watch the world die”
(chicka-chicka) bum bum
bum bum bum bum
(chicka-chicka)
bum bum bum bum bum bum
“Yeah, watch the world die.”
Magnolia
Have you ever walked into a roomful of music
and scurried for the corner of silence,
away from the sweating bodies all trying
to solve their equations for happiness
that cling to the dark walls of their mouths?
In New Orleans, it took me two days
to find Magnolia. For her, I would have let
everything I value tumble off the shelves
inside my body and crash into a million pieces
in my feet. Me and Bobby took turns
wiggling under her lisp, saying “Christ”
to each other as if we were marching in a funeral.
She sang all the words to the J. Cash I called up
on the jukebox, knew he turned 70 last month,
which cemented my heart into a smiling gargoyle
perched over a stone box in the cemetery near
Louis Armstrong Park. She wouldn’t let us get near
the black velvet curtains she said
hung in her bedroom to beat back
the sunlight during her afternoon naps.
The next day had her driving to Baton Rouge
to play a digital keyboard and sing at a T.G.I. Friday’s.
This is how I know she was real: Dreams do not
drive 150 miles to perform in a chain restaurant
that charges $9 for a cheeseburger.
Right before dawn lifted her head over the Mississippi,
Magnolia pretended to read my thick palm
while I worked on a giant steak at an all-night dinner.
She said I would see things, go places, be happy, sad, find ruin,
guilt, prosperity, sexual gratification, a house
with many children, a lover, a lover. “Oh.
And you have a long life-line,” she said,
“Which means you won’t die until
Yo
u’ve fallen in and out of love 16 times. Even
by my standards, that’s a lot.” I didn’t tell her
not really. She held my hand.
On Hearing Of The Bankruptcy Of Converse Shoes
The skin inside the skin
wants to expand and destroy as a teen
and these shoes helped me do it. And then there was
the gym teacher, Mr. Davis, at least
four years past mandatory retirement
who lobbed hook-shots over
our uncomfortable and pimpled heads
with uncanny accuracy. He once drew blood
from my nose by faking a shot
before rifling me a pass, wide open
and staring at the hoop, braced for the rebound.
He wore Converse All-Stars
because he wore Converse All-Stars.
The canvas supported his varicose-veined ankles
just enough to school us all. I wore
All-Stars because I hated my father,
my mother, my sister, my body,
my face with white blood cells
bubbling out of my pores, my smile
too easy and quick around girls.
But as the shoe wore on, my face cleared,
I fought my father in the front yard, I began to
understand my mother’s death in her living,
my sister became her own self and
a quiet girl blew me in her basement
with full-throttled desire. I chopped
those blue Chuck Taylors into low tops,
took a pair of scissors, sliced
right through the red star, wore them
all summer and most of the fall
until the gray sole flapped open
like a panting tongue
at the top of each step.
Kathleen Paul-Flanagan
The Megaphone Man
He stands on the corner
of Midway Road
and US Route One,
a megaphone in one hand
and a Bible missing the cover
in the other.
His clothes seem muted,
it took me a few minutes
to realize it was dirt
covering him and
making him colorless.
He spouts chapter and verse
and damnation and hellfire,
pointing at drivers
and passengers,
as he twitches with faith.
Once he sang Amazing Grace
in a raspy quivering voice
and I almost cried.
People sometimes yell
back at him
or give him the finger.
I just watch and
open my window
and listen to him.
Everybody knows him
or thinks they do.
Someone told me
he's homeless.
Someone else said
he lives in the trailer park
right near that corner.
All agree he's crazy.
I'm not sure.
Whoever he is,
with his dirty clothes
and his mystery self,
I see a dancing light
in his blue eyes.
And I have to love him
and respect him.
I'm almost jealous
because he believes
and it shows.
And I don't know
what I believe
anymore.
