translated to ASCII on October 10, 1996 -- %%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% dedicated to the art of the written word volume 1, issue 7 December 1995 ================================ POETRY INK 1.07 / ISSN 1091-0999 ================================ POETRY INK volume 1, issue 7 December 1995 "Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word" >From The Editor's Desktop... ---------------------------- POETRY INK: Dedicated to the Art of the Written Word. What does this really mean? I think it means adapting to meet the needs and wants of our readership while at the same time providing a forum for both the expert writer and the newcomer just beginning a foray into publishing. Flexibility is key, and that also means embracing change. If you are a long-time reader of this magazine, you no doubt have noticed that POETRY INK has gone through many changes since the first issue appeared a little over six months ago. We have increased the number of works appearing in each issue, added new features, began a series of contests (the second of which will be announced in the January 1996 issue), and in the process increased our circulation to about 500 subscribed readers. POETRY INK has become bigger and better, and the quality of work appearing has consistently improved. I believe we have found our niche, and it fits us comfortably. As long as there is a need or an interest in an electronic journal willing to publish beginners alongside seasoned writers, I will continue to publish POETRY INK. The downside of all this is that I produce POETRY INK in my spare time (on a Color Classic, for crying out loud!). While I am not a professional graphic designer, I think the layout of POETRY INK has a certain aesthetic appeal. I do most of the graphics and layout, and my wife helps me proof-read for errors (no more tpyos!) Thankfully, several folks I have met on-line have volunteered to help Spill The Ink (you know you are), but their help is not enough. What I need is for each reader of POETRY INK to spread the word about POETRY INK and drum up interest and support! Share it with your friends. If you are a high school or college student, bring it to class and show your teachers and professors. Post the Submission Guidelines at your local supermarket or laundromat bulletin board. The more people know about POETRY INK , the better we will get because we will receive more submissions, which in turn means a larger pool of works to use when selecting material. Think about it! I strive to present the best of poetry, prose, and prosody which is submitted for consideration. I hate to send rejection letters; if you don't hear from me within 72 hours of sending a submission, then in all likelihood your submission is just not right for the current issue in progress. POETRY INK is produced on a per-issue basis (which usually means a last minute scramble two days prior to release), and is sent out and uploaded to eWorld(tm) roughly around the 15th of each month. So if you send something in after the 10th of any given month, it will be considered for the next following issue. Speaking of next issues, the January 1996 issue of POETRY INK will have the announcement of our next contest--please note that the first contest deadline has been extended to January 15th. See the details further on in this issue. Also, January will bring a few new features, such as a new Belles Lettres section and maybe--just maybe--the introduction of our first regularly featured columnist (who doesn't even know it yet) writing on literary happenings on and off the Internet. Until then, happy reading and may the Muse be kind! 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(tm) distribution by Dick Steinbach Official WWW Web Page maintained by Wayne Brissette Official Logo and Icons designed by Geoffrey Hamilton 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. State Of Our Web... ------------------- ***Poetry Ink...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 _Tracks_ appears later in this issue, has generously donated his time and resources to provide POETRY INK a home on the Web. During the week of November 27 through December 4, 1995 our Web site had over 100 downloads. Not bad for a site that isn't even registered with any Internet search engines such as Yahoo. To mark this mildly impresive and non-despcrit event, we asked Wayne to write a little ditty about POETRY INK and the Web connection. He agreeed. So here it is: _The POETRY INK Web Connection_ Ask several people what the Internet is, and you'll get several answers. This isn't that surprising really, because the Internet is actually many things. For some people the Internet is simply a way to send e-mail messages to their friends and colleagues across the world. To others, it is a way to read what others have said about a certain topic available in any of the hundreds of newsgroups available. Still to others, it is a world of URLs, links, and homepages. In reality, the Internet is all of these things and more. I'm not going to focus on anything more than the World Wide Web (WWW). There are a lot of good books out, along with some very weak and shoddy books, which can help you if figure out the entire "Internet thing." **WWW -- What Is It?