translated to ASCII on October 10, 1996 -- %%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% dedicated to the art of the written word volume 1, issue 5 October 1995 ================================ POETRY INK 1.05 / ISSN 1091-0999 ================================ POETRY INK volume 1, issue 5 October 1995 "Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word" >From The Editor's Desktop... ---------------------------- Welcome to the biggest and best issue of POETRY INK ! This issue marks yet another milestone for POETRY INK---we actually went over our self-defined goal of 150k an issue. So, in a state of mindless wild ectasy, we decided to change our motto from "getting it in under 150k" to "Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word." I think the new motto is a little classier and slightly more professional. I hope you will agree. As you probably have already noted, other changes have taken place as well. We finally got around to adding a Table of Contents , and an exciting Announcement section is awaiting your perusal. There are other changes and new sections as well, but I'll let you discover them on your own. I would like to take a moment and thank everyone who submitted work for this issue; we received over 300 submissions to be considered for publication in Issue 5. Surprisingly, about 10% of these submissions came via snail mail! While it is not possible for us to respond to each person who submitted work, we want you to know that your contributions are appreciated. One of the reasons we do not send out "rejection" letters is that each issue is produced on a per-issue basis. For example, we did not start accepting submissions for Issue 6 (the next issue, due out in November) until this issue was almost entirely "put to bed." This and the fact that POETRY INK is assembled in our spare time--mostly on the weekends and late at night--are the main reasons we do not respond to each and every piece of eMail which comes our way. If we did, POETRY INK would not be produced on a timely basis. So thank you, and keep those submissions rolling in! Also, I want to personally thank Ben Judson, Dick Steinbach, and Wayne Brissette for helping Spill The Ink on the Internet. Ben uploads POETRY INK to the OneNet BBS system, Dick uploads each issue to America On-Line(tm), and Wayne has set-up a POETRY INK Home Page on the World Wide Web. Without the help of these three gentleman, POETRY INK would probably not be on your screen right now. Send them an eMail (their addresses are on the Masthead ) and let them know how much their hard work is appreciated. Matthew W. Schmeer, editor POETRY INK ---------- **Editor** Matthew W. Schmeer **e-mail** **snail mail** Matthew W. Schmeer POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS 6711-A Mitchell Avenue St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 U.S.A. Official OneNetBBS Network distribution by Ben Judson Official America On-Line distribution by Dick Steinbach Official WWW Web Page maintained by Wayne Brissette POETRY INK is a regular, erratically published E-zine (electronic magazine). Anyone interested in submitting poetry, short fiction, or essays should see the last few pages of this document for submission instructions. If writing via snail mail, please include a #10-sized self-addressed stamped envelope so that we may respond to you. Donations of food, money, software, and hardware are gracefully accepted. Legal Stuff ----------- POETRY INK is copyrighted 1995 by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS, a wholly owned subsidiary of the imagination of Matthew W. Schmeer. POETRY INK can be freely distributed, provided it is not modified in any way, shape, or form. Specifically: * All commercial on-line services, such as eWorld(tm), America On-Line(tm), and CompuServe(tm), and local BBSs may distribute POETRY INK at no charge. * All non-profit user groups may distribute POETRY INK at no charge. * All CD-ROM shareware collections and CD-ROM magazines may not include POETRY INK without prior written consent. * All redistribution companies such as Educorp may not distribute POETRY INK without express written consent. POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS retains one-time rights and the right to reprint this issue, either printed or electronic. All other rights to works appearing in POETRY INK written by authors other than Matthew W. Schmeer revert to said authors upon publication. POETRY INK is produced on an Apple Macintosh(tm) Color Classic(tm) running System Software 7.1. POETRY INK is initially uploaded to eWorld(tm), with further Internet distribution by our readers. We use Global Village Teleport Gold(tm) II Fax/Modems. POETRY INK is produced using MicroFrontier's ColorIt!