translated to ASCII on October 11, 1996 -- %%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% dedicated to the art of the written word volume 2, number 3 April 1996 ================================ POETRY INK 2.03 / ISSN 1091-0999 ================================ POETRY INK Volume 2, Number 3 Issue 10 April 1996 POETRY INK ---------- **Editor & Publisher** Matthew W. Schmeer **Honorary Editor Emeritus** John A. Freemyer **Staff Artist** Calvin Xavier **eMail** **World Wide Web** **snail mail** Matthew W. Schmeer POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS 6711-A Mitchell Avenue St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 USA **Web Page Maintainer** Wayne Brissette **Logo & Icons designed by** Geoffrey Hamilton Legal Stuff ----------- POETRY INK is copyright (c) 1996 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: **You May** * Upload POETRY INK to your local BBS and commerical online services, such as America-Online(tm) and CompuServe(tm). * Distribute POETRY INK to your local non-profit user group free of charge. * Print out and share with your friends, family, classmates and coworkers. **You May Not** * Distribute POETRY INK on CD-ROM without prior written consent. *Charge for access other than a reasonable re-distribution fee (i.e. online connection time). * Charge Shipping and Handling fees for any media POETRY INK is included upon. POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS retains one-time rights and the right to reprint this issue, either in printed or electronic format. 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 7.5.3. POETRY INK is initially uploaded to our subscribers, 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, Claris Corp.'s ClarisWorks(tm) 2.1v4, and Michel & Francois Touchot's eDOC 1.1.2. We encourage others to support these fine hardware manufacturers and software programmers. Submission Information ---------------------- POETRY INK is a free electronic literary journal written by and for writers and poets with access to the burgeoning global community known as the Internet. Rather than existing solely on the World Wide Web (that part of the Internet getting all the media attention nowadays), POETRY INK is designed to be downloaded to your computer and read off-line. We encourage you to share POETRY INK with your friends, family, classmates, and coworkers. Since we are a free publication, our contributors acknowledge that the only compensation due to them is the right to access a copy of the issue of POETRY INK in which their work appears. Because POETRY INK is found on America Online(tm), CompuServe(tm), and other various online services--as well as our own World Wide Web home page--we do not anticipate access dificulties. We regret that we cannot provide so-called "hard" paper copies; if you desire a "hard" copy, you will need to download POETRY INK and print a copy on your own printer. POETRY INK accepts submissions on a per-issue basis, with each issue published on a bi-monthly schedule for a total of six issues per calendar year. Generally, each issue is uploaded and eMailed to subscribers and contributors on the fifteenth of every other month (April 15, June 15, etc.). We do not send rejection letters; if your submission has been accepted for publication, you will be notified by eMail within one week of sending in your submission (or within two weeks if you sent your submission via snail mail). Our Submission Requirements --------------------------- * Your name, eMail address, physical (snail mail) address, and telephone number must appear on each submission. Your name and eMail address will appear on any published work; the remainder of this information is only for our files and will not be released. You may omit including your telephone number if you are uncomfortable disclosing this information; however, please realize this means that if we need to reach you immediately regarding your submission, your submission might be excluded from inclusion. * Electronic submissions should be submitted as plain ASCII eMail files, or as BinHex 4.0 (.hqx) or StuffIt(tm) compressed (.sit) file attachments. 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 eMail account. For example, it should look like this : SUBMIT POETRY INK: John Q. Public * 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 * Please limit submissions to no more than 5 poems or 2 short stories per person per issue. * Simultaneous submissions are okay, but please contact us if your work is accepted by another publication so that we may remove the work in question from consideration. No previously published work may be submitted. * Please include a short biographical sketch (3 to 5 lines) with your submission; if your work is selected for publication, this bio will be included in our About the Contributors section. These submission guidelines are an abbreviated version of our complete guidelines; all submissions are subject to the guidelines outlined therein. For a copy of our complete submission guidelines, send a request to our eMail address. >From The Editor's Desktop... ---------------------------- Introducing the new and improved POETRY INK! As promised in our last issue, we have revamped our "look and feel" to make POETRY INK easier to read on screen and more aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Our submission guidelines have been drastically overhauled, although the detailed guidelines are available upon request. We now sport even more features and columns; we have broken up News & Views into two segments--Views & Reviews and Footnotes from Home--and are introducing a new column, Writing Exercises. So, with all these new sections, we need writers! We are putting out the call for writers and reviewers to give us their opinions on books, CD-ROMs, audio books, audio CDs--anything dealing with the written or performed Word. If interested in contributing to one of our new columns, please contact us at our eMail address and let us know what you'd be willing to do! These are the positions we are looking to fill: * Literary News Correspondents * Book and Software Reviewers * Feature Columnists * Guest Columnists Contact us for more information regarding these positions. Also, if you'd like to have something you have produced reviewed--such as a chapbook, audio tapes or CDs, or CD-ROMs--send it to us at our snail mail address and we will give it the attention it deserves. Oh, and one more very important thing: we have changed our online account! As of March 1, 1996, our new eMail address is . Please make a note of this change, as eWorld(tm) has gone out of business and eMail sent to our old eMail address will only be forwarded until July 1, 1996. Also, our Internet Service Provider allows us 5 megabytes of Web space, so look for more information on a second POETRY INK WWW site in the next issue! Spill the Ink and May the Muse be Kind! Matthew W. Schmeer, editor Belles Lettres -------------- All eMail sent to Poetry Ink becomes our property and is subject to possible inclusion in this section **Our Contest Winner Flashes His Cash** [photo omitted] > Who says poets can't earn green backs? I believe the attached photo > should end this myth once and for all...I hereby tentatively accept > the position of Honorary Editor Emeritus of POETRY INK . I won't let > the position go to my head! John "Bigger 'n Elvis" Freemyer Well, John, its good to see that winning the contest didn't go to your head! For those of you wondering, John's holding up one of the prizes from our first writing contest--five genuine "Green Backs". In a separate eMail, John suggested that other contributors send in pictures of themselves. If enough of our readers think this is a good idea, we will pursue this idea further. Let us know what you think! **Now On BMUG** > Hello, and congratulations on Issue 9. It looks great! Thanks again > for including my poems. I also wanted to let you know that I have > uploaded Issue 8 and 9 to BMUG [Berkeley Macintosh User Group], the > largest of the Mac user groups. BMUG has about 10,000 members all over > the country, so exposure should be good. John L. Arnold Thanks for the good word and thanks for Spilling the Ink! It's readers and contributors like John Arnold who help make POETRY INK the best it can be by sharing it with as many people as you can! We encourage you to distribute POETRY INK wide and far. Just be sure to follow see the Masthead on page 2 for the few limitations on re-distribution. **Too Good To Be True** > It is hard to believe that the ninth issue of POETRY INK is out > there