** The Web, as it is commonly called, is really a display and delivery mechanism. To use information available on the Web, you need a Web Browser, which allows you to view the graphical and text elements on every homepage. There are several available, including some that come bundled with applications. For example, Windows95(tm) came with a Web Browser that Microsoft licensed from Spyglass. WordPerfect 3.5 for the Macintosh included a copy of the Netscape browser. Online services such as America Online(tm) and eWorld(tm) have custom browsers that you use with their services to access web information. This has created a high interest in the World Wide Web, both from individuals and from companies. Having multiple browsers has created problems, though; in an effort to one-up the competition, browsers have become more and more non-standard. HTML (Hypertext Markup Language) is what is used to create homepages. The current standard for HTML is 2.0, there is a new version in an ISO committee right now (3.0), but it has not been finalized at this point. Most of the unique and elegant homepages are using extensions to HTML. This means that information is not always displayed the same way on all of the browsers. **POETRY INK and the Web** In creating the POETRY INK web page, I have tried to keep it simple. I have made it an archive of all of the past issues, in both the original eDOC format and also in an Adobe Acrobat format. Since the real purpose of the web site is to allow you to download past issues from the web, I have kept the site very minimalistic. There is a simple background and graphic, which should allow everyone to access the site very quickly (even those using slow connections, or using a text only web browser). If you have problems or questions regarding the POETRY INK web site, feel free to send me an e-mail with your question. While I don't know everything about the Internet, I currently running two other web sites, and designing more for various commercial ventures. Wayne Brissette To reach the POETRY INK Web site, point your WWW Browser to this URL: The Web site contains links to download POETRY INK's back issues in both the original Macintosh eDOC format and Adobe Acrobat(tm) PDF format (for those of you on DOS, Windows, and Unix systems). 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. The Free Stuff Count... ----------------------- **We Want Free Stuff!** Okay, we admit it. We are making a desperate plea for free things from you, our readers, who receive 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, review for future issues, or award as prizes in our writing contests! Here's a few examples of free things we have received from various on-line folks. Most of these items will be used as contest prizes: * A United Parcel Services acryilic notepad holder (with notepad) * An Extra-Large T-Shirt from MacMillian Digital Publishing * A CD Sampler from the Windham Hill Record Label * Sandalwood-scented bath oil from the Bayou Blending Company * A 1-800-CALL-ATT mousepad * A Schwan Stabilo Conference Marker 141 * 3-pair package of men's Hanes(r) brand socks These are just a few of the interesting things we have received. We are always 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 or used 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 and we'll let you know what happens from there! Featured Writer -------------- Wynn Miller 1 poem and an essay _A Recurrent Theme_ What do you know of an algebraic notation Where a square plus another yields up a third? Linear formulae, as stultifying as stones, Given with less brio than a funeral oration Hypnotic lector, your turgid classroom Firmly shut a door in one boy's imagination That night, grandfather died, In his sleep at seventy-three. The call came, with maple leaves falling Parents calling me back home. There were still a few friends left to carry him across, Old pallbearers willing to shoulder his weight -- Something I, with nothing much to carry, Would have welcomed more than the abstraction of loss. A person lives within nested boxes: Soul within body, Name within language, home in a city, Individual within a family and the family of man. A lumberman, grandfather Joseph built enclaves House, family and more, foursquare Within them, I was an identity (though I knew not then). A quarter-century later, I remember: Kind, gentle, serious yet with lightness of being, He liked he liked to take the measure of a man. Not in defiance of him, I remonstrated; What use, abstraction? No life well-lived Could be honored in symbolic notation No human qualities celebrated by equation. Yet, now I can see where no evil lies, in finding The size of an area shared by two: limn them each Tote up their squares and add the interstices. Like a name, a well-wrought cipher adds reach. Colors change on spectral scales Before leaves fall to autumn gales Why must it take so long To wish to find the circle in a square Wynn Miller