(tm) 2.3.4, Novell Corp.'s WordPerfect(tm) 3.1, and Michel & Francois Touchot's eDOC 1.1. We encourage others to support these fine hardware manufacturers and software programmers. Announcement!!!!!!! ------------------- **POETRY INK is now on the World Wide Web!** Wayne Brissette, a technical writer for Apple Computer, has linked POETRY INK to his Web site on one of Apple's servers in Austin, Texas, USA*. Wayne, who's poem _Uncertainties_ appeared in Issue 4 of POETRY INK, has generously donated his time and resources to provide POETRY INK a home on the Web. By the way, Wayne also maintains the official "unofficial" Web site of the Central Hockey League (CHL). Go Iguanas! Point your WWW Browser to this URL: At the current time, the Web site only contains links to download POETRY INK's back issues; future plans call for the possibility of reading POETRY INK directly from your Web browser. Check out the site and let us know what you think! Spill The Ink! *Views and information stated in POETRY INK and on it's Internet Web Page may not necessarily represent the views or products of Apple Computer, Inc. Free Stuff Wanted! ------------------ **We Want Free Stuff!** Okay, we admit it. We are making a desperate plea for free things from you, our readers, who recieve each issue absolutely free, no strings attached (feel guilty yet?). But lest you think less of us, here's the Free Stuff Catch: We want Free Stuff we can either use to produce POETRY INK or review for future issues! What do we mean by use or review? Here's a few examples: GOOD IDEA: A book you have written and/or published. BAD IDEA: Free puppies. GOOD IDEA: A new Power Mac 9500 with 2 gig hard drive and 6x CD-ROM drive loaded to the hilt with RAM and VRAM, a new Apple Multiple Scan 21" monitor (with video card) and Apple Extended Keyboard II. (Hey Michael Spindler--you need all the free publicity you can get...) BAD IDEA: A copy of Microsoft Windows 95 on CD-ROM (we already have a set of coasters). GOOD IDEA: A complimentary copy of your band's CD. BAD IDEA: A complimentary copy of Yoko Ono's Greatest Hits CD. You get the picture. Basically, we are looking for things to review--such as books, magazines, and CDs--that have a literary bent. Or you can send us things we can use to produce POETRY INK, such as new orused hard drives, keyboards, Mac CPUs, and so forth that are in good working condition. While we regret that your contribution is not tax deductible, we won't tell the IRS if you don't. So send us some free stuff! Featured Writer --------------- Jeff Waters 1 poem, 1 prose piece, and an essay _Happiness Is A Loose Noose_ I'm smoking another cigarette But this will be my last one I swear. The ten o'clock news came on I went to the spare room as austere as a monk's underwear and pressed and lifted and extended my body. My wife burst in, her voice chopping into my skull like a hatchet, to tell me she's tired of doing dishes and the baby won't go to sleep. I curled the barbell and licked my lips slowly. I ran long over the crunchy snow in my soft shoes and sweated in the sub-zero wind-chill. (A few Christmas lights remain in the dark streets.) Now a viola, an oboe, a harp, and a flute Titter on the stereo while I drink my Baderbrau. The house creaks arrhythmically. I am alone. _Swimming in God's Underwear_ For some reason I keep thinking of the ferry landing in Seattle. It gives me that lonely edgy feeling you get in a dangerous place you visited a long time ago. The last ferry leaves about 12:30 at night. At ten after twelve, we take the long escalator up from the sidewalk to the lobby. Black-and-white posters of historic ferries slide past as we glide up the dim corridor. A skinny unshaven old man nods out on a wooden bench in the waiting room. Pools of yellow light surround a rack of tourist pamphlets and the one ticket booth that's still open. Our footsteps echo on the tile floor. The glass doors to the coffee shop are locked. There are nautical maps of Elliott Bay and Puget Sound in glass cases on the wall. There's a guy outside the window with a bandanna and a goatee smoking a cigarette in the dark and leaning on the rail of the balcony that leads to the ferries. I slip my hand around your waist and pull you closer. Your hair smells like lavender. I wonder how smart it is to be going to Victoria. When the running lights of the ferry appear far out in the black void of the bay, we pay for tickets, push through the turnstile, and walk into the orange sodium light of the concrete gangway. A poster explaining the Washington State Transportation safety rules in green block letters peels off the plywood wall. The ferry sounds her foghorn and gently bumps the dock like an elephant scratching her hip on a city bus. Four and a half hours later, you are still asleep on a green enamel pew on the ferry's enclosed upper deck. Your head rests on my shoulder and my neck is