being read world-wide as you work on the tenth issue. I > suppose it is a sign that I am getting old, time is moving really > fast. I was looking back over past issues a while ago and the > changes (improvements) made are quite remarkable. Keep up the great > work! David Simmons Well, David, I don't know if you really are gettting old, but we try to improve with each issue. Hopefully, we have made all the cosmetic changes that needed to be made, and now we can focus on improving the content. So send us some of your stuff to be published, dear Readers! Footnotes From Home ------------------- **The United States Of Poetry** The Independent Television Service (a subsidiary of the Public Broadcasting System ) is gearing up to air a five-part series on public television on the state of poetry in America. Entitled The United States of Poetry , the series takes a sometimes meaningful, sometimes meandering look at how poetry is coming to the forefront as both a written craft and performed art. Featuring readings from both the unknown and the renowned, this is a series not to be missed. ITVS has also set up a web site to compliment broadcast of the series, which can be reached at the URL: . The site contains links to hundred of writing-related web pages and also a detailed list of broadcast dates and stations which will air the show (but check with your local PBS affiliate to see if they are going to air the series). There's also a communal poem called The Great American Poem to which you can add your own lines if you are so inspired! **Writer's Digest Contests** May 31, 1996 is the deadline for next year's Writer's Digest Writing Competition. Grand prize is an expenses-paid three-day trip to New York City to meet with editors and agents who handle work similar to your own. New this year, contestants can enter as many manuscripts as they'd like in the following categories: Personal Essay, Feature Article, Literary Short Story, Mainstream/Genre Short Story, Rhyming Poem, Non-Rhyming Poem, Stage Play, Television/Movie Script. For complete rules and an official entry form, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: Writer's Digest 1996 Writing Competition 1507 Dana Ave. Cincinnati, OH 45207 STORY Magazine Contest May 1, 1996 is the deadline for next year's STORY's Naked Fiction Competition . The top award is $1,000 cold,hard cash. For complete rules and an official entry form, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: STORY's Naked Fiction Competition 1507 Dana Ave. Cincinnati, OH 45207 **Pulitzer Prizes Announced** On April 9, 1996 Columbia University announced the winners of this year's Pulitzer Prizes. Each prize carries a cash prize of $3,000 and will be presented on May 20. The winners of the Pulitzer Prizes for the arts are: * Fiction: "Independence Day", by Richard Ford * Drama: "Rent", by the late Johnathan Larson * History: "William Cooper's Town: Power and Persuasion on the Frontier of the Early American Republic", by Alan Taylor * Biography: "God, A Biography", by Jack Miles * Poetry: "The Dream of the Unified Field", by Jorie Graham * General Nonfiction: "The Haunted Land: Facing Europes' Ghosts after Communisim", by Tina Rosenberg *Music: "Lilacs", for voice and orchestra, by George Walker Contest #2 Winners ------------------ Well, unfortunately, POETRY INK Contest #2: Formulaic Verse was a bust. A big bust. As in, "don't even bother next time." So we won't. As of this issue, we will be discontinuing any contests unless significant interest is expressed by you, our readership. If you recall, in our last issue, the challenge was to write a formulaic verse poem on the subject of streetlights. Well, we only had two entries, and they both came from Amy DeGeus, and they were better than anything we actually expected to have submitted. So, Amy, you win the prize. An official- looking certificate and surprise award is winging its way to you via the U.S. Postal Service. Amy DeGeus ---------- 2 poems _Pale Saints_ The snow crunching under my feet reminds me of your heart. This bitter winter spell cuts through all layers like the time I fell and you dressed my knee. Chicken mole tastes fine except it reminds me of Christmas time. The candlestick gift has stories to tell of icy discourse. I thought I knew you well-- I ran hard but I was falling behind. While waiting here for the bus, I shiver under the streetlight's false glow; its bright chill pretends at substance. On the other hand, the candle's glow is real. Now I understand how that tricked me, because your heart was filled not with warm, but cold gifts to deliver. _Just Before Gary_ Along 94 the streetlights extend, But eastbound travelers must be wary. The dark cloak falls where the streetlights end --Just before Gary. Drivers may think the change temporary Not knowing that past those lights they have no friend Save the captain of death's quiet ferry. The murder capital looms, like a dead end Even Chicagoans find it scary. The line of lights wink's out, no help to lend --Just before Gary. The Write Thing --------------- This little humorous tidbit was forwarded to us from an anonymous individual while we were trolling the Internet. If anyone knows the origin of this piece, we would appreciate it if you could send the information to us. Otherwise, here are just a few pointers to teach you: _How To Write Good_ Some Common Rules of Thumb To Better Your Writing 1. Avoid alliteration. Always. 2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with. 3. Avoid cliches like the plague. (They're old hat.) 4. Employ the vernacular. 5. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc. 6. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary. 7. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive. 8. Contractions aren't necessary. 9. Foreign words and phrases are not apropos. 10. One should never generalize. 11. Avoid quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know." 12. Comparisons are as bad as cliches. 13. Don't be redundant; don't use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous. 14. Profanity sucks shit. 15. Be more or less specific. 16. Understatement is always best. 17. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement. 18. One-word sentences? Eliminate. 19. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake. 20. The passive voice is to be avoided. 21. Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms. 22. Even if a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed. 23. Who needs rhetorical questions? Views & Reviews --------------- In this first installment of Views and Reviews, we will be looking at two CD-ROMs from The Voyager Company: "Poetry In Motion" and "Poetry In Motion II". by Ron Mann The Voyager Company 1351 Pacific Coast Highway Santa Monica, CA 90401 USA 1-800-446-2001 List price $24.95 each Long-known for their exquisitely produced "edutainment" CD-ROM software titles such as "Mozart's String Quartet in C Major: The Dissonant" and "If Monks Had Macs", the fine folks at Voyager have outdone themselves with "Poetry In Motion" and it's sequel, "Poetry In Motion II". Both of these CD-ROMs are fantastic examples of what a true multimedia experience should be. It is important to realize that although these two titles are sold separately, they form a cohesive whole and need to be experienced together. Both parts of "Poetry In Motion" are based around Ron Mann's 1991 film of the same name, which featured poets and writers performing and discussing their work. Using Mann's film as it's centerpiece, the CD-ROM version of "Poetry In Motion" incorporates not only performances and discussions, but also the actual text of each work performed. "Poetry In Motion" actually goes an extra step: not only is the performed text available, but also the published text as well. This allows the viewer to compare the way a poet writes a poem to the way the poet performs the same poem. For example, Anne Waldman's "Number Song" enters a totally different arrangement compared to its original published appearance when she performes the piece--entire stanzas are rearranged and words omitted or substituted. Being able to see these differences makes the poetic process come to life. The overall design of "Poetry In Motion" is graceful as well. Designed as a HyperCard 2.2 self- contained program (the HyperCard 2.2 Player is embedded in each part), "Poetry In Motion" incorporates QuickTime(tm) encoded segments of "Poetry In Motion" (the film) which are keyed to the text: as each performer reads their text, the text scrolls along in sync. If you want to flip