Children, Churches and Daddies THE GAME A. McIntyre Check. I had him, my Knight attacking his King. My father took a deep breath. Good move son, you’re definitely improving. He pondered the situation, Bishop takes Knight, you didn’t see that did you? You’ve got to be careful of those Bishops. We played on, the oil lamp flickering in the damp breeze, the tropical dark seething with unseen things beyond the verandah. The garden was out of bounds at night, recently the gardener killed two cobras near the compost heap uncovering a nest. I watched a lizard stalking a moth across the ceiling. Home from school for the holidays, and I was beating my father at chess. Wait till they heard next term. I saw myself announcing in no uncertain terms, I played my father at chess, and I won. Then I perceived the opening. If only . . . if only he moved that Pawn. He moved the Pawn. My Queen closed for the kill, the Rook supporting, mate in three. Check. He watched me, a faint line of sweat beading his brow, You’ve been playing a lot? I nodded, In the team, Mr. Robinson’s the coach. He grinned, Well, when you see Mr. Robinson next term, you tell him from me that he’s been doing a good job, you hear? Yes dad, I replied. In the meantime, he added, Go fix me a pink gin will you? The lizard caught the moth, mashing the dusty meal in its jaws. I poured the clear liquid into the glass, breathing juniper. Then tonic, finally a touch of Angostura bitters, the drops exploding like blood. Mixing the contents, looking over my shoulder, I took a sip, then another. With his back to me, focused on the game, my father didn’t notice. I placed the glass in front of him. He looked up, Thank you son. We resumed play, but the situation had changed. A Pawn was blocking my Rook. You moved, I said. No, not yet, he replied. But the Pawn. What Pawn? That Pawn wasn’t there before, I insisted. Nonsense son, you just don’t remember. Frowning, I stared at him. He stared back. The darkness a crescendo of crickets, the occasional screech of a monkey. Knight fork, he said, Watch how the Queen works here. It was dangerous but there was a way out because I had more pieces. For a while I blocked, then came the opening. This might be the end, I said advancing my Bishop across the board, Check. My father started laughing, Good gracious young man, you could be right, let me think carefully about this one. For a long time no-one spoke. The wind was strengthening, far away a rumbling of thunder. My father looked up, I think there’s going to be a storm. Go and make sure the windows are shut, will you? And tell your mother. I ran through the house closing windows. There’s going to be a storm, I shouted when I saw my mother in the bedroom, Dad told me to tell you. I dashed away before she could reply because she would tell me to go to bed and I was going to beat my father at chess. Lightening illuminated the sky revealing big puffy clouds the color of mud. Pulsating shadows danced along the walls. I sat down ready to finish the game. Then I noticed a Pawn blocking my Bishop. You moved again, I said. I most certainly did not, replied my father. You did, I know you did, my Bishop had you in check, and now there’s a Pawn. Look here, young man, I think you’re imagining things. Isn’t it time you went to bed? Outraged, the words spilled out of my mouth, You’re cheating, I know you are, you’re a cheat. Then I realized what I’d said. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, and I burst into tears. My mother appeared. What on earth is going on here, she asked, What’s all this dreadful noise? Dad’s cheating, I yelled before my father could say anything, I was winning and he keeps changing the board. Hands on her hips she glowered at him, Is this true? You ought to be ashamed of yourself Peter, she scolded, Teasing the boy, you’re supposed to be teaching him chess. Leaning back in the creaking wicker chair, my father was laughing. Actually, he said gradually regaining control, Actually, the boy’s teaching me chess, but I’m teaching him life. from Heroines Unlikely, art by Stephen Mead WHERE AM I? Arthur Gottlieb The dark does its dirty work. Day is done for, the sun Strangled on horizon wire, Dragging me down with it. Who is to say I’ll ever Rise again? The book of hours Draws me into its horrors: Plants and animals Disguised as people. I lose me place In this implausible plot. All I want is to be taken By surprise, waking in a world That believes in Eden, While music lifts my spirit. Now in the hospital quiet Only the tick tock of the clock In sync with the pendulum Pulsing in my blood. If only These beats had a rhythm I could snap my fingers to. I mark time slogging In a slow circle, a second hand Runner rewound to zero. Is it later than