stiff from draping over the back of the bench. I wake you up to see the sun rise over Vancouver. Silver skyscrapers erupt from the tip of a peninsula surrounded by a dark green forest of pine trees. It's as if the native Indians planted magic crystals which sprouted steel and glass structures. We are too far out in the Strait of Georgia to swim ashore if the ferry capsized. The breeze blowing though the open hatch is chilly, but carries the scent of saltwater and the call of seagulls. You raise your head slowly, leaving a cool damp spot on my collar bone. The sun is an orange oval on the horizon, glinting off the wavelets between us and freedom. I want a plate of waffles and ham with steaming hot coffee. I don't know if it's a good idea to be going to Goose Island, but we'll be safe there. We'll be safe. Jeff Waters lives in Arlington Heights, Illinois. Currently, Jeff travels often in his job as the Lab Services Manager for Landis & Gyr, a building controls company. He has made a living as a welder, submarine reactor operator, and technical writer, but never as a poet. He has written feature articles for local newspapers and arts & entertainment magazines, and his poetry has appeared in the literary magazines "Proof Rock" and "Midwest Poetry Review". His interests include body surfing, progressive music, and nude cycling. About _Happiness Is A Loose Noose_ and _Swimming In God's Underwear_, Jeff writes: One night I did a search for poetry and writers with America On-Line(tm)'s Web Crawler and came across the POETRY INK request for submissions. I grabbed a poem and a short piece from the hard drive of my laptop and e-mailed it. To my surprise, two days later, I received an acceptance message. Yes! This is the kind of response I had hoped for with the Internet! I lived in Bremerton and Seattle for a couple of years when I was in the Navy, and the ferry landing was often the last stop after an evening of cruising the night clubs. The title to _Swimming in God's Underwear_ literally came to me in a dream: I was trapped under a ferry that had capsized in Puget Sound, and the futile struggle to escape in such picturesque surroundings led to the ambiguous phrase. It could refer to wearing God's jockey shorts while bathing, or floundering about in the nether regions of the almighty's lingerie like a cosmic skidmark. Either interpretation conveys a sense of dislocation and paradox that sets the mood. The reference to two different destinations, progressively farther north, implies that the search for safety and peace is far from over, perhaps never-ending. Bz-zt! I'm in Cleveland checking my eMail by modem. Nirvana on the plane courtesy of portable CD- ROM with headphones. NASA research acid fumes bad. On-line poetry profuse, watered-down. Am I special? Tralfamadorian time is random, not sequential. I've been told that my poetry is depressing. To me it's a catharsis for my dark side. By putting into words the things that polite people never talk about, I purge those thoughts and make it possible to get through another day at the office. When I read William S. Burroughs, I think, "My God, at least my life isn't that dismal." It actually cheers me up. When I think of Anne Sexton's or Kurt Cobain's suicide, it makes me angry that they deprived the world of so much talent, and sad that they could not see beyond their immediate pain. A few years ago, I felt trapped by my middle-class life and marriage. Exercise was the only way to drive out the demons of vague anxiety and existentialist dread. The events in _Happiness Is a Loose Noose_ are a simple chronology of one late evening when I decided it was time to leave and start a new life, or face the alternative. Despite the ominous tone, the ultimate message is that no matter how hopeless life seems, you can choose to change. It is possible to begin again. Ben Ohmart ---------- 2 poems _TLC_ Whispering Pines Road but it was flooded last summer. don't care, they own the land it was a lock-in. stayed up a full day to night playing Risk, pretending friends safe with adults. my own age talking about me in the Sunday school room or choir loft I was trying to take over Germany, remembering 2 hrs. before about my stupid shoes. a game? I dunno. 