ahead, however, the program allows you to do so as well. Although this text-scrolling feature worked moderatley well on the Centris 610 we borrowed, on occassion it did lag behind and cause noticable delays in the film playback. Also, the performers are arranged in alphabetical order, and this is clearly not the way Mann's original film version was assembled. While it is understandable that some organization to the project was needed, the re-arranging of performers causes the cohesiveness of the film clips to fall apart. For example, the second poet on the fist disc, Miguel Algarin, performed the poem which played over the closing credits of the film, as witnessed by the film clip. Why did Voyager feel the need to dissect the motion picture in its quest to develop the software title? The performers featured on the discs are as follows: **"Poetry In Motion"** Helen Adams * Miguel Algarin * Amiri Baraka * Ted Berrigan * Charles Bukowski * William S. Burroughs * John Cage * Jim Carroll * Jayne Cortez * Robert Creeley * Christopher Dewdeny * Diane Di Prima * Kenwood Elmslie * Four Horsemen (a performing group) * Allen Ginsberg * John Giorno * Michael McClure * Ted Milton * Michael Ondaatije * Ed Sanders * Ntozake Shange * Gary Snyder * Tom Waits * Anne Waldman **Poetry In Motion II:** Helen Adams * Amiri Baraka * Ted Berrigan * Charles Bukowski * Jim Carroll * Tom Clark * Robert Creeley * Diane Di Prima * Allen Ginsberg * John Giorno * Spalding Gray * Bob Holman * Rose Lesniak * Cookie Mueller * Eileen Myles * Alice Notley * Michael Ondaatije * Joel Oppenheimer * Peter Orlovsky * Pedro Pietri * Jerome Rothenberg * Gary Snyder * Anne Waldman * Phillip Whalen Just looking at these names, it is obvious that this project attracted "big names" in the field of poetry and literature in general. In addition to the film clips and text, the "Poetry In Motion II" disc contains an extensive bibliography on each performer featured in the entire package. It is interesting to note that seven of these performers passed away prior to the release of the CD-ROMs: Adams, Berrigan, Bukowski, Cage, Carroll, Miller, and Oppenheimer did not live to see themselves and their work etched into the digital medium. What is even more interesting is the fact that many of the performances from the more famous poets are complete and utter crap. Both of Ginsberg's pieces, "Capitol Air" and "Do the Meditation Rock" are mindless drivel performed to the grinding neo-progressive rock music of a group billing themselves as the CeeDees. Both pieces are no more than off-the-cuff quips and one-liners aimed at political conservatives. Likewise, the Four Horsemen's "The Dreams Remain" is nothing more than vocal masturbation, with four grown men howling like Neanderthals and making no real sense. And what is the point of having actor/musician/self-proclaimed poet-of-the-people Tom Waits mumbling the cynical lullabye "Smuggler's Waltz"? Is he the celebrity muscian of the moment? Or is he the deep introspective poet? Or was Joni Mitchell simply unavailable? Despite glitches in performance selection, "Poetry In Motion" does boasts some feature-rich performances. Both of John Giorno's works "We Got Here Yesterday, We're Here Now, And I Can't Wait to Leave Tomorrow" and "I Don't Need It, I Don't Want It, and You Cheated Me Out of It" are not only highly entertaining to see performed, but intriguing to read on their own as well. Robert Creeley, in his introduction to "Poetry In Motion II" calls Giorno a "pioneer of multimedia" who ranks along side the likes of Laurie Anderson. Indeed, Giorno's use of echo reverb and the lighting of the stage enhance his performances and creates an experience that holds the viewer entranced. The same can be said for famed monolougist Spalding Gray's hushed readings of "Spalding's Dream" and "Tanya's Story", prose pieces which draw the viewer into Gray's surreal world and leave you wondering at the imagrey therein. Or even Bob Holman's "Rock & Roll Mythology", a bebopping white-boy's rap that somehow connects the visual and the audio within the scope of his performance unlike any other work on the discs. Likewise, Ted Berrigan's reading of "Hall of Mirrors" is filmed with Berrigan standing between two mirrors, the reflections repeating into infinity as he reads his work. And the sixty-year-old-plus Helen Adam's joyous rendition of "Cheerless Junkie's Song" sung to the tune of a Scottish drinking ballad is a sight to behold. Joel Oppenheimer's "What My Father Said" and "The Thoughts of a Fat Man's Father" are not only poignant, but performed with a delicacy only Oppenheimer can provide. And then there is Charles Bukowski, clearly the centerpiece of Mann's film, reduced to 24-bit QuickTime(tm) and still cranky as hell. The long reigning king of the post-Kerouac Beats and Dharma Bums, the recently deceased Bukowski does not perform, per se , but is featured in an interview divided between both discs. Bukowski holds no punches and tells it like it is, which of course is his style and is all the more humorous for the viewer. Not to be missed is Bukowski's comparison of writing poetry to a particular bodily function, which is one analogy you will long remember after shutting off your CD- ROM drive. POETRY INK's Rating for "Poetry In Motion" and "Poetry In Motion II": Worth Buying! Writing Exercises ----------------- Everybody suffers from writer's block once in a while, but it doesn't have to be the extreme it sometimes becomes. In this and future issues, this column will present various ways to release the creative juices and put the "oomph" back in your writing. Before we jump into this month's exercises, keep in mind these three simple, self-explanatory rules to follow in order to benefit from these exercises: 1) Keep the pen / pencil moving! 2) Don't worry about spelling and grammar (editing is notwriting!). 3) Do these exercises in a quiet, well-lit place unless otherwise noted. Okay, now that we have laid the ground rules, let us begin. This issue's three writing exercises deal with ways to begin writing. Often, we have the urge to write, but cannot find a starting point. It is much like jump-starting a car with a dead battery: once the engine is running, the battery will re-charge. But it is finding someone with a pair of booster cables which is the challenge. So, here we are, with a couple of suggestions for jump-starting your brain. **Exercise One** Do This: Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Then Ask: What do you smell? Where do these smells come from? Where could they come from? What do you associate with these smells? Remember, the absence of smell is a smell as well. And Describe: Write for fifteen minutes without stopping longer than four or five seconds. Don't lift the pen from the page if you can help it. Answer the questions asked above. Go into detail. It doesn't matter if you write in poetic lines or prose--just write! Later:Review what you wrote. Make revisions. Play with it. Correct any spelling or grammar errors you are uncomfortable with. Continue to rework and revise over time until are satisfied. If you don't like what you wrote, let it die. Not everything is worth saving. **Exercise Two** Do This: Get your pen or pencil and your notebook and walk outside in your backyard (if you don't have a backyard, go to your local park). Lie on your back in the grass. Look up at the sky (it doesn't matter if you do this during the day or in the evening). Now, imagine that the sky is a planet you are looking down upon, a planet consisting entirely of sky and clouds with no visible land masses. Then Ask: What kind of planet is this? Where is it located in the universe? Is the planet inhabited? By whom? What do the inhabitants look like? What do they do? How do they live? Are they alone? How do they survive? What makes them what they are? Then Do This: Sit up and grab your pen and notebook. And Describe: Stay outside and write for fifteen minutes without lifting the pen from the paper. Answer the questions you asked yourself before. Expand. It doesn't matter if you write in poetic lines or prose--just write! Later: Review what you wrote and edit to your heart's content. If you aren't satisfied with what you wrote, let it sit and come back to it at another time. **Exercise Three** You Will Need: An old newspaper , a pair of scissors, a notebook or notepad, a pencil or pen, and a stick of glue (optional). You may also wish to involve your kids in this exercise ; it is a good "rainy day" activity in which the whole family can participate. Do This: Clear your desk or