Lucy’s Beauty Routines, by Mary Winters

High school friend a real beauty -
all the fathers said so. Every
Wednesday and Saturday morning
a shampoo; hair curlers - coated
metal springs around hard-bristled
brushes, plastic spears levering them
into place against her scalp; then
an hour under heat-blasting,
forehead-reddening, pink-flowered
bonnet attached to lively hose and
loose-screwed, dinging hair dryer
- she called it her “quiet time”.
Lucy’s boyfriend died on a dare.
Pal bet high school football star
he couldn’t eat five bowls of
local chili, then run around the track
without getting sick - he vomited,
suffocated. You remember Lucy back
under the dryer the day of the funeral,
whimpering while she tested her set:
pulled out one long skein of
auburn hair; it bounced and shone
- a perfect C-shaped curl.

with you (2/18/94), by Janet Kuypers

It’s Friday again
the birds are singing this morning
the sun is out
it’s warmer than usual
maybe it’s always like this
maybe it’s today
it always seems darker
when you’re further away

Barber Shop, by Mary Winters

Couldn’t put if off any longer:
son’s haircut. Sure, he wants to
grow a braid down his back or
shave his own Mohawk - but who’s
in charge. Mom saw all kinds of
love at the barber shop: bonding
among barbers; chat or peaceful
silence between barber and
customer having his head soothed;
on covers of pornographic magazines;
come-hither, pouting photos of
young men with sample haircuts...
love among customers of all ages in
their snipped hair mixing together
on the floor - son’s blond,
thirty-year-old’s red and two
old men’s gray (bald trim $12.00).
For them: hair spray with a
heartening label...bold hunter on
horseback leaping fence. Barber
love: in those big chairs built to
look like thrones, do they cut
each other’s hair after hours -
gently, quietly dye it - Frankie’s
to blackest of black.

Pocket Knife, by Gabriel Athens

I saw you there
dancing
throwing her on the floor
like another one of your toys.
I had to pull out my army knife
and slit your face;
I had to watch the
blood stream from your open wounds
at the same speed as the apologies
that parted from your lips.
It was almost hard
to keep up with your show,
but I must admit
that it was good entertainment.
You know,
I still couldn’t help but notice
that your pocket knife
was bigger than the one I bought
for myself.
An extra blade or two,
a better pair of tweezers.
And you were so proud
of your little gadgets,
and you were so sure
that it was a better pocket knife.
But I can’t help but think
that not only does mine
do the job,
but it does the job well,
and because you never use yours
it’s all just a waste.

Finest Feeling, by Alexandria Rand

Drench me
in the finest furs
surround me
in the rarest silks of the Orient.
Rest me in the clouds.
I don’t care.
I still contend
that the finest feeling
is laying
with my head
on your shoulder

untitled, by M. Kettner

sunrise/fishermen on the pier

Womyn, by Cheryl Townsend

I have been third claaa
all my life and tomorrow
My rights are slower than yours
I cannot say no
once dinner is bought
or after a kiss goodnight
or if my clothing turns him on
or I’m in a bar
on a dark street
at a hotel
broken down on a freeway
home in bed sleeping
alone
It’s debatable that my body is my own
Forced to bear a future you walk out on
I’m the slut the whore the cunt
for doing what you did too
My employment skills
are always minimum wage
or at least below yours
no matter my qualifications
and I can fill a quota
But I don’t burn cities
I don’t rob my neighbor
I don’t attack any one of you I see
and justify it with my/her/their past
I carry this weight of prejudice
like a fetus I preferred aborted
an gave birth to better ideas
and dreams to spread world-wide
and speak in a much gentler voice
Relax, you have nothing to fear

Nasal Congestion, by Marc Swan

Randall P is fat
and smells like shit
spilling over
the green vinyl chair
in the lobby
where he waits
for his 63-year-old mother
to take him home
He stinks like shit, piss
and age
He’s only twenty-five
His mother has an odor
not shit or piss
She’s moldy
The dusty-with-age kind
you find in attics
Maybe her smeller
is too old to smell
Randall P
He can smell
He does smell
I don’t want to smell
Randall P
When he leaves
I smile

House of Slavs, by Gary A. Scheinoha

Every house has rules
and I have felt more
brotherhood here
than anyplace else
at any other
time in
my life.
Yet there are rooms
closed off to me,
doors slammed shut
by snobbery
that the purest
heart
can’t
pry open.
Arrogance
traps us
within these walls,
an odd man out
atttitude
which appalls
and sends me,
searching -
into the street again.