5 people against the wall, bags over our heads, pastor reads from a card tells us remove something. what was the game? so it lasts a couple minutes and I'm taking off my shoes, happen to look beneath my bag, another bag's dropping. I take it off, last guy moving over to the other side, then they laugh have to smile. think about my mom making me stay with people. rather be alone alone without lonliness. but it's the world right? you're not extro you're introverted no middle ground to stand. a fool's memory is wide. you know what you take advantage of you're shown what takes advantage of you. what can you talk about? you play a game that can never really be won. so I lost all my armies, I was banned from the countries and I lost the world, but I saw the sun come up. _Ago_ bullets beyond me, fleshing me out carnival girls thinking the ride is free night of the '44 car, real antiques all of us mom dropped us, $10 to spend? that much on 30 darts to lose a 3 Stooges picture kidded Britt about losin' 5 to a guy with a pen said it was the greatest, Britt thought he'd get his "trust" money back "would you give 5 for this great" etc. etc. we tried throwing money away onto slick turned over fish bowls for color tv hangin' up should've known; could see the dust on it. Immobile fat lady speaking to us, 4 tickets a white shirt, a skeleton, a spiral dart board: funhouse? haunted house? but we laughed and hot dogged no sitting, upright tables, chili on my white...can't remember mom cars us, bullets before me, now Thanksgiving Aunt and Uncle hate each other and a turkey brings them apart together orange decorations, cat on the kitchen counter paper pumpkins like accordians hang too low for me Grace it's the only time she's mentioned; extra gravy for me only grandma likes cranberry shit, none here. I feel them go into my back. swimming lessons: me, a crybaby? forced to the Y. they laughed at me I clutched at the Spanish boy's hair, forgotten for a second when they had to go to the other side, over the deep end. I scream and fall and watch my body empty feel the blue turn and red. memory of now parking lots soaking up my brains they've got what my life's worth, laughing throwing back the driver's license. try to think. nothing left --future comes, but it's for them. them? who are they? future memories while the siren gets softer. softer Grant Mitchell -------------- 1 poem _Dawnwatch_ Fist a hint and then a glimmer drifting across a slow sky, dawn begins. A tint dyeing the stars to dimmer points that smear in the wind's eye, watching the westward intent as black blew to a grey shimmer tacked, beat day across the sky. John Freemyer ------------- 2 poems _Father_ My father was a genius idiot He sailed the transpacific and sold an Rx for brain blowouts He called what he did selling prepackaged reality divergence Mother worried She said if he ever knew redemption your father lost it when he abandoned us I remember him a little He had a Pharaoh's laugh and a knuckle for a nose _Advertising_ She wore a plastic strapless Hitlerface dress and hopscotched without feeling to some kind of new music. She wasn't wearing a bra. Hitler's eyes wiggled as she danced, his nippled pupils protruding hideously. I wondered whether Hitler could see this dress from his perspective in Hell. Could he see his face distorted by the young woman's athletic body? Would he brag about it to other mass murderers? Were Churchill, Stalin, Tojo, Roosevelt and Truman envious of the Hitler dress? Among monsters it's always the best known monster who gets the girls. Goes to show it pays to advertise. Erik K. Fritz ------------- 1 poem _Tigerlily_ Slow and impatient the steps fall, forth and back, fro and to, in a four part rhythm of frustration and elation and anger and joy, eyes feed on those who see only fear through blackened glasses, unable to turn frozen faces trapped in their own loathing, confronted by hunger all-consuming. What is this beast, horrible beast whose instincts are, by the critical fires of right, wrong, and social responsibility, left charred and purified, hardened in the battle for a soul, honed in pursuit of true reward. Passion wriggles free from the shackles of desire, lust trickles timidly from longing too long buried. Vision is granted from sight blurred and weak from the view atop the soapbox. To fear and still believe, lose it all to hope to gain what's never promised, but freely given. Call For Entries...A Contest Has Begun! --------------------------------------- Announcing the first (of what we hope to be many) **POETRY INK Writing Contest!** **Contest #1: An Exercise In Writing** We all know that in order to write better, we need to practice. What better way to practice than to do short writing exercises? Writing exercises force us to write within a structured environment, but also allow us to flex some creative muscle. One of the best writing exercises is to open a dicttionary, choose a bunch of words at random, and use them to write a poem. So here's the hook for the first POETRY INK Writing Contest. **The Pitch** Write a short poem (10-40 lines) which contains the following twelve words and phrases: stapler bough postage stamp calico mythology thesaurus Oktoberfest obsidian Tao Te Ching Hemingway pigskin secrets These words may be pluralized. These words may be used as either nouns or verbs, where permitted. You may enter as many times as you like, but all twelve words must appear in each poem. **The Deadline** The deadline for entries is December 15, 1995. All entries must be postmarked by this date to be considered eligible for consideration. Entries cannot be returned. **Where to Send Your Entry** All poems must be sent by SNAIL MAIL to the following address: Matthew W. Schmeer POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS ATTN: Contest #1 6711-A Mitchell Avenue St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 **The Prize (This Is What You Really Wanted To Know, Right?)