writing table. Take about twenty minutes and cut individual words out of the newspaper. Make sure you have a fair amount of all types of speech: verbs, nouns, adjectives, etc. About two-hundred or so words is a good total count. Then Do This: Take about thirty minutes and rearrange the words, using your desktop as your easel. Connect the words in new ways. Break grammatical rules and create sentences and poems without tradtional meaning but which only sound good or are appealing to the eye. Write down the creations you like on your notepad. If You Want, Also Do This: Take your favorite poem you have created during this exercise and glue each word on a clean sheet of paper. Frame it or hang it on your fridge and display it for all to see. **Addendum** These exercises are intended as starting points for writing. We are interested seeing what direction your explorations in these exercises have taken you. If you did one of these exercises and wish to share your results with our readers, send it in! We'll consider it for publication and review in this column. In the next issue, we will explore two different modes of writing poetry--also known as Free Verse versus Form. Disclaimer: These exercises are meant to assist you in your writing process; we do not guarantee their effectiveness nor do we warrant that following these exercises will make you a better writer. These exercises are not intended to replace your current creative process, but only enhance your writing practices in times of need. Featured Writer --------------- Stephane Berrebi 1 poem and an essay _Restart After Launch_ Winter coming. Fire burning. Doors ajar World sweet world come closer to me I know tales of wisdom and despair Tales for the moon and the clouds Tales of silence and laughter Not for the rest of us I am the worm in your eye I am the gleam of sorrow Walk with me and hear my psalms Once I was a child and the trees talked to me I could see corn growing I loved the starry glow of amber The smell of iron the taste of spiders I was the flaw in the fabric They built theories upon me But the figures didn't match I was the worm in the sky I wish I could talk and you would listen I wish I were a child and could rewind I wish you knew me when you saw me in the street Do you only know where I am? Suppose it's Spain and rolled curtains of sunlit straw Exhale their scent of flesh and flower Oh yes, it's Spain! and fountains of marble sing with the breeze At the exact instant when I learn to fly Suppose it's the Golden Land of the Nile I mimic the sacred pose of Pharaoh You are the felouk downstream Red ants sailing on wild rivers With hopeless mountains on both sides I am the worm in your very best eye The cavity in your brain You need not worry just don't look behind > Interrupt > Restart > If sad go to River else continue In these times there was war and deprivation Rivers ran red like sore eyes I chose to seek the shelter of darkness Now that I gently push the doors Dead screams follow the candor of the light In these times they bred lambs for their meat Like the others I sharpened my blades Like the others I greased my boots Like the others I sang the song of death Once I was a captain and you were just a child I was empowered to raise armies of the poor For a sacred purpose I never quite understood I lost all my love stamps at poker dice I then tried to trade a couple of secrets Like where the dead go and who plays the role of the moon But I can talk no more, signed a non disclosure Every night I sleep with my secret And every morning I wake up wounded With the bitter taste of unwanted truth > Interrupt > Restart > If sad go to River else continue Doesn't it make you feel like crying? I am not asking for mercy I don't really need to hide Each time I get out the world seems younger and more desirable And my eyes are sharper I had to build a fake pyramid on top of a cavern My windows are falling apart won't pass the cold of winter I definitely need a new rainbow for my status Strange colorful rockets fall from the sky and fertilize my garden I noticed a magnetic storm of deja vecu That left me low res and torn apart I beg for reconstruction Please help the buried child afraid of no lies I lay on the grass between the pavement and the rain World sweet world come closer to me I know tales for the moon and the clouds That would make you cry helplessly for hours Please take my hand please give me a hug please kiss me I have plenty of money and redeemable coupons I took the fast train to the time zone, got a seat on the aisles Winter coming, fire burning, the door is ajar Featured Writer Essay --------------------- Stephane Berrebi lives in Meudon, France, and his poem _The Fox and The Hedgehog_ appeared in the fifth issue of POETRY INK. He is active in the multimedia industry in his homeland, both with Apple Computer and with his own consulting firm. Stephane recently released a children's CD-ROM in France under the name "Les Imbattables". He is also working on a new CD-ROM, as well as a few personal projects including a funny SciFi novel with "multiple reality levels" connotations, and a "math-novel" for children. While Stephane is fluent in English, he prefers to write in his native French and is considering establishing an World Wide Web page for French Literature. About _Restart After Launch_, Stephane writes: I must confess I wrote the first draft of _Restart After Launch_ with a pen on plain old fashioned paper, late at night, rather quickly, in one flow, under the spur of "inspiration", and some pressure to get it out too! As I recall (I don't know where I put the first draft), most of the "final" text was already there, little was added or withdrawn afterwards, mostly minor editions were made. It was three months ago approximately and winter was getting close; hence the first verses, "recycled" from an earlier text I wrote but did not finish . The main body of _Restart After Launch_ is a monologue and an address to an invisible listener, its tone bathed in an aura of sadness and loss of illusions. While it is always the same person who speaks, the identity of the listener(s) changes a few times in the course of the text, from the world at large, to an invisible and central figure of the father and then to the woman I love. In the text, which encompasses the past of the speaker's life up to his present--giving a vivid and pathetic description of his innermost emotions--the speaker reluctantly explains that he carries the burden of a painful secret, not fully known to himself, he has to accommodate with. He still asks for some help because old spells have not lost their potency, but he also recognizes that all the implements and walls to structure life around this pain are crumbling, losing their purpose, just because of the passage of time which erodes things and makes them irrelevant. Nevertheless, come the time of unraveling, the burden remains absurdly and unexplainably painful. This is the stuff that makes a whole therapy industry alive and prosperous, and it can help make a few nice poems, too! The poem contains colorful and vivid images, some of them maybe deserving short explanations which, I hope, will not definitively destroy their poetic effect. **The worm in the eye:** It's probably a contraction between the apple of your eye and the worm in the apple. I don't think it has to do with the worm that causes blindness in Africa (filaria). It ends up as the worm in the sky, because our inner perceptions are projected on the outside world, like phosphenes, or maybe because the eye itself was in the sky... **Spain:** In Andalusia, windows have rolled straw stores that protect apartments from the sun. It simply smells great. **Egypt:** The sacred pose of the Pharaoh was the right foot slightly forward, left hand raised, and, I believe, the right hand on the heart. The felouks are those traditional flat bottom sail boats found on the Nile. Near Assouan, the river sometimes flows between steep "canyons". On a felouk, you may sometimes feel as powerless as an ant floating on a piece of straw. This, however, is how new or destroyed worlds are re-populated by new species... The time zone is probably an adaptation from this zone where time had stopped and where the most hardened criminals were sentenced in the "Superman" comic strips of my childhood or perhaps a reminiscence from some "Twilight" Zone episode of the past. Of course, when you have a seat on the aisles, you can't get to see easily the ghostly figures looming outside... **"Restart after launch":** Not "lunch." I added "conditional