The Pigeon Man Sings

It’s freezing outside. I’d say my fingers feel like icicles but the truth is I can’t feel them at all, they’re so numb. I’ve tried to toss the popcorn with my gloves on but it doesn’t work. You can’t aim. It always falls to the ground in a clump and that means the stronger and greedier pigeons crowd out the weaker ones.
My name’s Wendell Mandanay and though I’ve lived in this neighborhood for nearly seventy years, most folks know me as the Pigeon Man. Kids sometimes taunt me. They shout ‘Pigeon Man! Pigeon Man!’ like it was something I should be ashamed of. But I don’t think they mean any harm. They’re just bored, that’s all, though I do get upset when they throw stones at the birds.
I’ve been feeding pigeons for eighteen years. I try not to miss a day. Sometimes my shoulder acts up, starts really hurting, and it’s too painful to even put my coat on. That’s when the pigeons miss a meal. Those kind of days seem to be more frequent lately and I feel bad for the birds.
My shoulder problems come from forty years of carrying a mail sack for this city. I’m not complaining. I enjoyed being a mailman when I handed folks a letter that made them smile. Some days my letters made them cry. When I was a younger letter carrier that used to bother me, but as I got older I realized bad news traveling through the mails is kind of like the weather -- sometimes you can predict it but you can never change it.
Three months ago I moved into the Senior Citizen Housing the city opened last year. It’s okay. The rent’s real cheap and it is closer to the park. Up until now I’ve ignored all the group activities the Seniors Commission have organized. Mostly they’ve been bingo games and chartered buses to the casinos at Atlantic City.
I’m not a gambling man. Heck, I’d never have bet I’d live as long as I have. And what were the odds that me, Wendell Mandanay, twelve years older than my wife, Anna, would outlive her by eighteen years? Do you know that after dozens of years of living with that woman the thing I miss most about her is her smile?
Lately the days seem to be getting darker quicker and I’m not so sure it’s because of winter. That’s why I’ve decided to tell a secret I’ve kept for nearly twenty years.
The day after I buried my wife I stopped eating. I didn’t plan to stop feeding myself; it just happened. I enjoyed the taste of certain foods and had earned considerable praise for my cooking skills, but now the only taste I desired was beer. And plenty of it. All I had to do was pick up the phone and thirty minutes later there’d be a case of it outside my door.
When Anna was alive we enjoyed taking walks and entertaining in our home. But these days I kept close company with the television set. I’d spend most of the time laying on the couch, sipping beer and listening to the T.V. The television talked at me day and night. Sometimes I’d awaken in the morning or the afternoon or at night and to my surprise recall the exact content of programs overheard in my sleep.
The neighbors grew concerned. Every couple of days it seemed someone would knock on my door. I’d rouse myself from the couch, place the beer bottles on the floor beneath the coffee table and quietly answer the door.
“Good afternoon, Wendell.”
“It is a fine afternoon.”
“How are things going, Wendell?”
“I’d say about three hundred and sixty degrees.”
“Is there anything I can get you, Wendell?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
“What is it, Wendell? What do you need?”
“I could use a smile. Whenever I answer a knock I never see one. Everybody always looks so upset, so nervous.
“That’s because we’re worried about you, Wendell.”
“But it’s all the unhappy faces at my door that makes me worry.”
“If I can be of any assistance, Wendell, you know where to find me.”
“Thank you. But to find you would mean that I lost you and I hope our friendship never comes to that. Good afternoon.”
I just wanted to be left alone. When Anna died not only did I lose my appetite, but I stopped cleaning up our apartment. And then I stopped cleaning myself.
About a month or so after my wife’s funeral I was watching a nature show on Public Television. It was all about pigeons. I was sleepy, a little groggy, and didn’t pay much attention. Not too much sunk in. Or so I thought.
When I woke up the next morning (or a few hours later) and went to the fridge for a beer, I kept hearing the narrator’s voice in my head. He was telling me things like:
‘Pigeons usually mate for life, rearing squabs season after season, often for ten year or longer.’
‘All pigeons naturally love to bathe and to keep their feather clean and shining.’
‘Pigeons do not overeat.’
‘Mated pigeons are generally more productive if the male is decidedly older than the female.’
I thought it was strange remembering that program because I always hated pigeons. To me they were nothing more than flying rats. And let me tell you, they made my life miserable when I was a mailman.
I quickly forgot about the birds when I discovered I was down to my last three bottles of beer. When I phoned the corner liquor store they refused to deliver. I owed them money from last bill.
This meant I had to go out to get it. And going outside was the last thing I wanted to do. I didn’t want to get cleaned and dressed, yet I didn’t want people to see me like that. So I compromised by taking a shave and hiding the rest of myself under a hat and an overcoat Anna had dry-cleaned for me. It was still in its plastic bag.
After pouring two bottles of beer down my throat I closed the door behind me. On the way to liquor store I saw a huge flock of pigeons. Some wretch had dumped bags of garbage in front of my building and the birds were having a feast.
They were all gobbling up that garbage except for this one bird. He had his back to the food and looked like he was tucked real tight inside his feathers. I walked around to face him.
I wasn’t in front of him more than two seconds when he lifts his beak and stares up at my face. I got such a chill looking at his eyes, and this was in the middle of August!
tried to walk away but couldn’t. The pigeon wouldn’t let me go.
That’s when I realized the bird wasn’t eating because he’d lost his mate. So I kneeled down, a bit unsteady from the beer I’d just drunk and the heavy overcoat, and gave him a pep talk. I told him to stop feeling sorry for himself, to stop punishing himself because his wife would hate to see him like that. I whispered that his wife had a husband she could respect and it was unfair to her memory if he became a bird that couldn’t be respected.
And don’t you know the pigeon starts bobbing his head like he’s agreeing with me. So I stood up and hurried over to the grocery store for some birdseed. When I returned he was gone. The other birds were still pecking at the garbage, but my pigeon had disappeared.
Being out in the fresh air must’ve made me hungry. That night I cooked myself a big supper. The next day I began to feed the pigeons, just in case my bird was part of a hungry flock.