** Prestige and the knowledge that you were the best. No, really, the people who submit the top three entires will get some realy cool free stuff (oh surprise, surprise, surprise). Plus, they'll each receive a certificate proclaiming their greatness (suitable for framing) so that they can impress their friends and family. Not only that, but the top 11 poems will be published as a Special Edition to be included with the January 1996 issue. So what are you waiting for? Get those entries in! Mail yours today! George Gati ----------- 2 poems _Twilight_ You stood at the dark water's edge. I had to laugh: you with canvas shoes laced together around your neck, pants rolled up, pale legs blanched even more by surf. Quietly you took some more photos of the black girl who'd come up to you. She smirked and mugged, then giggled when you asked her where to send the prints. I cautioned you against the meretricious orange sun and violet sky. You slowly bent to tie your shoes; with shameful love, you said, "Colors are no truer than at twilight." _Three Dreams_ I dreamed that I bore three blind possum pups per rectum; naked they emerged, and gnawed. I_. O Reader, do you know how much I love you? Or feel reflected the unquenched fire that consumes me as I look at you? I dreamed we stood at Goat Rock's foot. The cold gale plucked at us; salt needles pricked us; hailstones of pebbles pelted us from cliffs above-- yet, none of these could hurt. I clutched you. Your body, cupped in mine, felt like a small, furred, fragile mammal of fine bone china. I kissed your eyelashes, the soft warm hollows of your neck. I buried myself in the still hot cavern of your mouth. I stroked your chestnut beard; I lost myself in thickets of your beard. I caressed your bear-like chest, licked your tender nipples, then sank into the crimson sea--and, last, gentle Reader, impaled you on a spit, flamed you, charred you in embers, consumed you, meat and fat. I sucked the liquid globes from their orbits, sipped the jellied brains from your split skull, drew sweet marrow from splintered bones; until, crushed to bloody dust, you healed, made whole, my sickly sense, raised me up to wind and spray and stone. II_. Old age always shimmered as mirage of stumps, dry river beds; so much more so must we have dreamed this disease. Surely we shall awake to find the world unchanged, our lost lovers, our lost pleasures restored. Restored! Kindly word, unutterable, unheard. . . . Long ago, I lay in bed and prayed: "Dear Lord, let me fall asleep and never wake; or let me sleep, at least, until death comes, so that all I suffer may be in dreams." The hollow dawn assured me I'd been heard. Then day succeeded dawn, and darkness, day; and, in darkness, then, I met him, disease. Disease! I embraced him as a lover, cherished him more tenderly than men's flesh. Now, I bear his name, wear his scent; assume wasted limbs, bloated purple belly, bald skull, sunken unseeing eyes, burning skin, stinking wastes, fetid breath. For him, sweetest lover, I have abdicated mortal thrones, apostatized human creeds. For him, lover, I have emptied myself so that infinite universes will not fill my void; now, nought but gravity binds me to this sphere. Yet, though more contingent than dandelion puffs, I dream my legs like dull, dense stones impede my rising. I will never whirl like dervishes; shamans and Sufis spin in the heart of the maelstrom, on whose still verge I ever kneel and watch. My brothers, my lovers pass before my gaze, as I, kindly one, pursue mutely, unblinkingly. I judge; I execute; I profit from their worthless, priceless pain. And bliss!--and pure unbounded joy!