instructions" ("else go to") within the poem as a sort of special effect for fun, as a reference to the "cyber" nature of the medium for which I was writing. It is also a reference to another poem I wrote in French before, where the world of video games (quest of princess, fear of witchcraft and missiles) and the emotions of a man about to (successfully) end his quest for love were somehow mixed, all reunited by the pun on the word console, which in French and English carry that same double meaning! After that, before I sent the text to POETRY INK, I did some calculations on the most read poems in the Writers' Digest section in eWorld(tm) [now defunct], and their titles. I found that titles with love or sex connotations attracted the highest numbers of downloads, followed by those with "Cyber" connotations (a peak being reached for "Cyber love!"). This made me decide the title would not be on love or on sex, but could acceptably have a "funny" Cyber connotation. Voila! David Hunter Sutherland ----------------------- 0003468441@mcimail.com 3 poems _Palinode_ Tomorrow bones rise, rattle beneath skin as failing flesh holds-fast derision, holds-out discomfort to the wailing mass on street on sidebar, to the outstretched hands that puppet themselves with rigged palms, to absurdity's loom whose applique embellish a pithy quilt, to the polebearers on cart, kiosks of naked humanity pass but un-touch me. The fragrance, a sea of lilies, andromines, spray, enough to forget this foreign minds' shaped animalism of thumb and joint and digit. Enough to espy the contending esthetics of pain and despair, and little in harmony's way, the melody's struck! _Minerva In Pastel_ Her dark-tweed matte lay frame to searching eyes, words canvas almost speak across beige mottled isles. of weave or hue, birth lines A sentinel guards waste forth form, pastel and lace. Minerva, all we know takes hint between each tone sad glimpse into your smile, and colors you... in stray magenta's, auburn lights descending crowns. Life colors you, in rouge and charpet paramours and stifled loves, the lockets' blush on flesh cool tinder, the song of thrush spent on a winter, a wanton lover, near and unheard colors you. _Empty Page_ Like a medieval monk on manuscript, or French novelist quick and fluent maneuvers up sen- tence. Hind right on balcony, sorting through pieces of colored glass, note by note and shape by shape of written word. Never a writer would pen Flaubert, Bovary, Plath whose poisoned tongue sought immortal passage. The engineered page swears fanatical control, as passion or dream--drives, devours metaphor and surely this outworn image finds me lucid in it throes, seduced to catch a feeble phrase which is somewhat wrenched on return as a lifetime of poise melts in a brilliant conflagration transcribed in sparks. Bulusu Lakshman --------------- 1 poem _My Mother_ Her name, simply nameless. Her hands still seem to cradle me. Her smile bears the light of a thousand lamps. Her soft words echo love and resound in my heart like dancing anklets. Her prayers are a timeless uniquity. Her heart, white as winter snow. Her sacrifices, too deep for tears. And she, a poem personified. _David Schwab_ 1 prose poem and 1 short story in two parts _Curious Universe_ A Curious Multiverse Open_ Blindly walking through the dark. Always I ended up near you. All the time we spent together is now just a memory. The nights when you'd hold me tight. Or after we fought that time when everything was all right. We'd sit and gaze at the stars and wonder. Wondering through the sky's great mystery. Are we the only two in this universe that feel this way. Wondering minds run into each other as we kiss the dream. It faded away. Close_ Today I am blindly walking through the dark. Never ended up near you. Your own need for the answer to our doubts lead you away from me. Now I no longer rest in the knowledge that you're there. Instead I walk free and hate it. I wander this universe of curiosity not knowing what's next for me. Will I fly through the clouds and meet the maker, or will I see you again one day far away. The music plays on as I wander, now alone without you to wander to(o). _Primal Knowledge_ **Part I** Long ago he walked through the forest, the towering trees swayed in the gentle breeze. The wind did not blow here in the leaves and among the lush ground. The sun danced in the trees with the leaves as he scanned, preparing to venture out on the hunt for the tribe. The suns light almost blinded him when the wind blew the leaves free of its light. He and the other men proceeded into the forest, looking for the rare food they sought to eat. They lived in a forest rich with birds, deer and other woodland animals that made for a tasty meal. Dessert would consist of berries and other sweet treats picked from the trees. The women would venture out in search of these things. She looked into the bush that lay ahead. No dangers presented themselves, though she knew that one day she might have to face a dreaded beast of the wild woods. Just a few weeks ago a group in search of berries was attacked by a great bear. One of the women was injured in her retreat through the bush. Two others got a rash from running through the wrong kinds of plants. This time, she was on guard with a bow, arrows and a dagger. She glanced down at her only form of protection. There in her hand was the dagger that her father had given her. Here it is customarily the men who fight the wars, but women cannot always be protected by them. Sometimes they need to fend for themselves. She recalled her conversation with him. "The key to a good fight," said her father, "is never to be unprepared. Plan every move and be ready for the worst." Soon she and the others began their venture into the forest. The men found a deer and stalked it. Three of them loaded their bows and sat ready to fire. They each had an angle on the deer in the shape of a triangle. They all hid behind trees or near logs, just in case one of their fellows accidentally shoots and them. They would each fire one arrow at the animal over a time of about 10 seconds. In this way, if one misses and scares the beast, the other two still have a shot. The method was taught to them by their tribal elders. Snap. Through the air an arrow shot by the lead warrior flew almost in slow motion. It hit the deer in the hind legs. Snap. Shot number two fired at the startled creature and hit in the mid section. Snap. Shot three flew and, unfortunately, missed after the deer collapsed to the ground. Sailed harmlessly off into the trees since the three warriors were skilled enough to surround the deer on three sides. The deer had succumbed to an depressant that the tribe coats the tips of its arrows with. The deer was now effectively intoxicated. The lead warrior pulled out his dagger and finished off the poor beast. The three men along with the rest of the hunting party took the deer back to camp. Still searching, the women were having considerably less luck. She carefully viewed the surroundings. Trees all around her made up the dense forest's canopy. It was dark here at the ground level. She could smell the sweet smell of grass blowing off from the river banks just to her left. A gentle gurgling was all she could hear of the water that lay near. The others' feet trod on the ground and made endless crunching and cracking noises as the women trudged over the fermenting waste lying on the forest floor. Her eyes scanned off to her right now. She looked just beyond the browned pathway some of the others were on into some bushes. Several vines swayed harmlessly about a leafless tree. Bright sunlight shown through. She decided to make her way to that tree. There might be something to eat nearby the ground. Now her feet made the incessant crunching and cracking noises. She knew she was approaching a bird's nest as the mother of the eggs flew into a tree and chirped angrily at the intruding woman. She noticed that there were indeed berries near the ground and greedily began to fill her swamp grass basket. She carefully selected only the ripest and richest berries and left the unripe ones behind. She might return to this spot to harvest some more in the future. Occasionally she'd eat one herself. They were in the prime of the season so the berries were very sweet and delicious. The men made their way back to the camp. They came upon a ridge just above the valley in which they now live. He stopped to admire the lush foliage and vegetation that covered the valley walls like a fresh, ripe, sweet smelling green carpet sprawling