lives in Columbus, Ohio. A graduate of Bennington College, his recent publications include articles on conflicts between people and government which appeared in "The Christian Science Monitor" and "The National Law Journal" earlier this year. For the past five years he has participated in the Rock Creek Writers Gatherings, which is sponsored by "The Montana Free Press", where people have the opportunity to read verse and prose and hear feedback. About _A Recurrent Theme_, Wynn writes: It's difficult to say why I wrote the poem _A Recurrent Theme_. I started out trying to deal with my inability to understand algebra and symbolic notation, a recurring problem in a world that requires things be done fast and accurately. In thinking about symbolic notation, it suddenly occurred to me that writing an English sentence is a form of symbolic notation. I have known this in the abstract, but have only now begun to appreciate the similarities between language and numerical expression. Reading through a copy of "The Whole Earth Catalog", I came across a book on symbolic notation that gave a visual representation of an equation -- a simple algebraic problem that I have never understood, even though I was introduced to it more than twenty years ago. The visual representation (of how to find the area of a larger square) was so powerful, immediately putting the equation in context, that it was somewhat of an epiphany. I recollected when I was first introduced to that formula, and the overwhelming memory I had of that time was the loss of my grandfather. He was a fine man, and his loss was keenly felt. As I wrote, a person is a part of a greater relationship. While I am unable to write or solve equations, as a result of seeing one graphically displayed, I at least felt there was a way to frame the idea of a person's place in a larger picture, and hoped to incorporate that understanding in the short tribute submitted. Circling back in memory to honor him, I wished also to contribute an observation on the unsolved problem of circling the square, something geometry and algebra wish for but have not achieved. Richard Epstein --------------- 2 poems _The Woodwind Connection_ Charlie Babar was named for Uncle Tad, a botanist, who disappeared one summer, the year his wife miscarried, came for solace to Charlie's mom, ran off with Charlie's dad, and left the bathtub full of Liquid Plumr. Charlie Babar was slow in bouncing back. After he took his MFA at Beaux Arts he threw away his tenure for a prefect, the boy next door, and even now can barely visceralize his life-enhancement squarely. His therapist says Charlie wasn't gay at all, only arrested, so to speak, when Father left, some kind of latent defect. Charlie prefers the oboe, anyway; he is the second chair now, and he thinks himself the open conduit to Mozart's woodwind connection. Charlie has a show called Kochel Kapers on the radio, the non-commercial station, once a week. _Advice to a Middle Man_ Although you are stoic, large of patience, and stuck with thrifty desires--a Zennish master of Middle Kingdom--still at time you will sweat after the unspeakable. Not refusing to eat animal fats (eschewing mucous or a clouded mind), not even wearing rumpled, dowdy clothes while naming in your mind's sky new comets clarifies the depths. Tanks silt. Silt rises. Surely low longings and intestine want will follow you all the days of your life, and you will dwell in tents of flesh forever. The paths of peace abort in a dark wood, where rude flora grapple for your ankles, so personal you dare not plant your feet in that black soil. Give them any first names you loathe, their family name will be yours. As a mantra, then, tell yourself toothed saws and look for a long way out, arm in arm with these enemies who believe nothing. Touch the trees as you pass. Breathe. Trust to luck. Geoffrey Hamilton ----------------- 2 poems _Untitled_ when i fell asleep watching casablanca you put your hand on my back to wake me i'd been feeling lonely and ignored but your touch told me i wasn't alone later when you took your hand away i only pretended to fall asleep again so you would put your hand back _The End_ How long before the stars wink out how long before the moon leaves the earth Errant daughter, she longs for Jupiter How long until my cat dies and I have to buy a new cat and will she scratch the sofa like the old cat And when will my taxes exceed my income At what point do my new shoes become old And when will the Sacramento Kings make the playoffs and how long will they last and what's the point in trying How long can I keep it going before my head drops through my neck leaving me with a hole between my shoulders I hope the end comes quick Jeremy Lowry ------------ 1 poem _Deep Blue Future_ The ancient wooden boat lies rotting on the misty shore, mariner absent into the waiting jungle, and women all in white surround this abandoned Argo, scarves and hair and sail swirling together in the foam, so that you cannot tell where the world ends and the fog enshrouded sea begins. All across my hands the lines deepen; canyons