--it is to watch as others suffer more than I. Reader, redden not. Enjoy me as a case history; be avenged, exult; for when this nightmare passes (if this nightmare passes), I'll be remembered (if I am remembered) with, "Oh, yes, he helped so much." III_. When the elevator doors opened, I recognized you, Reader, instantly, of course, for we'd sung out rapturously in my dreams of sumptuous detail. But our waking life is simple, unadorned: I only breathed, "Ah!" while you stood silently... Today, I buried you in hallowed earth hard by the sea. I photographed your stone: "NO TEARS IN HEAVEN." ("Nor laughter," I thought.) Soon, I'll love you best, in abstract--your name carved in rock or sewn in quilts will burst forth such springs as will wash me for a space, then dry. Now, the blackened grass I tread seems cool and tender as my fictive lover's chest; now, gladly would I sink and dream. I see myself rising in the ether with the other disembodied; together, we rise like incense, a holocaust. Those left below see smoky pillars raise the sky; those left below extend their trembling hands, collect neither raindrops nor snowflakes, but gather ashes of all they once desired. Envoi_ Still, comfort: consider the sea, from whose unshaped, dreamless darkness emerges each strong-backed wave with its own curve and power, then breaks. Matthew W. Schmeer ------------------ 2 poems _Maine_ We cannot discern the sand from the sea. In the ocean's twilight the water kens An unusual glow and the lobster knows no bounds. The grinding of surf upon coral is the gnashing of teeth; There is nothing to stop the world from spinning. The open sound speaks Of kings and queens and mermaids Weeping on the shore Of Newfoundland, the Rough ocean carrying the voice Of Erin across the wastrel seas and The Norse steering their ships toward Vinland. The leaves stop turning In the eddying nooks Of granite strewn across The beaches. The lighthouse No longer beckons us home. The air is heavy with salt; the staunch Smell of cod permeates my leather Watch band and will still be there Nine months hence. The land's black rocks clutch Skin to water, cry of the Tautness of flesh and the Life of the world to come. Here, the fish have No misgivings. _The Rain, Part 2_ The broken down Ford Sinks in its rust. Weeds do not break it. Then the swallows arrive, With their five-fingered feathers And beaks of tin. Sometimes I can hear them, Beating the air against the Barn's braodside, the straw Muffling the echoes. Yesterday, the ground gave way In the south twenty, and the Grass is too green For September. Stephane Berrebi ---------------- 1 poem _The Fox And The Hedgehog_ The hardy fox knows all the ways of the forest Lonely fearless and agile Like the nightly comets his distant cousins I love him in secret, wish I could be like him The shy hedgehog hides under a mystic bowl his prickly mood Humble and stubborn and deep Under dead leaves and rotting wood How uneasy to prod but so rich inside And I, the book born of the trees and radiant with the stars Shall take them both as models I'll run electronic and rest in precious shelves For I am the keeper of Nature's higher truths Tommy Hutchison --------------- 2 poems _Scenes From Southern Summer_ Tangled in strands of sunlight, morning glories fade from afternoons. A crow sits on the child's dog lost for dour days. Clouds tumble between horizons; the dance of egrets A fog of gnats and mosquitoes scatters in the wind from Mexico. Pulpwood trucks thunder from the forest carrying dead trees on their backs. The monstrous crop duster lumbers over fields of blighted cotton. Shade trees offer only token relief from the violence of the sun. Sometimes the cicadas are so loud all thoughts are driven from my mind. _Tomorrow We Ride_ I_. Tomorrow This place is stagnating. The dulling safety only dissolves the soul of adventure. I need a Harley a highway a hip pocket full of ideals to explore and test. I need scenery people an excuse to live beyond the 9 to 5. Tomorrow we take the highway. Tomorrow we greet the heart of America. Tomorrow we leave this dulling place. Tomorrow we ride. II_. Thunderheads were building by midmorning The air for this time of the morning is far too warm. Mare's tails that purpled last night's sunset are now in the eastern distance leaving clouds, gleaming white only around the edges with grey hearts that will grow and anger. My lungs ache from moisture in the air. I don't feel able to catch my breath. In the afternoon, there will surely be thunderstorms so let us stay inside in the dry warmth and comfortable. The highway will still be there. Tomorrow we ride. III_. Dogwoods are blooming After the rainfall, the morning is clean and the new sun takes the edge off the coolness. The highway stretches toward the horizon but the dogwoods are in bloom full like ripe fruit coloring the air with fresh odors. Let's wait for dusk to walk among the trees and lay in the wet grass to watch the stars come out. Tomorrow we ride. IV_. Have another beer; we're drinking to forget. Let's get drunk tonight to get over the days we've put off our adventure. Let's dull our senses to the blunting of ideals so we don't notice it as bad even as it is happening. Let's get so God-damned drunk the hangover keeps us in bed all day long. Then we will ride. V_. Putting it off I can make fifteen hundred dollars a week pimping washers and dryers to blue haired old ladies. Money will make the adventure so easy. I'll