untitled, by M. Kettner

rough day/eaves overflowing with rain

Old Man Directing Traffic in a Dream that Never Ends, Albany. N.Y., by Alan Catlin

His is the mind in rapid transit
between stops, waving emergency vehicles
the wrong way up Ontario Street, red
lights and sirens head on up aganist two
lanes of traffic and a large brick wall
no one else can see, the fall of Albany
in his eyes, the Alfred E. Smith building
in flames, Channel 10 News teams setting
up cameras, speaking as he speaks in a
gutteral form of grunt, faking the syllables,
the natural disasters that happen in the head
of this man turning sixty in a hurry, waving
down his dreams, dressed in ragged clothes
three sizes too small on the corner of a
block where two lane traffic turns to one
and goes the other way.

House Divided, by Gary A. Scheinoha

We built this house
and we’ll raze it to
the ground,
destroying a union
of some seventy
year plus.
It matters not
who drove
the first nail;
Masaryk, Benes
or other unknowns.
What counts most
or hurts worse
is who
yanks
that last
timber down.

Kiss and Tell, byn Marc Swan

In the paper-thin light
of early spring
Marie and I shivered
between the snowdrifts
waiting for the bus.
She was a grade above me.
Her dirty blond hair
hung loose over her turned up
collar, red rubber boots
dancestepping in time
with “King Creole”
she whistled
through chattering teeth.
In the summer
we’d climb Mr. Ford’s apple tree,
tossing green apples
as far as we could throw.
Her’s always outdistanced mine.
I tried to kiss her once
in that tree.
Laughing, she pushed me hard
and we tumbled to the ground
where I filled her mouth
with my eager tongue,
ran my hands under
her halter top, tried to get into
her soft cotton pants.
She kept laughing,
rolling away from me
but not too far.
She loved to walk in the woods
looking for the tracks of deer,
arrowheads,
humming a popular tune,
hair flying,
hands not afraid to touch
anything.

Like Daggers, by Alexandria Rand

I can’t think of anything else.
like daggers
speeding
slicing the air
the thoughts race through my mind.
I can’t help but think
of his stunning eyes
his sensitive touch
my weaklessness.
How he’s torn my life in two.

