Reflections
I'm not sure how to go about writing of September 11th. I've been in sort of a semi-coma/daze since just before nine on the eleventh around the time I turned on CNN and saw Tower One on fire. It didn't register, at first, just how serious this could be and then the second plane hit Tower Two though we didn't know for sure exactly what happened for awhile, it was a breath stopping, heart pumping moment, not unlike hearing about the Oklahoma Bombing and the shuttle disaster, the latter I sensed on a clear Tuesday afternoon, waking after my all night shift in the Tavern and having the premonition that something momentous, something truly awful happened but it was nowhere near the scale as this. I phoned my wife at work to let her know what was going on in NYC and then headed for the bus to go to my work in Albany, a half hour or so bus ride away. On the bus a young black man was explaining about his former job as a night shift messenger in the WTC. There could be anywhere from five to ten thousand people in those buildings at that time he assured everyone, probably right in the middle would be my guess for an ordinary Tuesday. An ordinary Tuesday like this one. By the time I hit Finnigan's in Albany for my daily papers, the Pakistani owner was atypically glued to the TV screen. I had no idea of the enormity of what had transpired in the time I had been on the bus. One tower collapsed already, the other waiting until I walk into the bar to collapse, that unforgettable, house of cards falling, that would soon make downtown New York City look like Beirut or maybe even Hiroshima after The Bomb once the debris and dust and smoke began to descend. In Finnigan's I could see fear in the eyes of the store owner as I tried to hand him my dollar for the Times Useless and The Post; it would have been easier to steal the paper, he was that engrossed. It was as if he could see the political ramifications of the disaster impacting on all the hard work he and his family had devoted to this life as middle-eastern immigrants in America gone up in smoke with the World Trade Center. Not yet, but maybe soon, who knows? But many in the bar, usually empty except for one, maybe two cleaning guys and the manager, waitress setting up, were already telling how this attack was affecting them personally. The Coors salesman kept saying, "My brother works there. He had jury duty this week. He kept saying, 'What a pain in the ass this is, I have way too much work to do but there is no way to get out of it. " Too much work to do. Another day for him but for all the others--- One of the night guys has a twin brother who works for the elevator company in Tower One. He narrowly missed the last explosion because of a change in shift plans, which earned him a long chat with the F. B. I. This time he had again, switched shifts and had the day off. His sister worked around the 80th floor in one of the towers but she was late for work. His father worked in one of the nearby buildings. Hours of frantic calls, of not getting through, of not knowing, he learned they were all okay and started serious drinking. The night waitress thought her Dad was down there somewhere. (He wasn't.) and a first cousin (he was). We learned one of the former employees from his college days at SUNY who was now a fireman in Upper Manhattan was on his way, with his younger brother, another former employee, to the WTC for a job interview to be a city fireman ,as well, when the first airplane hit. They just stood there and watched, speechless. What just happened? That's what we were all saying, in the bar surrounded by six televisions switched onto the news channels, the endless loops of tape each more horrible and unbelievable than the next, the rumors and facts drifting in from New York, DC, somewhere in Pennsylvania. How could this be happening and Brokaw was saying “911, the date, the emergency number, it couldn't be a coincidence---” And the bar was busy, even though the Democrats cancelled their city wide primary and their free beer and chicken wings for the evening scheduled for the back room of the tavern. All the State offices closed, local businesses closed and people wandering in to have beers and eat some lunch and quietly try to make sense out of what they were seeing live on the TV; The US under attack, by whom and why? And with the respectful, the hopeful, the watchful come those who have a personal agenda, a free afternoon on the State, on someone else to get rip roaring drunk, loudly, offensively, rudely, as if this were just another day in a life, the phone ringing on and on and on wanting to know if we were open, if there was take out food, if the free beer and chicken wings party was still on, a question which could only be answered with, “They just blew up the World Trade Center and you're worried about free beer” followed by a dial tone. Static. A busy signal. Silence on the other end of a dead phone line. It doesn't get anymore personal than that.
Alan Catlin
Schenectady, NY
Oct 1, 2001
Hi-Ho, John Ashcroft
Saddle up, Cowboy
Strap on that dildo badge
and tally-ban - I mean, tally-ho!
Somewhere in America tonight,
someone is doing something wrong
and someone else is whispering about it
but they're not going to tell you.