I think? No alarms go off, just a doctor Checking his watch against My limp lifted wrist. DICKENSIAN FICTION 14: poet popular as fashion star: an interview with poet Mary B. Soda David Spiering American poetry in recent years has tail spun like a wounded dragonfly and has threatened to make a lightweight puff-crash and disappear altogether inside rap music, comics, popular song, rock & roll, the blues music and rub itself into the long malleable ocean of prose. American poetry has taken a kindly midwestern neighborly tone to it — sort of like a polite backyard talk over a prim white picket fence about nice kindly kinfolkish things. Gone are the days of Allen Ginsberg, Langston Hughes, Muriel Rukeyser, Etheridge Knight, Aaron Kramer, Robert Bly, William Stafford, Kenneth Rexroth, Robinson Jeffers, Carl Sandberg, Vachel Lindsey, Andre Lorde, and Denise Levertov; their lines were bricks put against many sociopolitical and environmental hypocrisies; they explained it so well that it didn't need a name or title to know or to call it by. Today in the post 9/11 twilight fade down to darkness, American poetry has wandered rabbit like into the tall grass to hide from the rap-rich night cats, from being spot lit by a smooth prosy moon, to hide from horn-rimmed innocent bending into scurrilous behavior of rock & rollers and blues artists, breathing whiskey and tobacco smoke like a flammable fuel wide spread over the night. American poetry hunkers down afraid it'll burn down to be forgotten along with the rest of the little remains of Saturday night in America. Hold all that in abeyance to consider poet Mary B. Soda, whose works have risen in popularity in the last two years especially, with university English faculty nation wide. Soda possessing a carbonated personality teaches at the Upper Mississippi State University [UMSU] in North Country. She has the Franz Erling Wassenburg chair and the endowment coupled with it. [Wassenburg and surviving family were the chief brewers of North Country form 1850 to 1990, when they sold the brewery. Now Wassenburg Lager is contracted out to a brewer outside the North Country and the quality badly down-slipped.] Soda lives in an ole prairie style house on a flattop hill west of the UMSU Campus. She has two rottweilers named Morvis and Mervin. The dogs set themselves defensively and bark tough as verbal field artillery while Soda tries to quiet them on her way to the door. She puts them in a pen in the side yard. She makes a pot of green tea and arranges pecan sandies on a glass plate. Her home is remarkably unadorned with books, a computer sits on a desk covered with a large plastic bag, a ream of paper sits next to it with its end flaps tucked and taped neatly. She carried the teapot and the sandies, then returns with napkins and cups. The phone rings. She cups the receiver between her shoulder and her ear as she talks she hands me a copy of The Upper Atlantic Poetry Monthly, her glamour shot’s on the cover. The zine is a straight-through glossy. Her photo make her resemble a famous Hollywood starlet. Her lips gleam like sun lit ice, a fan blows her hair as if wind inflating a bird’s wing feathers at the initiation of flight. Her cheeks are a makeup artists airbrushed artsy seashells. Her eyes have a current-Hollywood-hero prowling cat glow to them. Just like a Hollywood diva teasing a North Country farm boy into thinking even he can take her to the Friday high school dance. “They sent a professional model photographer up here to do the shoot — it was done in the art department, it took all morning, he had me in all types of costumes— it was a whirl wind of his commands and flash bulbs and silky garments. Jay Frisbee’s the editor and thinks this mag is a watershed project to bring poetry to people who normally read People, Cosmopolitan, and other popular fashion and culture magazines. He wants poetry that’s what he calls post-modern — or poetry that is not in any sense convoluted or filled with figurative or what he calls drunken language— if you mean a straight line then write a straight line. He does not want feelings and does things through liquored-up double speak or contemplating how a jet fuel stream is a flat line compared to the ground — minus the effects on gravity —” she said. “What about people that still like Sylvia Plath, Ezra Pound, Yeats, The English Romantics, Herman Melville, Alex Pope, W.C. Williams and Emerson?” “In my view they clotted their abilities to see this dark world for what it is — and by calling it something it’s not, to me and Fribee that’s a type of lying — calling a atomic blast an electronic mushroom makes no sense to me, saying our polluted water bodies and water ways have a permanent chemical memory is a way of adding