out. Limited only by the other ridge and then only by the limits of the sky. The air began to take on the familiar smell of burning wood. The remaining villagers had started fires in anticipation of the men's arrival home. The setting sun now loomed dangerously close to the valley rim. Soon darkness would crawl across the valley before taking to the sky. The smoke rose from the fires like little pillars and then just a ways above the village, but still below the men, it spread out into a bluish floating ocean. Slowly from there it drifted into areas of the valley as yet free from its pail blueness. The wind had now died down. Only the stomping sounds of the men returning to camp could be heard. They entered the shadow of the valley wall on the way down. Accelerated because of the sun's downward trajectory. The women now turned back to camp. The sun had left them long ago, but it was not yet dark enough to blind them. They hauled their heavy baskets in their arms back toward the village. They too could smell the oak and apple wood fires that the those remaining had lit in preparation for the night's feast. She sniffed the odorous potion and it relaxed her mind, set her soul at ease. Soon the rewards of her labors would be unleashed on all of the villagers and her father would be proud. _Primal Knowledge_ **Part II** Now in the shadow of the urban forest, the multi-million dollar office towers sway unnoticeably in the high level winds. The wind did not blow here in the streets buried deep in the shadows of the buildings. He scanned the solid shadows looking for anyone out of place. They say to always be alert here in the jungle. He was preparing to answer quite a lot of questions as today he has a new job interview. You know, they say that interviewers might make the decision whether to keep you or not based on what you wear to the interview and nothing else. He wore a suit and his hair was perfectly combed. He checked his watch to make sure he wasn't going to be late as the bus pulled up to his stop. She left her apartment and was just now checking to see that the click she heard behind her was the door locking. Gently she twisted and pushed on the knob. It wouldn't budge so she turned and pushed the button for her car alarm. The alarm sent a beep back to let her know it was disarmed. She got in and locked the door. There in her hand were the keys to the car that her father had given her when she graduated from high school. She thought about what her father had said to her after he told her about how much the insurance cost. "The key to safe driving," he said, "is to never be unprepared. Always know what the other guy is doing and be ready for the worst." Soon she started the engine and pulled into traffic, unsure if she'd ever get that parking space right in front of her apartment again. He sat somewhere in the middle and stared off lazily out the window. He then opened a folder he had with him and went over his resume to be sure there wasn't anything missing. He's got to make sure his qualifications are up to par since he knew there would be a lot of applicants for this particular job. He tucked it away as the bus pulled up in front of the massive office tower and he disembarked. He walked as confidently as he could through the door. He checked his watch again, then went to the building directory to find the room the office was in. He had seven minutes to the interview and the office was on the second floor. He looked at the mass of people waiting for the elevator and elected to take the stairs. He climbed the two flights and went onto the second floor. He made his way to the office and signed in with the secretary. She said that the interviewer was with someone and she'd call for him in a few minutes. When she did, he coolly followed her to the interviewer's office. They shook hands and sat down. He gave his interviewer a steady eye and calmly answered each question fired at him. The interviewer accepted his resume and peered at it ferociously trying to find a stumbling point. The interviewer fired some more questions, each more difficult then the last but he calmly and assuredly answered each one. The interviewer had done his best and now shook his hand. She pulled into Barney's Diner, here she manages servers and the bar for a living. She pulled up in front, five minutes early. She's got to set an example for the other employees. She opens the door and looks around at the parking lot. Business is slow right now, but within the hour it should pick up. It is almost dinnertime. She slams the door and walks to the back entrance with an almost perfect managerial strut, checking that the car alarm is activated along the way. Once inside, she has to tie her hair up in a bun and pull on a uniform. The others greet her while they wait to punch in. Fortunately she is a salaried employee and doesn't have to do all that mess. She walked out into the lobby to sum things up. Not too bad, business is usually slow about this time. She checked the stacks of dishes and plates; and inspected the glass rack. All was ready. Once punched in, she got the others to clean the kitchen floor and prepare for the evening rush. She herself helped slice some vegetables and prepare some of the evening's main courses for cooking when they were ordered. She accepted a shipment of French fries and onion rings from the local fried foods vendor. All in all it was shaping up to be a good night. By now the interview was a complete success. They both rose and he shook the interviewer's hand. A firm handshake always looks good in an interview. Upon completion they bid good night and he walked out of the interviewer's office into the light of the sunset that was now bathing the lobby. He nodded a good night toward the secretary who waived back. He went out and breathed the almost day-old inner city air. Some how, in spite of the exhaust fumes, it enticed him to walk down to the pier and take in the remainder of the day's dusk. He walked down to the pier and viewed a beautiful sunset. The great, warm, gold-colored ball slowly and gently lowered itself almost effortlessly into the waters of the great lake. A cloud pierced through the ball, slowly moving toward the middle. All around this luminescent ball, clouds and open sky began to change, a colorful transformation from day to dusk; from consciousness to the soul. She walked out on her dinner hour. She looked at her watch before being mysteriously lured by the warmth of the sun shining between two buildings. With out her knowledge, she was already enticed beyond resistance to head toward the water's shore. She walked down the street, intermittently feeling the sun's warmth as she proceeded. She reached a clearing at the lake front where she sat down at a picnic table and was mesmerized by the dance of the seagulls on the clouds. They sat, absorbing the tranquility of the scene; the warmth in the light of the eve; and the color of the world. David Simmons ------------- flash fiction _It's Different_ What was it that changed my mind? Was it Sandy's tears, and Peter's yelling in the background? Was it fear? Fear of death, or fear of living and watching things get worse? I'm not as sure anymore. I'm not sure of anything anymore. It was as if a darkness had been suddenly lifted to reveal a hidden truth. A shadow from the past, or maybe the future, whispering a secret that only I could hear. ******** I thought the days were better then. As I looked out the window and saw the people standing in the cold of winter, waiting for the bus that would take them to work. I wondered where all the people were going as they stared at their watches, or stamped cold feet. Misty clouds of breath exhaled into the morning cold. The nurse came in and smiled at me. "How's the morning looking today?" she asked. I almost answered. I tried to form the words, but they were lost to me. She wandered around the room a moment then placed a pill in my mouth. I smiled, or at least thought I did, and swallowed the little pill after she tilted a paper cup of water into my mouth. "Doc says you are going home today." Her back was turned as I mouthed the word 'Good.' I wasn't sure if it was good or not, but it was different. It was new. They kept trying to explain things I already knew. It was the same every day as they tried to teach me to wash, or shave, or talk. As if I didn't know how anymore. I knew how, I just couldn't get the timing right. I kept trying to bring the spoon to my mouth and dropping the food. I poked myself in the eye, I don't know how many times, trying to brush my