They're not going to tell you about
the anti-NRA cartoons
on the refrigerator door
of the guy across the street
or the Free Palestine bumper sticker
in the grocery store parking lot
They're looking the other way
while their kids read the Koran
just to see what it says
I don't think they're taking you seriously.
It's a gospel only you can spread
Hi-Ho!
That's right, Cowboy
Somewhere in America tonight,
a woman is slipping her leash
Leaving her husband, becoming a lesbian,
killing her children and practicing witchcraft
all at the same time
Once a superwoman, always a superwoman
Somewhere in America tonight,
a doctor whispers forbidden words
in the ear of a dying man
and hands him the means to end his pain
Daring to play God when really, that's your job
Somewhere in America tonight,
someone is using their seditious thoughts
to write a poem
taking your name in vain
and defaming your mission
Somewhere, a teacher loses no sleep
after teaching a child
to question authority
who then uses this teaching
to tell his parents he's a Buddhist
and can't go to church anymore
Freedom of speech doesn't apply to them,
you can find a way.
Hi-Ho!
Never drop your guard, Cowboy
Don't let your divine mission falter
because your bible says this is war
and only you can save America from itself
Oh, the burdens that consume you,
bearing the weight of an ungrateful nation
that goes about their lives without giving you a thought
Without having the basic American decency
to rat out their neighbor
or respect your name
foolishly believing in world peace
and universal tolerance
in the face of biblical pronouncements
to the contrary
It's up to you to hunt them down, Cowboy
Do not rest until the last bare-breasted
statue in America is covered
Hi-Ho!
Kimberly White
Sacramento, CA
Shootout
Mayor Jorge W., a man of both sides of the river; Chained Knee, the
hard lawman; Rum Feel, the hanging judge...We find them in the middle
of an ongoing would be sort of crisis
(many extras running around in back and front. Jorge W. reaches for a
cigarillo from Chained Knee's pocket. Chained Knee slaps his hand away
Chained Knee: Dang it Mayor Jorge. You gotta ask first before
bringing up the paw.
Mayor Jorge: But I'm the head dufus in this town
Chained Knee: Maybe so, but I enforce your headly dufusness. Me. I wear
the star. You never actually go out and do it yourself, do you. So ask
before you reach. Just like a dang little kid
Rum Feel:(taking a swig of medicine...) Gotta bring this half breed
Sandlot HoosegowSane back over your saddle, Chained Knee. Maybe put one
or two slugs in him where it won't attract too much controversy, but
bring em back so he can stand trial in my godly court of loquacious
law.
Chained Knee: I'll bring Sandlot HoosegowSane down, Judge, you bet. And
not because of your godly court of loquacious law. I'll do it cause it
suits my purpose. My purpose
Rum Feel: Perhaps you would like to imbibe some of my prescription
party favorite
Chained Knee: NO sir. Gotta keep a clear vision and an upriver mobility
when it comes to tracking down Earth scum such as this Sandlot bad
man. When I come back with him draped over my saddle, then you can
share some of your ongoing medicine with me
Mayor Jorge: Should I make a speech to the fine fine people of this
town. Should I make a speech, should I sing and dance, or should I stay
indoors
Chained Knee: As it might be thundering and lightning any second, you
might want to go indoors and cook your own supper
(Chained Knee mounts his steed. Sixteen fearless deputies join him)
Chained Knee: You know my mettle
Sixteen Deputies:(in unison) We know your mettle fine, sir
Chained Knee: Any of you boys work for the Halliburton ranch. Any of
you boys see Sir Enron
Sixteen deputies: No sir. We work for you sir
Chained Knee: A pleasant enough vocation
Mayor Jorge: When you come back, Sheriff, I will have Bosco on the table
for you and a certain gathering of senoritas
Chained Knee: Armageddon! (He and the deputies ride off camera)
Rums Feel: My courtroom has the best toilette in the county
Mayor Jorge: Courtrooms make my skin cringe.
I, Duck Chainknee do solemnly swear...
(roll camera)
(camera pulls back to reveal wad of greenbacks in his right hand)
I will never go hungry again...
(reroll film. Audience is nervous)
Lotsa smoke, fog, hard to see anything. We hear shots off camera.