sugar to make the bitter poison we and our offspring must deal and live with more digestible.” “It seems poetry has fallen into quite a slump...” “That’s because it’s too sub textual — and evergreen bush when the bird in the bush is more important than the bush.” “How did you arrive at poetry?” “I was a drama major and I needed an upper level division elective and I took a poetry workshop class — I knew nothing about poetry — I still don’t know anything about it and I have a Ph.D. In its practice — I went on my teacher’s praise — he told me that he liked to talk about my poems because he could say smart things that other people couldn’t challenge — couldn’t find evidence rolled in the poems convoluted layers to justify their opinions.” “Your latest book, Black Anvil — the jacket blurbs said ‘straight shooting as black ink on white paper — and these poems can only mean one way.’” “Hank Winegaard was my first workshop teacher — he made the other people in class angry because he said he could say such intelligent things about my poems — when I wanted to go to graduate school, Hank wrote me such nice letters that after I arrived, my new teachers said I should thank him for the nice letters. I kept on with my non-imagist non-figurative non-sub textual language poetry — although I had problems with teachers, who for the sake of their lack of enlightenment — maybe that’s too mean — but they were upset I didn’t have reverence for W.B. Yeats or T.S. Eliot. I told them before the class I’ve never read them and I’m not reading them now — let them collect dust on the bookstore and library bookshelves. To make a long story short, I told them I thought most of all poetry written up until I came up with my plain speaking lines stunk and was unreadable — they gasped at me — I said the only writing I trust are essays — I told them — I have bookshelves full of them. I did want them drawing black circles around me — I mean I didn’t want them to not take me too seriously. I was barely able to finish the degree. I had problems getting the Ph.D. Too; though, I had to deal with less people — but they thought better to let me finish than get in my way — and thereby having me as a perpetual problem.” The green tea cooled enough to drink and pecan sandies crumbled like dandruff down shirtfronts and stuck like white flecks on sweaters. “How do you think your work will be viewed in 50 to 100 years?” “That’s not for me to say [she said taking a slim Henry Clay cigar from a wooden humidor, V-notching it, and rolling the tip slowly over a butane lighter’s flame until the tip was red and gray — she put it in her mouth and puffed until a Bob Marleyan-like smoke plum engulfed her head — she motioned her hand at the box for gestured directly; she received affirmative nods and the cigar was put in a shirt pocket for later] after I’m gone they can say what they want — but I think in a hundred years my work will be the granite headstone holding all English language poetry coming before it under the green grass. I get letters every day from college and high school teachers thanking me for writing poetry that they can say concrete intelligent things about — you see, teachers on all levels don’t like to be embarrassed by reading Yeats and Eliot and euh ... Water Closet Williams too for that matter and having students come back to them with different ideas that can be proved textually — teachers need a strong pulpit from where they are always in control and have mental mastery over students — my poetry will be remembered and read for hundreds and hundreds of years because teachers can say intelligent things about them.” “What do you really think of the glamour shot of you on the zine cover?” She dumps the gray ash in a convenient wine glass, and takes a long draw, making the tip glow bright red, them blowing a long gray smoke stream. The sandies, for their part, were buttery tasting and probably alive and seeded with pib fat shortening, something from science and medical science making the supply pipes to the poet’s heart issue grave quiet tocsins heard only in dreams and deep solitude. She hopes [as do many green tea drinkers] that the green tea’s antioxidants are inside her blood dog fighting the particles of heart disease, bladder walling them before spewing them out dead into the toilet water. “You really want to know — I hope the photo ends up on Life magazine’s issue of the decade’s most influential people — I hope I’m on the cover.” “Have you considered smoking a 52inch ring gauge — I find they draw better.” She sat back and leaned forward and had a tea sip. “You see, when you have a nose as long and thin as mine, you just have to match your stogies to fit its general overall length.” “Have you read any of the