work for a couple of weeks hoarding money like a crow gathering tinsel. I'll just give the highway a month to ripen and ferment into rich wine before I drink of what America has for me. A couple of months and I'll have enough money to free the adventure of hardships. Then, then we will ride. VI_. Years from now I can no longer tell months from years. The days blend together as generic pieces of a huge jigsaw puzzle which wouldn't seem different if today were gone or tomorrow or any day five years from now. I have money, but never enough to pay off my debts. Each sleepy-eyed day I drive dizzily and try to remember the song of the highway ringing in my ears. Sliding my car into park and walking to my job as a person prepared to take a beating, I should wonder where my tomorrows went... David Lumsden ------------- 2 poems _Somewhere There Is Violence_ When you finally get in the clock-radio knows it is 3:36. You almost crash to the floor in stepping out of your skirt. I pretend to be sleeping, having learned the uselessness of anger, and raised indifference to a discipline. How much longer can this go on I want to ask myself, but lie instead in darkness while you snore and do not dream. _Nitelife_ Dealing with time in narrow bars until the trains start for the day. Double rows of bottles catch the artificial light so prettily. Keep talking. Stay awake. Watch how she plays with her ice, the way that earring sways, and always above us loud TV music for us too strung out to notice how the notion of one person can like the dancebeat recur. About The Contributors... ------------------------- Jeff Waters is this issue's Featured Writer. Go read that section to find out more about Jeff. Ben Ohmart hails from Syracuse, New York. He claims to have had hundreds of stories and poems published in 'zines and journals across the world. He also enjoys writing plays that aren't performed. His hobby is also his drive: writing. Grant Mitchell lives in Bothell, Washington. A lifelong Pacific Northwest resident, He is embarking on a second career as a high school English teacher after having proved to himself and others the oft-proven logical impossibility of remaining sane and sober while employed by the U.S. Postal Service. This is his first apperance in print. John Freemyer resides in Los Angeles, California. He recently returned to writing after a fifteen year bout with manic-depression. His poem _Suburban Vampire_ appeared in the third issue of POETRY INK. Erik K. Fritz is a sophomore at the University of California--Fresno. He is pursuing a degree in English with an emphasis on creative writing. Most Sundays this fall you can catch him at home, rooting the Dallas Cowboys on to Superbowl XXX. This is his first appearance in print. George Gati calls West Hollywood, California home. Originally planning to spend a lifetime career in data processing--systems analysis and data base administration--after earning his B.A. in English twenty years ago, he ended up in nursing. Since 1985 he has spent his time working in hospitals, primary care facilities, and research institutions in the fight against HIV. While he has written since adolescence, this is his first appearance in print. Matthew W. Schmeer is the editor of POETRY INK. He decided it was time to publish some of his own work in POETRY INK as a bold and shameless display of self-promotion. Stephane Berrebei lives in Meudon, France. He is active in the multimedia industry in his homeland, both with Apple Computer and with his own consulting firm. He is currently working on a collection of educational games for young children. While he is fluent in English, he prefers to write in French and is considering establishing an Internet Web Page for French literature. Tommy Hutchison lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. His previous credits include publications in "Poet's Review", "Locust Creek Relief", "Manna", and "Old Hickory Review". David Lumsden lives in Melbourne, Australia. He works as a software designer, specializing in Smalltalk. His poems have appeared mostly in Australian poetry mags, as well as the odd appearance in the U.S., Canada, and Britain. He was the founding editor of the magazine "Nocturnal Submissions", and is planning to launch a new poetry-only magazine called "Nerve" early in 1996. Submission Guidelines --------------------- (You may want to print this for future reference.) * Failure to follow these guidelines will mean automatic rejection of your submission! Please read the following very carefully! * By submitting works for consideration, you agree that if accepted for publication, you grant POETRY INK, the electronic magazine produced by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and Matthew W. Schmeer the right to publish your work. This right includes initial publication