A lone mystical figure rides in at a gallop. It's Yawn Slashcrop
the hanging judge
Yawn: Lemme hang em all. Hangin is too good for em
cut to Bird, the senate guy, standing alone in the road
he's talking a long rap
the riders of the Bar Chainknee swirl around him
Bird: Lemme tell you about the blood stream...
lemme tell you about the blood bank
lemme tell you about the parking lot of the lost
lemme tell you about the great adventure
lemme tell you about my ways and means
lemme tell you about Hank Williams
Duck rides into frame
Duck: Old man get out of the way. We're riding hard
(To be continued)
Scott Wannberg
Mar Vista, CA
I Dreamed I Saw Paul Wellstone
(to the tune of "Joe Hill" Music by Earl Robinson, lyric by Alfred Hayes)
I dreamed I saw Paul Wellstone as
alive as you or me
I said, "But Paul, your plane went down."
"I never died," said he. "I never died," said he.
"Your plane went down in snow," I said
"one Minnesota day."
Said Paul, "That couldn't kill me, no
I never passed away. I never passed away"
"Paul Wellstone isn't dead," he said,
"Paul Wellstone hasn't died.
Whenever people march for peace,
I'm marching at their side. I'm marching at their side."
"When workers are protected and
when nukes are truly banned,
When women's rights are not ignored,
You know I'll be on hand. You know I'll be on hand."
"When fam'ly farmers grow our crops,
Not agribusiness bums
Paul Wellstone will be standing proud
And beating on the drums. Yes beating on the drums."
When we rise up to raise our voice
When we begin to care
When we stand up to tyranny,
Paul Wellstone will be there! Paul Wellstone will be there!
I dreamed I saw Paul Wellstone as
alive as you or me
I said, "But Paul, your plane went down."
"I never died," said he. "I never died," said he.
Clifford J. Tasner
10/25/02
ASYLUM FRONTIER
this Ginnever sculpture
rises three balanced,
rusty squares
eighteen feet into blue sky
like cubist smoke
while down below
at the base years ago
several Apache
waved a blanket over a
signal fire telling the others
the Army Of The West
was clanking, solemn,
dusty twisting their way
with the taste of rusted blood
on their tongues.
So I no longer wonder
about that darkened movie theatre
that Sunday afternoon
when Willard tells Kurtz
he doesn't see any method at all.
Or whether or not
God shaves his head.
This is the asylum frontier
where the military &
Sonny Rollins say:
"cultivate controlled anarchy"
Where November can still
seduce with surreal
maroon leaves & the serene warmth
of Garcia Street
This sculpture is called "Ascension"
& the wind echoes
like a Cajun fiddle above
the solemn commerce of a
bereft humanity.
John Macker
Las Vegas, NM
THE WATERTANK REVISITED
Without the weight of what then seemed important,
I return to the house under the hill
with its old unfinished watertank, limned now
with shrubs, its bank slippery as papa’s dream,
and scattered with tins whose razor tongues
reflect the sun’s.
In its grave, the ants haul their loot.
Bees, wasps and butterflies are feeding, crawling.
It was my father’s job to lift the line
in the wind before the clothes swiped the dirt,
to split the wood and start the new foundation
for the watertank: the watertank which now
reposes in the scheme of things
exactly as it pleases, half
-sunk in the soil like a stubborn stare—
is the reason I expected more than his best,
gone to weed, too, now; gathering moss.
I ask myself: what does it matter
that piped water was forestalled?
Besides; what’s the past but a rainless day
with dry bush rustling in the hill,
and a no-longer-flawed perfection
awaiting another dream to beam from a window,
my father's, mine;
and flow like rain guttering in song from a roof
to a tar-glazed water drum planked on flat stones—
overflowing to a river no one owns?
A QUESTION OF LOVE
Back when I used to play doctor: I am
passing the house with its blinds fully pulled;
the boarded up, leftwing window facing the road
nails out the past from what they say love did
to the girl while at a city school. Three years
she's been in that room with her diary of hurt.
What stalks her mind robs her of speech.
Like a slate wiped clean, she returns to the bed
that is her fort against the overhang
of whatever fills her mind with its long night.
To hush the shame no one's invited there.
That house: above eye level from the road,
with whitewashed stones up to the verandah steps
forming two lines from the gate! A hard wind flaps
a nearby breadfruit tree as I pass,
marveling at what the adults deem
might be fruit for a juicy conversation,
blind to the secret in the children's game
of Thread yuh needle, thread, oh, long, long thread,
while she, stuck in a world she cannot
leave behind her, lurks in a room/
whose curtain never moves in the wind.
Delores Gauntlett
Jamaican West Indies
Extending Life
The old man
who lived
in this small house,
tucked awayon a quiet street,
in the City,
has died.