I'm No Soccer Mom
I've never had any trouble
envisioning myself
as a freaky little flapper
beaded blue dress swaying
and tinkling with each step
holding out a hand for a cup
of strong bathtub gin
maybe doing the Charleston
with a suited slick-haired
male counterpart
I can see myself
as a depression-era
farm wife
thin cotton dress
the breeze cutting through
as I stand in the front doorway
rubbing my chapped hands together
sighing as my overall-ed husband
comes up the front walk all
dirty and dignified
I know I would have made
an excellent Rosie the Riveter
dancing alone
across the braided rag rug
in the living room
to Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey
in loafers and a peasant dress
tears streaming down my face
waiting for my Soldier
to finally come home
from overseas
I can see
a clear picture of me
as a June Cleaver carbon copy
pearls, apron and
a holier-than-thou attitude
baking bread for
a huge Sunday dinner
served on Wednesday
listening politely
to my Ward
talk about the office
So I wonder why I cannot see myself
as a part of my own generation
Inevitable
When I stand next to you,
I feel the same way
I did the first time
I saw an Arizona desert sky-
Small and insignificant.
I kept trying then, as I do now
to make myself taller,
more meaningful.
It didn't work in the desert-
And it isn't working now.
I eventually had to leave the heat
and dust because I just didn't fit.
A person can only be tiny
and invisible for so long.
Michael Phillips
I Don't Understand Birds
the birds land on the new feeder
and fight for prime spots
the smaller, skittish birds
remain on the ground
picking through the spillage and waste
probably laughing to themselves:
"look at those idiots scrapping up there -
the more they fight, the more we eat!"
well, birds aren't so smart
nothing like people
though there are people
who survive on leftovers
waiting hopefully
for something, anything
to fall from the sky
or roll up at their feet
I admit that there have been times
that I have waited for manna to appear
times when I did little more than
check the mailbox daily
for the million dollar check
though usually
I'll do what I have to
to get by
I don't understand birds that spend their lives
fighting for dominance
any more than I understand
those that follow them around picking up scraps
I suspect the real trick is just to eat, sleep
and survive
no matter how
you manage to do it
The Benefit Of Distance
in the course of a night
the moon moves across the sky
and one hundred people
write one hundred poems
about what a beautiful sight it is
I don't see the beauty
which may or may not
be a deeply-rooted problem
all I think about when I see the moon
is mechanics
and how some crazy bastards
got the idea to aim rockets at it
and how some other, even crazier bastards
raised their hands and said
"strap me to that bomb, baby!"
/>
anyway, I'll never step on the moon
though from up there
I might be able to write a poem
about how wondrously beautiful
this city is
Crawling
staring out the window
broke, behind on everything
watching the Friday afternoon traffic
Southbound on the 405
grinding along
at ten miles an hour
no money I'm used to
like you get used to a new wrinkle
or an upstart thatch of grey
insulting the youthful brown locks
no money I can accept as inevitable
but without enough
for even a cheap six pack
I begin to consider joining the crawl
and I see myself on that Friday freeway
pocketful of payday
plotting the stop for an expensive six pack
or three
and a bottle of single malt scotch
for the weekend
which Monday looms over menacingly
it's then that I consider
giving up drinking
for my health .
The Only Man For The Job
one day a week the shelter disposes of
about 50 dogs and cats
it has to be done
though it isn't my job anymore
Sammy Benedict does it now
back there with the big metal chamber
that creates a vacuum in about six seconds
but it takes Sammy a long time
you have to work quickly
to get through 50 in a day
there are procedures that must be followed
for proper disposal
Sammy always ends up
working late into the night
that one day a week
sometimes until almost midnight
I was curious why it took so long
so once I offered to help him
he declined, claiming
he was the only man for the job
I asked him why he spent so much time on it
and he said, "The animals are scared.
They know what's happening in there,
and it freaks them out.
So I hold each of them for a few minutes
before I put them in the chamber.
It calms them down, and it makes me feel
like what I'm doing isn't so bad."
all I could do was nod
step aside and let him walk away
Sammy was the only man for the job
and I didn't want to stand in his way
Sam Pierstorff
The Grammys Were On
He’s already learned it’s a blonde world
full of blue-eyed oceans and white sandy beaches.
In a house of brunettes and olive skin, he's suddenly
decided "pretty" was on television, one of the Dixie Chicks—
Natalie, if you must know.
His sister is too young to care, half-asleep on Mother's chest.