and any subsequent re-release of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work appeared, either in the electronic or the printed medium. All other rights to your work are released to you upon publication. If we wish to publish your work in a different issue of POETRY INK, we will contact you for permission to do so and acknowledge your right of refusal. * By submitting work for consideration, you acknowledge that the works you are submitting are your own original works and are products of your own design. You further agree that we have the right to request additional information from you regarding the source(s) of your work and any related topic thereof. You agree that if your work is found to be a derivative of copyrighted material by another author or artist, you, and not POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and/or Matthew W. Schmeer, will be liable for any physical or monetary damage assessed under the jurisdiction of the courts of the United States of America and the conventions of the International Copyright Law. * By submitting works for consideration, you acknowledge that you are not nor will ever be requesting monetary compensation for the right of POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS to publish your work. You therefore acknowledge the only compensation due to you by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS is access to a copy of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work appeared. Acceptable access to POETRY INK is the posting of POETRY INK on eWorld, America On-Line, the Internet at sumex-aim.stanford.edu and mac.archive.umich.edu, and via e- mail sent directly to you; whichever we decide is fair and cost-effective. * Submissions should be written in the English language. We regret that we are unable to publish work in foreign languages, but we cannot spend time flipping through foreign language dictionaries trying to check grammar, spelling, and meaning. Unless you can provide an English translation to a work in a foreign language, forget about it. * No previously published work may be submitted. Simultaneous submissions are okay. In the case of simultaneous submissions, please contact us if your work has been accepted by another publication so that we may remove the work in question from consideration. * All submissions must have your name, postal address, age, and e-mail address included on each individual work. You may submit work via U.S. Mail or e-mail. See below for addresses. NOTE: e-mail submissions are highly preferred. * No gratuitous obscenity or profanity, although erotic material is okay. If you think it's too graphic, then it probably is and won't be published in this forum. * Please keep poems under 3 printed pages apiece (page size = 8" x 11" page with 1" margins printed with Times 12-point plain font). * Please limit short stories to under 5000 words. * No more than 5 poems or 2 short stories submitted per person per issue. * Submissions should be submitted as plain ASCII e-mail files or as StuffIt compressed (.sit) attachments to e-mail messages. Compressed files should be in plain text format (the kind produced by SimpleText). Regardless of submission format, please use the subject line "SUBMIT POETRY INK: your name" where "your name" is your actual name and not the name of your e-mail account. Omit the quotation marks. For example, it should look like this: SUBMIT POETRY INK: John Q. Public * Manuscripts and submissions cannot be returned, nor can we offer any constructive criticism unless we decide to publish your work and have serious reservations regarding content or structure. You will not receive notification that your work was received; while we regret this inconvenience, you must realize we have to support ourselves somehow. Therefore, due to the amount of expected submissions, we cannot acknowledge receipt of your work unless we decide to publish it. * If your work is accepted for publication, you will be notified as soon as possible via e-mail. If you prefer to be notified by U.S. Mail, please indicate this preference on your submission. Your e-mail address will be published when crediting your work. If you prefer us not to do so, please indicate this on your submission as well. * Subscribers to the PATCHWORK mailing list will be given special consideration in the selection process. For information regarding PATCHWORK, or to subscribe, send an e-mail message to patchwork- request@nyx.cs.du.edu, with the subject "HELP" (no quotes). It is not necessary to include any text in the body of the message. All submissions, inquiries, and comments should be directed to: e-mail: snail mail: Matthew W. Schmeer POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS 6711-A Mitchell Avenue St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 USA ..