Sobering Up, by Gabriel Athens

I must admit
that there’s a definite proportion
with how good you look
and how much alcohol I’ve consumed
yes you are important to me
too important
and I think that scares me
for I don’t care what you say
but the only person
I can lean on
is myself
and I don’t want to frighten you
with my coldness
but I’ve been hurt
too many times before
and I’m sure as Hell
gonna try to stop it
from happening again
I’ve had to realize
that you can’t be my crutch
yes
I do care about you
too much
it is unhealthy
for when we go our separate ways
and I nkow we will
it will kill me
I know that you love me
and I know that you want to protect me
but I need to know
if there are other people
who care for me as well
I am not an animal
in a cage
and I have a life to lead
I know I’m being cold
but it’s what I have to do
call it a defense mechanism
call it sobering up

Morning, by Mary Winters

Suddenly after breakfast one morning
you yell to yourself with a start:
gosh - I haven’t worn my purple tights
yet this winter - thank God it’s not
too late. Just then son enters the
room to show off his recent clay
sculpture of a “mire”...he shows how
he can store paper clips in the pit
made by his collarbone when he raises
his arm. Husband brings out a jar of
lanolin and beeswax; remarks on the
pleasure of treating old leather books
with the innocent-smelling stuff.
Only thing is, he can’t bear to wait
overnight for the balm to sink in, so
he rubs it off right away. Later,
co-worker compliments purple tights
and admires your “perfect legs”; asks
why you don’t go out and flaunt them
at a restaurant every night stick them
out bare from under a table. You say your
legs just haven’t changed your life all
that much, but long thick eyelashes
probably would. Almost certainly would.

Nature Shows, by Mary Winters

The way of all flesh: to
glory in the subtle and exact
placement of different kinds of
hair on a young son’s body:
plumey head hair, eyebrows minutely
mimicing the curve of Dad’s,
film star eyelashes, cheek down the
fuzz of an exquisitely ripening
peach, sparser hairs hiding
nothing, back of a beautiful hand;
on hardy calves, golden little boy
hairs set to grow dark and wiry.
To relish nature programs: monkeys’
dominance and submission, leopards’
gene for killing fast, buzzards’
lust for gore, meat that’s eaten
raw, coupling without rules.
The way of all flesh: to mourn and
moan a stricken friend - young lawyer
facing cancer - and know you grieve
the you in her; see the chance for
likewise striking; seek a difference
to exempt you; stop the thought
you will not touch her.