on the face of a dry planet, which sails innocently through space, and civilizations rise and fall, drowned in cosmic flood, smashed by great hunks of meteor or mystically mingled with the blood of a great mosquito; with the blood of the world-- to wash away the rot and restore the majesty of the virgin skin. Until they return to bring in the great blue future. Until they return with their twinkling neanderthal eyes. If you stare into the dead eyes of monkeys long enough, you can see the genius of the wheel of the road of the aqueduct of the boat of the cannon of the army of the computer of the atom, the splitting atom, and the shadows it leaves, twisted on the ground, legions of them on the dry parched ground which aches for moisture. I plunge my hands into the water, dream of the sailor and the sea, and drown in the bone-dry universe. David Schwab ------------ 1 prose piece _Urban Vulture_ The sun rose on a calm morning. Here at the park, he had no friends or family. Just his friendly newspaper and park bench. It was another beautifully sunny day. It was a pretty good night, too. Usually cops come by and try to tell him he can't sleep in the park. He usually just ignores them and tries to find another place to sleep once they're gone. He doesn't have any other place to call home, so a lowly park bench is plenty good for him. He gathered up his belongings. While picking up his newspaper, he thought of going to the pier and seeing if the guy running the hot dog stand will have any scraps for him. He is a regular at the dumpster behind the city's homeless shelter. No, there's nothing to eat there but there are people who'll talk with you and not tell you to "move along." He packs two empty beer cans and a Coke can into his back pack. They'll be handy when he stops by the aluminum collection center later that day. He has a working arrangement with a local shop owner. In exchange for a plastic glad bag and use of a gallon of water per week, he collects bottles and cans and washes them out. At the end of each month, he recycles the cans and pays the shop owner one dollar. Often, the shop owner won't accept the dollar. In fact, he only ever accepted it once, when the man wanted a candy bar and a can of Coke. Today he'll patrol the bay front, looking for money, bottles, cans and food. He is the urban vulture. No other members of the community want him. The government wants to be rid of him. And he just wants to make a living, and survives on the city's waste. He is the urban miracle because he can survive the coldest of winters with only modest help from the city's churches and welfare office. He is intelligent in his business dealings with locals. He has many business agreements for cans and space to store the ones he collects. He is also book smart. Anytime he is allowed into the library, he goes. He'll read a book or two but is careful not to lose it. In sustenance on the city dwellers' waste, he has mastered the art of controlled starvation and has the best credit rating in the world. He never spends more than he earns. He competes regularly with the business deals of other Urban Vultures, with good vision and noses for deals. He rarely contemplates what got him in the unforgiving competition, but prides himself on being the master of his trade. Yes, the Urban Vulture is an entry level position. It has no salary or benefits. The only payment is sustenance on a commission of begging. How one becomes an Urban Vulture is simple. Give up on life and, eventually, one will be promoted. He gave up the fight, or maybe he just didn't have any fight left in him. It happens. At any rate, he is now a full time Urban Vulture. Now, having eaten his fill for the day, he settles in to a better bench. One with a view. It's a familiar spot. Across from his old apartment on the fourth floor of a building overlooking a lake. Now, the sun sinks in the distant waters. Clouds, like steam from boiling water, wrap the sun and prepare it for a midnight sleep. He pulls out the sports section and wraps up in it. Slowly, the sun approaches the horizon, giving way to darkness. Slowly his eyelids close, giving way to sleep. Soon it will be tomorrow, and he must continue this harsh existence. He does it faithfully in hopes that his fight will come back. Perhaps one day he will rise up and again conquer his world. Jessyka Gayle ------------- 2 poems _Wearing Thin_ Every single cell is holding on to this sandpaper flesh and I'm canned Cannons sound bright Love must be in the air! Plastic You meant much for the shallow waters you came from I will always love you! Then Stop Wait Now Did you hear the joker beckon you to love her? This game has bent edges like dead playing cards Time to play again like naked men I saw then as a child What could I possibly say to you? Is there any way out of you? I found many ways into you, through myself... longing To see you naked Opalescent Do these sounds carry midnights? Twilights? Laughter? Pink comes all up and aglow upon my altar Strike me as you wish For I am tireless and limbless as... Well, whatever... Wait in rapture in the