teeth. ******* It was hard at first, the tears of her frustration as I spilled the cereal on my lap for the countless time that morning. Sandy accepted it. She tried hard not to let the hurt show. She stayed with me and cleaned up after me and worked hard to get me back. I couldn't understand why she even bothered, but she did and I tried hard--I really did. ******* The day came that she no longer even wanted to try, the day came that she just sat there and cried as I watched the milk run off my spoon and felt the cold dampness on my legs. This was the day she called the hospital. The day Sandy and Peter fought as the young men guided me to the front door. Peter was crying and stamping his feet, Sandy was crying and yelling at Peter to stop. He was three, he didn't understand. The door stood open. I stopped walking. "Nnnooooo! Both of you shut up!" ******* I'm alright now, I think. At least it's different. Matthew W. Schmeer ------------------ 3 poems _New Hampshire_ we do not know which way it lies when it is cut and tossed upon the floor when it is sullied with dirt and decay. we weave the standards to the ills of the rest and they weep like november. there is a low there is a low there is a low which hovers lowly to the ground and hums with the cyan tinges of the open truths. we cannot call out the robins and the swallows do not come to us; they can tear us apart with their beaks of rain and the squabbling of talons. nowhere can we run and the earth will swallow us slicing into our capitols and eating at our throats like the serious prong of the thousand dollar slashing. the notes from peoria and paducah and perryville do not have postmarks; their stamps have been licked by forked tongues. we do not know what can be done. there is a pounding like fists against our ears and the pummeling is death upon us. _Silence_ we cannot stop the hummingbird's flight among the nectaring blossoms and the september rain falls too soon. i cannot stand the smell of my own skin, and the creepings of flesh are the musings of your hair floating in the moment's passing. the quickly dying do not understand the quietings of light. unlike the litterings your fingers linger, the leavings do not care for the subtle kiss of ear against lips. mother come quickly the moment is dying and somewhere the madness is sputtering down. no one is knowing the knowing is not for the knowledge but less for the now. _Green_ watching my father eating peas is not what it seems. he does not know i am watching him shovel the round green spheres into his orfice, their cholorophillic beings mashed to mush by my father's gaping maw. he does not hold his spoon as i remember--his hands now talons in their gripping and spottled with eighty-seven years. i cannot stand the smell of his skin. it is not the smell of urine or stool or medication but of age plain and simple, the body coming to a halt and the cells immobile in their decay. my father like his peas and he does not need my assistance. he does not belong here. he belongs behind my shoulder, holding the bicycle steady as i balance wobbly on an october saturday, his eyes too blue as his sweater clutches his chest like a wartime bride. Paul Semel ---------- 2 poems _Clothed_ someone would make a lot of money if they opened a Dumb & Awkward Clothing store a place for people like me people who never look good in clothes and look worse naked but have to get dressed anyway because of some stupid law the place would be near my house and everything would fit and everything would be cheap cheap cheap and I would be their finest customer cause it would be the only place where I could buy shirts with stomach shrinking fabrics and jeans that would tighten my butt while adding girth to the front and all the clothes would smell like that mating hormone so any woman that sees me in my new threads will look at me lustfully and as someone they'd like to engage in a long, deep, meaningful, trusting, monogamous, literate, and eventually sexual relationship with one of those relationships they write movies about the kind they write poems, songs, and doctoral dissertations about the kind they study in big, New England universities with ivy on the walls beards on the professors and only a small percentage of commuter students the kind of love I should be able to get now in the clothes I'm wearing _Shiva_ Sebastian's cats lay near the door staring thru the gate at the lifelessness before them a fellow cat, not breathing stretched out as if asleep Sebastian's cats lay near the door waiting for the other to move jump up and run away like it always did the bell on its collar ringing with each step they had both heard the bell hanging from its neck as we lay the body down and they heard the bell again as we picked the body back up and carried it away but the cats remained staring thru the gate staring where the other cat had lain lifeless as if sleeping when I went and sat on Sebastian's floor the cats came over and walked around me in circles making a low sound like a quiet moan as they rubbed themselves against my sides and as I ran my hand through their fur they looked up at me like I was to say something like I had some answer but I could tell they knew more than I'll ever know Shaun Armour ------------ 1 poem _Reading Beads_ It's a hard piece of work she thought reading beads and towing this old line Like somehow it ever might get better in this place And knowing it's time to go hell, that won't make you leave Cause the rules you were never going to follow They settle in. Like your ass in some comfortable old chair and then, well there you are Can't figure that too cool Not by an inch or a mile As she dances with him slow like, touching, groping Can't be any older than her first good dream When everything was clear He's smart like her, ya like that And he's pretty smooth, kissing and all Gonna leave her on that chair, on that ass Covered with cum and disillusionment Fuck me She thinks John Freemyer ------------- 1 short story, 2 poems _Collie_ Collie knew the best place to hide from his mother. There was a stack of logs with a plastic blanket over it in the yard of an old lady up the street. He ran all the way. Under the plastic, Collie saw a spider bigger than his thumb. It didn't scare him when he saw it. Not even at first. He broke its back with a twig and flicked the spider onto the lawn for the cats to eat. Down on the dry grass, under the plastic, lying with the logs, Collie lit matches and the wind blew them out. Each match whooshed for a split second before becoming a little yellow flower. Then it puffed out. Collie could picture himself walking up to his mother, saying, "I'm sorry for what I done. Here's a flower for you." He would present her with the burning match. Then Whoosh it would melt her hand off. Fingers dripping onto the floor. Still wagging at him. He heard something. The old lady yanked the plastic blanket off the logs. Collie squirmed around to look at her. She said, "It's not safe for you to play here. You can suffocate under plastic." Then she moved around him, past the logs, not looking angry, dragging one leg behind her. Collie tried to hide the burnt matches with his left hand as he turned to watch her. She said, "What are you hiding?" "Nothing," he said. He rose up on his knees, scraping his foot over the grass, plowing the matches under a log so she couldn't see them. She dragged her leg up close. Collie struck a match and flicked it at her. She swatted it. The match bounced off the pocket of her apron and droppedon the grass. It flowered there until she crushed it with the toe of her dusty yellow shoe. She said, "Ooomm, boy." "I'm sorry for what I done," he said. "Here's a flower for you." He flicked another burning match at her. She swatted it down and stepped on it. Collie liked the way the old lady looked at him. She wasn't scared. He flicked another match and she punched it away. "You stop now, boy. I'm tired of playing this game. Stop." She stretched her back and stood taller. Bigger than Collie's mom. "I'll give you something good, boy--something you need." "Don't you try to spank me!" "Is that what you need? A spanking? I don't think so. You're such a good boy. I want to give you something good." Collie flicked his last match at her. She whacked it. The match spun back and hit Collie on the cheek, still burning. He scooted under the plastic blanket. It stank from cat pee. He stood up, throwing the plastic over the old lady. She laughed and shoved it off. Wind lifted the blanket a few feet into the air, flat, stretched out, slowly floating it across