J_ and I,
know this
as we pull up
to the now vacant house,
where the man’s
worldly possessions
(those not saved
by his survivors),
have been put out for us,
the trashmen,
to take away.
As we hurl
Bag
after bag
into the hopper,
one of the over packed
bags
bursts.
Bottles and boxes
of pills and vitamins
scatter
across the trash.
Leaning in
J_ and I start picking up the bottles
and boxes,
examining the contents.
Every one promises longevity,
extra life,
look younger,
feel younger,
be
younger.
J_ and I hold these pills,
look at them,
and feel the desperate need each of us has to cling to life.
Nicolas Efstathiou
Nashua, NH
Purgatory
One hundred degrees
and the foothills of Azusa
continue to burn
as the first day of autumn
falls unnoticed
since the seasons fled L.A.
long ago.
And though night
and insomnia
drop down soon like a shroud,
the sky remains orange
as I pause with worn out shoes
and empty pockets to watch
the foothills of Azusa
continue to burn.
David Rushing
Alhambra, CA
Another National Anthem
Somewhere east of Eden,
Millions of Americans still listen to fireside chats
Fueled not from an oil pipeline, but from natural wood.
And somewhere in this land, exit 22 past Muddville
The crowd is still roaring, not for an antisocial technology
But for the men crossing the River Kwai.
And in this fair land where the Duke reigns supreme,
The crust still rises on the apple pie
And children are learning the anthem of a nation
With the purple-est mountains most majestic.
Here where voices are raised in a prayer of allegiance
For a country that withstood the simmering turmoil
Of a pot melting and bubbling over.
Where when push comes to shove,
Madame Liberty stands above Miss Clairol
Extinguishing fears and tears of those fortunate to read Her bestseller
And keep Her home fires burning.
Where quills wrote the histories of survival and conquest
To be notarized by the Andrew Sisters themselves.
Where the wonder years are scrolled on parchment made at Mt. Vernon
And signed in ink by Berlin, Gershwin, and Marilyn.
Here where a rhapsody of the navyest blue
Filters through Betsy¹s star spangled banner
Inspiring her daughters to join the USO or the Red Cross.
Where fifty choruses of Sousa rally the troops on the shores of Normandy
And space monkeys drink Tang on our moon
Wearing the label ³Made in the USA².
This is the world you deny.
This world that only recently have some come to appreciate,
While others have sacrificed lifetimes for its liberty.
This world that finally displays its flag with fervor,
Unashamed to be called patriotic.
This world that you say is contaminated with ³feverish nationalism²
Merely stands strong with American Pride.
So, take it- all that¹s been built for you.
Ignore your good fortune that you were born on these shores-
To a world where your education is not limited by sex or race.
Where you are free to spread your liberal propaganda
And infest the Internet with your verbal cancer.
For your ancestors have created this place you call home.
It is they who have protected your freedoms-
Sacrificed for those words you now speak oh so freely.
It is they who have built your stairway to paradise
And as you forsake and slander this rebirth of our nation
Know that it is You-
You who has turned your back to the sweat in the masonry.
Cristy L. Hebert
NY, NY
Normally, I don’t respond to poetic topics but this I felt compelled to respond to this one: “I don't agree with your suppositions about this land and those who made it what it is today - I think you have glossed over the tremendous sacrifice made by the original inhabitants, both human AND animal AND vegetable. And that sweat you refer to (and the blood you fail to mention) is the self-same sweat that our enemies used to build their walls and try to bring us down...sweat is not remarkable, it is the byproduct of human industry.” - the editor
RESETTLEMENT
Banished too long to debased mill towns,
she disconnected her quick mind
from the Karmic whirlpool.
With eyes closed she envisioned dwelling
all year in drip-glaze mountains.
As her aggregated solitude burgeoned
she dreamed instead of a genteel market square
on a commuter rail to Boston
where brain cells totter into chestnut.
Jnana Hodson
Dover, NH
SLOW ADDICTION
It is in those eyes,
The smile that lights up the room
As darkness fades into oblivion.
Quite intoxicating....
I cannot comprehend,
Why this always happens
When you are around.
Restless when you are not here,
I turn to see you everywhere.
In the closet, in my room.
In my work, in the coffee shop....
It is not love and not infatuation
It is sheer madness....
A slow addiction to my existence.