dentist's chair So far the patient is clean But what of dirt? Damnation? I know why you don't look at me Shapeless Bewilderment Containment Wearing Thin Synonymous with wearing you... _Sucking At Sex_ I didn't want to puke you up again... I wanted this to be a Sunday... A clean day... Why is it that whenever I look into the sun, it spits cold, like the mother did? This flesh is candied... Stroked by green Stroked by gray Did you mean to make this a dirty day? Ask me to not cease my search-love-life-death on account of your throbbing... Silver, Slicing, Magic Murder this dripping heart Hour glass inside her Spend hours digging inside her She stretches to let you come into her Roll and toss... Have you ever peeled open the petals of a rose bud without bruising flesh? Give me the pill... My Doctor My Lover I love your hands Needled fingers touch this form beneath you Sliver, Sliding, Static Take it away from the little china doll girl She has made it her companion She rolls and breathes and slits open the yoke in your chest... Sucking another form of love from a stranger Wayne Brissette --------------- 1 poem _Tracks_ I remember them all; the boys with their nails the men with their stories and the whispers of young girls with their secrets to each other. I am saddened that I am mostly just a part of storybooks and songs that nobody sings anymore. my golden days, and my glory are fading. But I remember a time when I was important, a time when everyone cared, a time when everyone was proud of what I was and where I went. Like a giant spider web, I stretched out from the rocky shoreline of Maine to the golden beaches of California. In Detroit I used to help all day and all night, but now as I look out on the ghosts roaming buildings within my sight, I wonder if I'll ever make them proud again. As I am pulled from my roots and dismantled, my pain grows. Gone are the boys with their nails Gone are the men with their stories Gone are the girls with their whispers In the distance the familiar rumbling and a whistle's shrill voice help me to smile inside myself. At least today, I'll have some company, someone that I can help, someone who still cares enough to ride my web of rails. Call For Entries...The Contest Continues! ----------------------------------------- We Are Still Accepting Entries For The First POETRY INK Writing Contest! Due To Popular Demand, We Have Pushed The Deadline To January 15th! Read On For Details! **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 January 15, 1996. 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 7 poems will be published as a Special Edition to be included with the February 1996 issue. So what are you waiting for? Get those entries in! Mail yours today! John Freemyer ------------- 1 poem _Christmas on Judgement Day_ She said, You don't believe I'm frightened by Christmas tree lights, do you? I said, No. She said, Our lights are burning down all the chimpanzees. I said, It smells great, like a forest, in here. She said, Of all the soul squishing bullshit! I'm wearing a gown, earrings, and these tight new shoes and you're running around naked! I said, Turn off the lights, dear. The stink of all these burning chimps has made me forget my manners. Rob Johnston ------------ 1 poem _Fast Food_ What is this food--fast? Armies of squalid, screaming squatters...trapped in sedans and makeshift station-wagons. Starving, distended children, salivating on the electronic oracle... promising limpid lumps of deep fried goo. Blue clouds killing corpuscles... inhaling streams of sodium nightmares, wrapped in burnt oil, sliding glass mail-bombs. Squawking, squeaking distortion chamber signals misunderstood pleas of deliverance. What is this... manna? When is my salvation? Where are my fucking fries!?! Paul Semel ---------- 2 poems _Death Didn't Make Me Think Of You_ the death of someone I once called friend made me think of others I've lost to time but it didn't make me think of you it wasn't until something else something insignificant meaningless and unrelated that I realized the death didn't make me think of you I didn't think of you like I thought of her didn't wish you'd call me up didn't scare me we might never be friends before one of us dies even the death of someone much like you-- someone I could talk to open myself up to be so honest with I could admit anything to even things I never admitted to myself even her death left you forgotten I guess I'm just not willing to let her go like I've let you _RunOnSentences_ (i/DATE) My Words Flowed Like Cold Soy Sauce From One Of Those Bottles With The Plastic Tops That Makes The Soy Sauce Drip Out In Spits And Spurts And i Tried So Hard Not To Sound like i was Trying so hard not to sound like this was a date as we drove away from the movie towards wherever she finally decided it was okay for her to borrow money from me and eat though i told her not to worry about it but she did because she didn't think this was a date and you could tell by the way we talked that it was anything but what we may have both thought the other one thought and even when we started