lines of Dylan Thomas?” “No. Who the Hell is Dylan Thomas?” The green tea circles the cup like a river current bending around a boulder. “What about Ann Sexton and Sylvia Plath?” “What about them. You don’t seem to understand — all poetry in the English language stunk until I started writing — now I’m training poets to write like me and they’ll train poets to write like me to completely negate and disarm the terrible misleading convoluted poetry of the past — if there’s a god, I can’t believe it has an ego or will stronger than mine.” “What do you think of verbal melodies?” “Stop trying to confuse me with the language of the past.” “See that loud up there — what does it look like to you?” “It’s just water vapor gathered together in the correct atmospheric conditions to create itself — science has it covered, I don’t need to say anything.” “That cloud reminds me of my deep emotional heart.” “Have another cookie. I’ll bet you’re a Pound-Yeats fan — think of it like this — when you’re in the receiving area to a place of commerce, when you hear a certain name or word — say you say to an average working class person, “golden apples of the sun” when they hand you a golden delicious apple, and you’re thinking of Yeats’ line from “The Song of Wandering Aengus” — they look at you like there’s something wrong with you — you hear a name like Marcia come over the intercom and most people say, “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.” My point is that what’s great about my poetry is once people hear my lines they’ll stick there like the name “Marcia” they think of Jan Brady’s sulky plaintive remark. Average people will quote my lines.” How can you be so certain of yourself — isn’t that something for someone else to decide, maybe 50 to 75 years down the line—” “They may wither correctly or incorrectly,” Soda popped, poured and fizzed into sun-brighten almost crystal surrounding daylight. “But to survive 100 years, poetry has to be champagne like, well kept to preserve its effervescence. Or it needed to be kept well corked and mitigated by extensive praise before its opened. The steno book was flipped shut and dropped in a coat pocket. The photographer showed to take some photos at the departure time. Soda popped and spun smiles and whirled he hair like a fashionable helicopter’s chopping blades. Soda hand-loaded her dogs in the house as the car engine caught. The car moved away from her “historic” curb. The notebook rumbled like a small volcano in the suit coat pocket beside the cigar. But a deep thinking person well ensconced the art’s disciples must consider this — In three months it’ll be cold enough that no one with good sense will go to bed naked. The snow and the cold will put a lid of white and ice on this land tight enough that no clarion cry of “rosebud” will provide no Hollywood-1950s-styled-pipe-smoke-tinged-wing tip-wearer any warm freedom — it’s all hoe big the imagination makes the warm cozy feelings, until after Valentine’s Day, when the ice and cold often give way to the beginning string moderation. Judging the Living, The Dead... art by Edward Michael O’Durr Supranowicz Winter Leaves Jane Stuart Fallen winter leaves stick on rain-soaked clumps of grass frozen in cold ground; Wind blows starlight through night’s trees, moonlight gleams on coldest grass untitled Bobbi Dykema Katsanis she carries her body uneasily as though ashamed of how tall she is, and longing to be a half-inch shorter. Her hair is several different shades of red, all of which clash. she had a man once, there! over in the corner she left him one morning and when she came back he was gone stolen, she guessed although she did not file a police report she assumed he’d return when he got hungry so she made twice-baked potatoes his favorite every night for three weeks. Sweet Enchantment, art by Aaron Wilder The Walk with Generic William Roche For M.E.G. China is louder than I expected Good fireworks though This apartment is too cramped This noise outside too intriguing This television too boring Walks are nice I enjoy the scenery of this Asian metropolis I realize I am not walking alone A boy walks with me Nothing special about him Generic comes to mind This crowd is huge I’ll just traverse the edge We’re still walking together “Nice day,” he says “Nice day for a protest,” I think “Yes,” I say back instead It certainly is a nice day. The crowd roars louder What exactly is going on? “I enjoyed our walk,” he says “I did too,” I say We shake hands and he disappears into the crowd I see him on the news later that day Generic leaves my mind The boy stood up to the tank In Tiananmen Square The Presentation of Billy Bordano Ken Kash John Gold walked for hours – covered in blood. His journey began deep within