Fish, by Janet Kuypers

It’s a pretty miraculous thing, I suppose, making the transition from being a fish to being a human being. The first thing I should do is go about explaining how I made the transition, the second thing, attempting to explain why. It has been so long since I made the decision to change and since I have actually assumed the role of a human that it may be hard to explain.
Before my role in human civilization, I was a beta - otherwise known as a Japanese fighting fish. Although we generally have a beautiful purple-blue hue, most people familiar with different species of fish thought of us as more expensive goldfish. I was kept in a round bowl, about eight inches wide at it’s longest point (in human terms, that would be living in quarters about 25 feet at the widest point). It may seem large enough to live, but keep in mind that as humans, you not only have the choice of a larger home, but you are also able to leave your living quarters at any point in time. I did not have that luxury. In fact, what I had was a very small glass apartment, not well kept by my owners (and I at that point was unable to care for it myself). I had a view of the outside world, but it was a distorted view. And I thought I could never experience that world first-hand.
Previous to living anywhere else, before I was purchased, I resided in a very small bowl - no longer than three inches at the widest point. Living in what humans would consider an eight foot square, I had difficulty moving. I even had a hard time breathing. Needless to say from then on I felt I needed more space, I needed to be on my own. No matter what, that was what I needed.
I lived in the said bowl alone. There was one plastic tree in the center of my quarters - some algae grew on it, but that was all I had for plant life in my space. The bottom of my quarters was filled with small rocks and clear marbles. It was uneventful.
Once they put another beta in my quarters with me - wait, I must correct myself. I thought the put another beta there with me. I must explain, but please do not laugh: I only came to learn at a later point, a point after I was a human, that my owner had actually placed my quarters next to a mirror. I thought another fish was there with me, following my every motion, getting angry when I got angry, never leaving me alone, always taking the same moves as I did. I raced back and forth across my quarters, always staring at the “other” fish, always prepared to fight it. But I never did.
Once I was kept in an aquarium for a short period of time. It was a ten-gallon tank, and I was placed in there with other fish of varying species, mostly smaller. I was the only beta there. There were different colored rocks, and there were more plastic plants. And one of the outside walls was colored a bright shade of blue - I later came to discover that it was paper behind the glass wall. Beyond the other fish, there was no substantial difference in my quarters.
But my interactions with the other fish is what made the time there more interesting. I wanted to be alone most of the time - that is the way I felt the most comfortable. I felt the other fish didn’t look like me, and I often felt that they were specifically out to hamper me from any happiness. You have to understand that we are by nature very predatorial - we want our space, we want dominance over others, we want others to fear us. It is survival of the fittest when it comes to our lives. Eat or be eaten.
I stayed to myself most of the time in the aquarium; I occasionally made shows of strength to gain respect from the other fish. It made getting food from the top of the tank easier when no one tempted to fight me for the food. It was lonely, I suppose, but I survived - and I did so with better luck than most of the others there.
Then one day it appeared. First closed off to the rest of us by some sort of plastic for a while, then eventually the plastic walls were taken away and it was there. Another beta was suddenly in my space. My space. This was my home, I had proven myself there. I was the only fish of my kind there, and now there was this other fish I would have to prove myself to. Eat or be eaten. I had to make sure - and make sure right away - that this other fish would never be a problem for me.
But the thing was, I knew that the other fish had no right to be there. I didn’t know how they got there, what those plastic walls were, or why they were there. But I had to stop them. This fish was suddenly my worst enemy.
It didn’t take long before we fought. It was a difficult battle, all of the other fish got out of the way, and we darted from one end of the aquarium to the other. It wasn’t long until I was given the opportunity to strike. I killed the other beta, its blood flowing into my air. Everyone there was breathing the blood of my victory.
Almost immediately I was removed from the aquarium and placed in my other dwelling - the bowl. From then on I knew there had to be a way to get out of those quarters, no matter what I had to do.
I looked around at the owner; I saw them walking around the tank. I knew that they did not breathe water, and this confused me, but I learned that the first thing I had to do was learn to breathe what they did.
It didn’t take much time before I was constantly trying to lift my head up out of the bowl for as long as I could. I would manage to stay there usually because I was holding my breath. But then, one time, I went up to the top in the morning, they way I usually did, and without even thinking about it, I just started to breathe. I was able to keep my full head up out of the water for as long as I wanted and listen to what was going on outside my living quarters.
Everything sounded so different. There were so many sharp noises. They hurt me to listen to them. Looking back, I now understand that the water in my tank muffled any outside noises. But beyond that, no one in my living quarters made noise - no one bumped into things, no one screamed or made noises. But at the time, all these noises were extremely loud.
I then knew I had to keep my head above water as much as possible and try to make sense of the sounds I continually heard. I came to discover what humans refer to as language only through listening to the repeated use of these loud sounds.
When I learned I had to breathe, I did. When I understood that I had to figure out their language, I did. It took so long, but I began to understand what they said. Then I had to learn to speak. I tried to practice under the water, in my dwelling, but it was so hard to hear in my quarters that I never knew if I was doing it correctly. Furthermore, I had become so accustomed to breathing air instead of water that I began to have difficulty breathing in my old home. This filled me with an intense fear. If I continue on with this experiment, I thought, will my own home become uninhabitable to me? Will I die here because I learned too much?
I decided that I had no choice and that I had to as my owner for help. I had to hope that my ability to produce sounds - and the correct ones, at that - would be enough to let them know that I am in trouble. Furthermore, I had to hope that my owner would actually want to help me. Maybe they wouldn’t want me invading their space. Eat or be eaten.
But I had to take the chance. One morning, before I received my daily food, I pulled the upper half of my body from the tank. My owner wasn’t coming yet, so I went back down and jumped up again. Still nothing. I kept jumping, until I jumped out of the tank completely. I landed on the table, fell to the floor, coughing. I screamed.
The next thing I remember (and you have to forgive me, because my memory is weak here, and this was seven years ago) is being in a hospital. I didn’t know what it was then, of course, and it frightened me. Doctors kept me in place and began to study me. They sent me to schools. And to this day I am still learning.
I have discovered one thing about humans during my life as one. With all the new space I have available to me, with all of the other opportunities I have, I see that people still fight each other for their space. They kill. They steal. They do not breathe in the blood, but it is all around them. And I still find myself doing it as well, fighting others to stay alive.