talking about sex it was more like a "oh yeah, that" than a "why yes, i'd like to have some of that, thank you" which was fine by me because from the time she picked me up to the time she dropped me off the only things i kept telling myself were "don't stare at her breasts" and "this is not a date" which was fine since if i didn't think it was a date then i wouldn't have to worry when i couldn't work up the nerve to kiss her good night. Jeanne Gil ---------- 1 poem _Loss_ I cannot escape you, everywhere I go, whatever I read, whatever the song, I think of you. So strange. We never met, shared a life; how is it that there exists so much in my here and now, that summons up quiet thoughts of you? A poem, a song, strong urges surge to the forefront of my being. Tears silently escape their fold, following a well-worn track on the cheek. Grieving is a process, a struggle, to bring the inner reality to grips with the outer one. Your name forever engraved in my heart. Soul meshed within my own. Rarely do two meet heart to heart, soul to soul, mind to mind. It is this I can't let go, this miracle of completeness with one another. My being screams in this silence that I must keep, pining alone, without one to share. Drifting, slowly, towards the acceptance that will eventually come. One chosen over another, in this contest of the heart. Tristan Li Tom -------------- 1 prose piece _There's Music In The Air And Oh Yeah..._ There's music in the air and oh yeah, the music can be heard from across the waterway, the lagoon. It procrastinates out passed the buffet table and the bar and the dessert table, through the lane and over the gentle undertow where the bridge crosses. Over the rustling of the green swamp water grass, the reminiscing of the beauty of the life of music lingers on. It was early and people began to drift in at a slow and leisurely pace. Freshly showered, perfumed, lazy days of life sustain without regret. White linen pants and summer dresses all year round. The employees came first, then the aroma of mesquite grilled abundance which was professionally marinated and cooked full moon for the party goers, smoked out over the embankment. Slow cooking--a whole days process in homage to this very night. Then came the young fresh energetics. More than ready and willing to celebrate the beauty of their existence, their diversity, their lives on this planet. The language of the music was not always their own, but the emotion of the music was universal. There was mingling, laughing, and frivolous celebration of good things in life yet to come. Her real name is Betty, but we call her June. And when it was all said and done, couples walked slowly away from there, hand in hand, stopping every once in a while with their eyes glazed over, to make a point of remembering that particular moment in time for the rest of their lives. They had said, "We should really do this more often" and meant it. David Hines ----------- 1 poem _Occult Dawn_ I_. clever little obols surround an ochone Light house: Wild groves of fleshbare Trees-- withoutaleaf dappled summer. II_. & lost in a shallow pool Opaque-- All stems bled Dry; still; Wait for each dirty rain to pass. III_. &...White rainbow...oblique from here. John L. Arnold -------------- 1 prose piece _Waiting_ You've seen them, the old ones. The ones who are waiting and watching, sitting in the windows, looking out. They look up the street and then down the street. Taking in everything, every detail familiar from having swept up and down the street a thousand times. Sitting in the window and looking out. From early in the morning, first light. Sitting and watching and waiting. The television is always on, turned on on waking and off for sleep. The constant sound makes it seem that someone is in the room and somehow lessens the loneliness of the watcher. It seems like someone is there but the room is empty except for the watcher. Now the sun is coming up, is that a movement there in the shadows? A glint of sun on steel? The shape of a dark figure there in the doorway. Maybe not, false alarm. It looked like the Scythe, there in the morning light. The imagined sound of the blade moving through the still morning air, cutting, slicing, gathering souls. The light is better now, or is it? Eyes failing, like everything else. The paperboy is coming around the corner now, used to be a job for kids, not now. Paperboys are not boys, but Asian adults. What happened? Everything is changing now, too fast, too fast.The news is always the same: war, pain and poverty. Politics, who cares anymore? The rich always get richer and the old and poor are made to suffer for it. It's always the same. No point in reading the obituary columns anymore, all the friends are already dead. Everybody you ever knew seems to be dead. Back to the window, looking up the street and down the street, waiting and watching. You know he is on the way now. The television is blaring away, unwatched. What time does Oprah start? Hard to remember things now. The mail is almost due now, but what does it matter anyway? Only bills or junk mail arrive now. No