her lawn. Collie and the old lady watched the plastic glide. He didn't breathe. After almost a minute the plastic slapped her house, then rolled up and fell on the porch. "It's my magic flying carpet," the old lady said. "I want to ride it," Collie said. "I'll give you a ride. That's the present I want to give you. I'll call back my magic flying carpet and tell it to give you a ride." Her dry yellow fingernails dug into his neck. With an old grunt, she pulled him close to her. Her body was hard. She touched him. His hand. His arm. His wrist. "I've gotta go home," he said. She said, "You've got blood on your hand. Did you cut yourself?" His fingers were brick color. Collie licked the blood with the tip of his tongue. She said, "Your arm is bleeding, too." His white sleeve was red at the elbow. A dot of blood spread out over his wrist. Then he saw what she was doing. The old lady poked his shoulder with a needle. He felt it this time. She stuck his neck. He reached for her hand and tried to stop her. She poked his fingers three times, fast as a sewing machine. Poked his chin and his ear and his upper lip. "I'll slice you to bits, you little monster." Big burping laughter came out of her. She poked his cheek. The needle ripped all the way in and clicked his teeth. She left it there. "You go home, boy," she said. Collie pulled out the needle. She snatched it from him and threw it over her shoulder. "You go home. Do your homework. That's right. Make sure you do your homework," she said. "Someday you'll be a doctor or a lawyer. Or a man who needs no job at all. A very rich man. Do you want to be rich?" Collie swallowed his blood so it wouldn't drip over his lips and onto his chin. "I do. I want to be very rich." "Sure you do. And when you're very rich, and you have a beautiful wife, and happy children, I'll come to your house on my magic flying carpet. I'll give your whole family a ride. Your children will call me Granny. And when you're sleeping at night, I'll kill you with my needles. And I'll kill your wife and your children, too. I'll poke them until they die. I have hundreds of needles. Enough to kill everyone in your family." Then she laughed. She pulled a tightly folded dollar bill from her apron pocket and held it out in front of her. She shook it open in the wind. "You take this," she said. "It will help you get started. I want you to get rich as fast as you can. The sooner the better. I'm an old lady. Don't know how long I can wait." _At 3 A.M._ She is still sleeping. A baked ham lay cooling beneath her cheek, cloves and pineapple set to one side, her hair tangled in fat, juices dripping off the edge of the table into darkness, like oceans rolling off the edge of Earth. I clear my throat. She awakens with a jolt, takes up knife and fork, and begins. I motion toward my mouth, rub my empty belly, lick my lips, pleading with her. She shakes her head and points to the door. I must go now. Mother says no. But I must not starve so now I will try Father's room. _Drowning Dogs_ 2nd Street began leaking the rain rushing over dogs sprawling in shadows on porches where they have napped all their lives now drowning swallowing slick mud slipping unable to touch down where sidewalks used to be doors locked water flowing in slow motion the dogs not barking as the unending stream overcomes them carrying them south tails and paws poking above water then rolling over lifeless resembling fat air-filled paper sacks No doubt they thought they were imagining the rain Richard Parnell --------------- 1 poem _Stop Scrolling!_ What are you looking for anyway? How do you decide? We are all calling out for your attention: read me, listen to me, belive me, buy me, value me, love me. A quick scan, and you are gone again, gripping a plastic possibility beyond loneliness, until you grow bored again, or eternally crash. John L. Arnold -------------- 1 poem _Cat_ Did you ever have a Cat? Or more properly, did Cat have you? Cat allows you to live with him, the mere fact that you provide, means nothing. Food and Shelter are your problem, not that of Cat. Cat is above this materialism. Dog needs you, you need Cat. Cat knows this. Comfortable surroundings, warmth, and good food are graciously accepted by Cat. If these things are not up to his standards, You are in trouble. Cat is a territorial animal, if you are accepted by him, and this is not at all certain, You become part of his territory. His human. You are damn lucky, Cat knows this. And what do you get in return for this servitude? This total domination by Cat? Cat accepts you for what you are. He does not judge you. Cat does not care what color your skin is. Too tall or too short, saint or sinner, too fat or too thin. Cat accepts what you are. Money means nothing to Cat, as long as you are kind to him, he will love you. If you are mean to him, he will leave you. You will be less than you were before. Cat knows this. If you are total depressed, or just feeling blue. Cat comes to you with affection. When you think God has abandoned you, Cat sits on your lap, each purr restoring your faith. Love and cherish Cat, You are a very fortunate human, Cat knows this. About the Contributors... ------------------------- Amy DeGeus lives and works in Chicago, Illinois. She works for a local Chicago service bureau and in her spare time crafts jewelry from glass fragments she finds washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan. This is her second appeareance in POETRY INK. Stephane Berrebi is this issue's Featured Writer. Go to that section to learn more about him. David Hunter Sutherland hails from Fishkill, New York. He is the lead editor of "Recursive Angel", a magazine which publishes poetry, fiction, and art from and on the Internet. He has also had recent pieces appear in "The Trincoll Review" and "The Poetry Forum". A member of the Academy of American Poets, he has a book of verse due out early next year. Bulusu Lakshman lives in Lawrenceville, New Jersey. He has poems appear in "Feelings", the anthology "In Friendship's Garden", and in the National Library of Poetry's "Best Poems of 1996". A native of India, he is currently employed in the computer consulting industry. David Schwab is a sophomore at the University of Alabama majoring in Telecommunications and Film. An avid computer user and programmer, he also is involved in atheletic officiatiing, campus politics, HAM radio, and video production. David Simmons calls Ontario, Canada home. He publishes widely, both in the electronic and printed media. When Dave is not busy rollerblading with his five-year-old son Kyle, or trying to convince Vera, his wife of eight years, that quality time means he replies to eMail and writes flash fiction while she watches a movie, he works as a machinist in a hydraulic seal company. Other than that he eats, sleeps, and...well, you know. Matthew W. Schmeer lives in St. Louis, Missouri. The editor of POETRY INK, he divides his time between working in the exciting field of workers' compensation insurance during the day and putting POETRY INK together during the night. Somehow, he also manages to surf the Internet collecting way too many Netscape Naviagtor cache files and cuddles with his wife when she permits. Also, he managed to get System 7.5.3 to run on a Color Classic with no fatal conflicts or errors. He thinks he deserves a medal for this feat. 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" and its Internet sister magazine, "Hot Wired". A resident of Los Angeles, California, this is his third appearance in POETRY INK. Shaun Armour lives in Toronto, Canada. He is currently in the process of writing a novel and attempting to earn a PhD. in literature without the help of any teachers or universities. He likes bowling shirts and has his own pool cue, but cannot yet eat fifty eggs. This is his first appearance in print. John Freemyer lives in Redding, California with his wife Jane and their two children. He was recently appointed Honrary Editor Emeritus of POETRY INK, which means we are legally bound to publish any drivel he decides to submit (just kidding, John!). Richard Parnell resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He creates textual/sculptural pieces using hand letterpress printing, pulp casting, and wood & metal working in his studio and a tthe Minnesota Center for Book Arts. Several of his works have been exhibited and collected nationally in the United States. John L. Arnold lives in San Francisco, California and works as a tour guide for the Great Pacific Tour Company. This is his fourth appearance in POETRY INK. ..