Insanity in a world of fantasy,
And you slowly become a reality.
The Dave Mathew Band,
It never seemed so good.
Slow Addiction...
I do not seem to mind,
It does not seem to annoy.
Here I am 10 years later
Still addicted to you...
PUJA GOYAL
Bangalore, India
"Did you hear the news about Philip?"
"Philip Whalen?
Is he dead?"
Ah Zen master poet,
Roshi, I remember
your kitchen
w/ a crayola
portrait Kerouac
did of you -
"Dharma Bum"
"Desolation Angel"
once sitting
in your zendo
where it was
just the two
of us & a
life size golden
statue of Manjushri
Bodhisattva w/
the Sword
of Intellect
you remembered
I was in
a band - Punko
Acido you called it -
[actually The
Job -]
but what
I remember
best was
drinking wine
in my mid-
twenties, skipping
lunch a
half liter
by myself
at the table
w/ Ginsberg,
Don Allen
and you turned
to me looking
deep in my
eyes & said
"Like cirrhosis
of the liver
it's a
very painful
death." > I trust yours
was not, saint
bald head
elephant eared
Zen
now I'm 17
years sober
now you're gone
now this poem
is over
7/2/02
Marc Olmstead
San Francisco, CA
Like an Old Newspaper, Blowing Down Bleeker St
Visions
of Kerouac -
there in his undershirt
in Florida
screaming -
"Stell-ahhh!!"
...and only wanting
another beer
and,
The Beverly Hillbillies
turned up
a little...
louder
Slazlo
The bedroom
I am decorating my bedroom.
I want it bright and spacious
although it is rather small.
Paint or wallpaper?
I shall settle for paint,
so I can change colour
as often as needed.
The bed will face the window
so the morning light surprises me
and the sunset sends me its shadows.
There will be wide shelves too.
I need to see my books, CDs, or cassettes,
and pick the right ones at the right time.
Small carpets and big cushions
will be thrown casually on the floor.
There has to be some kind of mess too.
And when the work is finished,
I can see exactly
where to hide my worries,
spread my dreams,
and reach for love
before finally turning the lights off.
Farida Mahoub
Paris, France
THE LAST THING I SEE
The first thing I saw
when I swam up from anesthesia
was your face furrowed with worry lines,
your smile. I felt your hand
clasp mine, warm below the IV,
felt your butterfly lips
touch my forehead.
Since then mine was the face
furrowed over yours,
then you were there again for me.
Although you say you’d rather not
tread the path without me,
I hope you will be
the last thing I will see.
Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Tehama, CA
poetry
as casual
as road
kill the
corpse a
ripe sack
of blood
& bones
thrown in
to a ditch
the face
pushed
right off
the skull
w/blood
on the
tarmack
& guts
in the
weeds
the mag
gots are
swarming
they howl
for the
moon
Todd Moore
Albuquerque, NM
BENEATH DREAM WATERS
I had an odd dream last night.
I was fishing in a Las Vegas
casino swimming pool. I was
hoping to get lucky, when I pulled
a merman out of the water. He
was very pink and pale. He had
blond hair and blue green eyes
just like me. Laying atop the deck
that circled the pool, he asked me
“how are you doing?”
“I feel like a fish out of water.
I guess that’s why you’re here in
my dream. You’re some symbol
of my deep discontentment.” I told him.
“ I understand how you feel” he laughed,
“neither fish, nor man. Wanting
earth and sea yet having neither.”
When I awoke I felt bewildered. I did
not want to give up my sleeping. I
did not want to take my place on factory line.
I would accept death if it came racing through
my mind like a bullet ending my self-doubt,
my self-centeredness, my self-delusion.
The ever expanding me crawls out of dream waters
each morning.
TIME
Silhouetted against this early morning mist
I see it has stopped.
No history or turning world.
No heaven or death at the end of this journey.
The cackling gulls remind me how still and
unmovable it is.
Not running forward or back.
Neither making us older or into children.
Weightless, without face or breath.
Lite on the tongue and sweet to taste.
As a new sun rises, it evaporates and recedes
standing next to me, silent and, again invisible.