mail, no phone calls, nothing. Only watching, looking up the street and down the street. Waiting. Used to get a card on Mother's Day, maybe a phone call. Voices in a hurry, busy with their own lives. Get the duty to the old over and get on with it. Nothing to say anyway. When does the pension check come? Hard to remember now. It's never enough anyway, just enough to live in poverty. Dusk now, another day passing, light fading. Is that a movement in the shadows? A figure in a black cape? Is he here? God let it be quick. No, not yet, but when? To sleep, to wake, all the same now, just waiting and watching for the Reaper. About The Contributors... ------------------------- Wynn Miller is this issue's Featured Writer. Go read that section to learn more about him. Richard Epstein calls Denver, Colorado home. His poetry has appeared in a wide assortment of literary journals both in the U.S.A. and in Great Britain. He currently makes his living as a litigation paralegal. Richard is a frequent contributor to POETRY INK. Geoffrey Hamilton lives in Sacramento, California. When he is not working the night shift at a local Raley's Superstore, he's either reading, hiking the Sierras, watching the Sacramento Kings at Arco Arena, or drinking a microbrewed beer. Geoffrey also designed POETRY INK's logo and icons. This is his first time in print. Jeremy Lowry hails from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. A recent graduate of the George Washington University he currently serves in AmeriCorps, the national service corps. He has been previously published in student publications and local 'zines. Jeremy enjoys writing poetry, playing football and friendly arguments about politics. David Schwab is a sophomore at the University of Alabama majoring in Telecommunications and Film. He plans to own a production company in the future. While _Urban Vulture_ is his first appearance in print,David has been writing since 1992. An avid computer user & programmer, he also is involved in athletic officiating, campus politics, HAM radio, and video production. Jessyka Gayle was raised in Los Angeles, California. An intensely private person, Jessyka says that writing a bio goes against her nature. Suffice to say that she has "been there and back" and here is her poetry. Wayne Brissette lives in Austin, Texas. A technical writer for Apple Computer, Wayne has also voluntarily maintains POETRY INK's web site, as well as the web site for the Central Hockey League. His new hobby is photography, which has sparked his creative juices for writing more often. This is his second appearance in POETRY INK. John Freemyer works with developmentally disabled children and writes what he calls "Computer Assisted Poetry" with homemade software of his own design. John lives in Los Angeles with his wife of 23 years, Jane, and their two daughters, Marie and Claire. This is his fourth appearance in POETRY INK. Rob Johnston hails from Houston, Texas. When not writing, Rob does graduate research for NASA and trying to finish his doctoral degree. He has published about thirty academic and research articles and about a dozen poems. Mostly he's just trying to stay awake. His poem _Oasis_ appeared in Issue 6 of POETRY INK. Paul Semel has had poems appear in "Planet Magazine", "Mysterious Wysteria", "Drop Forge", "Coffeehouse", and "Nerve". His day job has him editing music reviews for "huH", and contributing to such magazines as "Wired", "Bikini", "Ray Gun", and "Hot Wired". A resident of Los Angeles, California, this is his second appearance in POETRY INK. Jeanne Gil lives in Robbinsville NJ. She works with special needs children in the public schools. In her spare time she enjoys cooking, reading, long walks, and playing with her 2 year old son. Her poem _I Close My Eyes_ appeared in POETRY INK Issue 6. Tristan Li Tom graduated from California State University--Sacramento last year with dual degrees in Film Studies and Media Communications. He is currently an intern at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre in Berkeley, California. He also works part-time for Apple Computer as an Authorized Apple Product Representative. Tristan has been previously published in "Video Magazine", "Widescreen Review" and the BMUG (Berkeley Macintosh User's Group) Newsletter. David Hines is an artist/poet who splits his time unequally between London, Poplar Grove, Toronto and Santa Barbara. He has edited various literary publications in Canada such as "Quiddity" and "UnderPound". His first book of poetry, which he is sharing with the Toronto-based poet Phil Larratt-Smith, is "Caveat to an Eremitical Priest: An Anthology" [sic] which is to be published in 1996 by viMA Press. John Arnold is an ex-book salesman, cab driver, and jack of all trades. He currently resides in San Francisco, California and makes a sort of living as a Tour Guide for the Great Pacific Tour Co. This is his first appearance in print. Submission Guidelines --------------------- Revised as of 10/25/95 (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. 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