Charles Ries
Milwaukee, WI
earth note 42
september is a cold river
dying and being born
that bloated highway outta town
of red maple shoulders
to cry on
valleys i wish i could sometimes forget
what brought me back
the mills were dead
(let them rest)
a brown spent monongahela
rolls over the wreckage to the ohio
a rusty railroad trestle picks up acid droplets
lets them eat the deep black primer
of aliquippa
broken ridges slip down to the river
the bass are steadily abandoning
and everywhere evergreens hang on cliffsides
more resilient than the rest of us
e b bortz
(previously published in Haight Ashbury Literary Journal)
abortion
There is an unreality to my sadness as I happen to recall our child whom I’ve killed tonight in Calcutta, as cars rush back like madness to their individual orgies, as the rains splash down on my sick city like benediction, Calcutta my beloved and my oblivion, as I stare past your agony of yester-years like a cat walking nine lives like fantasy, as you stare past my memories hanging loose like mascara after lush quickies, after Calcutta, after desire, after defeats
Dr. Prasenjit Maiti
Calcutta, INDIA
Untitled
Just here, when lightning's near
bundling up our extra life
the dreams pulled in
like a kite recalled
on a day like this
when i am wrapped up in the air
spoken with fire and rolling thunder
it comes to you across all our distance
i can see the scars of the hills
the lines on the leaves
the bones in the sand
when the hot rain falls
it falls on new shiny skin
all i was, lies
tumbles away in this wet wind
David Arshawsky
Rancho Cucamonga, CA
Don’t Bring in Any Metal Eating Utensils
When you enter the building
Signs are pasted everywhere
Notifying you of the rules of the court
The searches that will be made
The things you can’t bring in
No knives, forks, or spoons
The story appears before my eyes
Someone has accosted someone
Some dirty deed done by someone with
Must be a fork, because knives
Should have been banned long ago
A fork as weapon
It makes some sense
The tines are pointed
They dig into meat
Sometime they dug into someone
Right here in Van Nuys
But, spoons?
It saddens me more than anything
That the rounded lip of a spoon
The gentle oval cup
Bringing fruit and yogurt
To lips that plead
Lips that swear the truth
Lips that make objections
Lips that speak of justice
Will never enter the mouths of
Lawyers
Defendants
Alleged perpetrators
Girlfriends
Mothers
Judges
Who have to be guarded against
Violent acts of silverware
Diane Siegel
Northridge, CA
circus dogs
so far out on the streets, the wolf-eyes of
downtown yellow and injected,
manic-depressive cigarettes half-lit in the
fog, stigmata running South, down like a
tear from my crotch, O I remember a
girl!
she was the one wrapped me up, baby
with the world inside
yeah, there was mid-town pretty and there
was us, and now alone I clutch the center
of the city like a crippled dog exiled to my
dusty nipple
I, the ghost and the others down here with syringes full
of flat syrupy soda, I the lone swordsman cup empty
at 5th and Main and these junkies so limp
so fun I cannot laugh, hysterical!-
this life.
and now she's gone I'm thirsty, lips brown and
bloody for just a taste, one more for this old
goat, just one more lifetime, baby what can
I do?
but I look and she is
gone.
and the assholes of the midnight beasts howl
and the cleaving claws of all these cold streets howl
and the cracks in the pale gray walls howl
and the prigs in the trees howl
the professors of wine flapping that Heaven
is on the wind.
Joseph Mattson
Los Angeles, CA
Condom Haiku III
A perfect stamen,
trembling, slender and upright,
White as a blossom.
Laura Leigh Jaworski
Ypsilanti, Michigan
DHARMA, BETRAYAL & BUKOWSKI'S PLAID SHIRT
with the constant betrayal
of life at your back
it all comes down to this
for every angry fix
of television
religion
dope
sex
money
it all comes down to this
as buildings fall and madmen laugh
it all comes down to this
after the drinking
the fighting
the fucking
it all comes down to this
when the big fish eat the little fish
and the hyena laughs madly at the night
it all comes down to this
after the whores
the connections
the bill collectors
come screaming for pieces of your blood stained salary
it all comes down to this
when the end draws close
and the diferences between us grow small
it all comes down to this
when all the hemingways of the world
release the safety catch
it all comes down to this
as the umbillicus is cut and new lungs draw air
it all comes down to this
after 20 years of bad marriage
bad luck
bad manners
bad habits
it all comes down to this
for every lunatic
with the dawning realization
that he is truly the illegitimate son of man
it all comes down to this
after giving half of your existence
to the suits and ties
licking up scraps and acting grateful
it all comes down to this
for every bullet
in every gun
in every punk's shaking hand
it all comes down to this
wearing bukowski's plaid shirt
a six pack of miller
a half dozen bong hits
and disc one of chet baker, the last great concert
it all comes down to this
when dharma stands before you
it all comes down to this
GATO CLEMENTE
San Clemente, CA
Endgame
I see that inner fire
That makes angels of dried bones
In deserts where you ride your stallion
Across miles and miles of naked soul.
I hear your love slow down and die
In those unresolved confessions
Dying into deaths sudden song
And still in some way you resurrect
All that weaves us as earth.
I watch the love you call love
Become winters of familiar fits
And wear out in drifts of unnatural light
Our tomorrows try to feverishly forget.
You try in every love to find
Love that is blind, in front, below, divine.
The love you love vanishes
Demands those remains of you
You cannot unearth to share.
So you replay the search, the craving, the dying
For the love that empties with every love.
Richard A. Bunch
Sacramento, CA
THE FLOOD
the rains came all over us
and brought with them the floods
and a wall of water rushed through the town
as the people gathered on high ground
oohing and ahhing and
I was one of them
and I thought: if only
one of these people would jump
then something truly interesting
would have happened --
but nobody jumped
and the waters went down
and later that night
so did I
and she oohed and ahhed
and when she came
all over me
I thought of those floods
and the crowds and
how nobody had jumped
and I thought, well, maybe I should
go back there and jump
but then she began moving towards
my centre, licking
her wet lips and I
decided my jumping could wait
one more night.
Glenn W. Cooper
Tamworth, Australia
THERE ARE SO MANY BOOKS
There are so many books I have not read,
narratives in glasses and bouquets, waiting
on the shelves of so many libraries I have not visited,
vanilla pages not flipped in the hours of sorrow
as flowers blossom on my hardwood floors,
and so many cabarets and bistros unknown too,
piazzas, monuments and ice cream parlors,
there are so many ice cream flavors I have not tasted,
sweet leavings unfamiliar to my lips,
so many lips I have not kissed,
lips from the past that had wrong timing,
present lips of just friends and friends for now,
there are so many people that I have not met
and will never meet
in this little life,
absurd
and full of yearning,
roses
Marina Rubin
Brooklyn, NY
ABOUT THE GUY WHO MAKES THIS ALL HAPPEN
Editor and poet,RD Armstrong writes poetry and fiction when he can find the time. Mostly, he's either working on his many Lummox projects (the Lummox Journal, a monthly magazine; the Little Red Book series which is published by the Lummox Press; the LSW Newsletter, a specialized "poets market" type of newsletter) or he's repairing / painting somebody's home. His most recent books are The San Pedro Poems; Paper Heart #4 and ROADKILL.
Special thanks to the Lummox Patrons: Georgia Cox, Pete Sims, Sooz Glazebrook, Greg Shield & Colleen Cunningham, Anonymous, Bonnie Bechtol, John Forsha, Back In The Saddle, Larry Jaffe and Matt Harrison. You can become a patron too. Contact RD at the email address below.
For more information please check the links listed below.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
To submit to DUFUS read on. Themes: there are no themes (or are there?). I'm looking for poetry that is well-written. Deadlines: There are no deadlines. Isn't that convenient? Just email three poems, of 40 lines or less to lumoxraindog@earthlink.net and please no attachments. Also include a brief bio.
The Little Red Book poetry series is published by Lummox Press in the handy, pocket-sized format (48 - 56 pages) for reading on the go! Just $6 ppd (USA) or $8 ppd (Foreign) from LUMMOX (PO Box 5301, San Pedro, CA 90733-5301, USA).
On The Record is an expanding library of Poets on CDs - buy a CD and get their book for FREE! CDs are $10 USD + $1.50 postage (US & Canada) or $10 USD + $2.50 postage (world). So far: Leonard J. Cirino reading Poems of The Royal Courtesan Li Xi; RD Armstrong reading from The San Pedro Poems and ROADKILL; Mark Weber's Bombed In New Mexico; pending: Alan Catlin reading from Death and Transfiguration Cocktail and Rick Smith reading from The Wren Notebook.
 Links To Some Of The Poets Published In Present And Past Issues Of DUFUS.
 Eskimo Pie Girl
Larry Jaffe
Gerry Locklin
Christopher Mulrooney
Scott Wannberg
other Lummox poets
Cesar Chavez Tribute
The San Pedro Poems
DUFUS #3
DUFUS #4
Comments welcome
This site updated November 2, 2002
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