the wilderness at the crack of dawn. John reached his final destination at nine forty-five a.m. He snuck around the side of a small, brick house and peered inside a window. John saw his longtime friend, Arnold Haywood. Arnold, always considered very eccentric, sat in his living room this Saturday morning, painting his lips black. Arnold wore an oversized muumuu, something he did quite regularly, even though he was very tall and lanky. John shook his head and walked around to the front door. He rang the doorbell. Arnold opened the door a moment later with a smile on his face. When Arnold saw the blood on John, his smile faded. John knew why Arnold’s smile faded. He saw blood covering John’s face, neck and shirt. A gash circled its way around his left eye. Minor abrasions littered the rest of his face. Some blood appeared to be splattered, some appeared to drip down his chin and some blood belonged to John. “Are you okay?” Arnold asked. “This cannot be. I refuse to accept it. I refuse to believe it; but I do,” John answered. “What happened?” Arnold asked. “If you want me to leave I’ll understand,” John said. “No, no, come on inside.” Arnold led John inside and to a La-Z-Boy. Before Arnold sat down on his couch, he removed his muumuu to maintain some semblance of normalcy. He now wore mesh shorts and a tank-top (and black lipstick). “Do you need anything?” Arnold asked. “Just for you to listen,” John replied. “Okay, I’m listening.” “Every human being on earth knows me as John Gold. But the ones down there know me as ‘Sleeping Ali Baba’.” “Who are the ones down there?” Arnold asked. “Just listen. I have always been considered the normal one and you have always been the weird one. Yet nothing very strange has ever happened to you. Let me tell you something Arnie; there are demons and they are everywhere... --- It all started last Thursday. I have had the same Thursday routine for fifteen years. I woke up at six thirty, shaved, showered, had breakfast with my wife and kids and went into work. I walked to my secretary Freida’s desk and we previewed my day. I had a staff meeting at ten, a conference call at one thirty and a projections review with my Director of Finance at four. My day went smoothly and the next thing I knew it was five. I didn’t quite feel like going home so I stayed. After twenty minutes of staring at my computer screen, Freida said I had a man to see me. His name was Billy Bordano. I had never heard of the man, but was in no hurry to leave, so I had Freida show him to my office. The man who walked in looked like a cleaned-up rock star. He had jet-black hair pulled into a neat ponytail in the back of his head. It looked like he used excessive amounts of hair gel. He had a thin goatee and was wearing suit as black as his hair. I couldn’t quite place the designer. His dress shirt was white and he wore a silk, solid-red tie. ‘Mr. Bordano, is it?’ I asked. ‘Yes. Thank you for seeing me on such an unexpected visit,’ he replied. ‘No problem. What is it I can do for you?’ ‘Well I know it’s a longshot but I’d like to do advertising for your company. I know you already have somebody but I believe I could work wonders for your business.’ The man was obviously an amateur; but I needed a good laugh before I went home. So I asked, ‘What did you have in mind?’ ‘I’m glad you asked. The first thing I need to know is the last time you replaced a light-bulb in your office.’ ‘Huh?’ ‘I’m just kidding. Now listen. Advertising is getting your product in consumers’ minds by any means, half consciously and half unconsciously. For the next five minutes, you’re going to be listening to me; but at the same time, you will wonder what light-bulb you changed last, and maybe which one will burn out next. Would you say that’s accurate?’ he asked. ‘Very,’ I replied. I was beginning to think he was unconventional but maybe not an amateur. ‘Good. We’re getting somewhere. Now I don’t need to tell you how much impact media – newspapers, television and movies, have on our lives. For instance, did you ever see the movie Fight Club?’ ‘No,’ I replied while thinking now I’ll get to laugh. He is an amateur. ‘Well one specific scene in a recent movie had a huge impact on me. There is a scene where the two main characters are driving down a freeway. They are having an argument about many things but the one point is control. Now I believe that control is an illusion. No matter how much you think and believe you have it, you really don’t. The two characters are verbally fighting in the car. The character driving the car convinces the man in the passenger seat to let go of control. Brad Pitt is the character driving and takes his hands off the wheel. Edward Norton is the passenger and he quickly puts on his seatbelt. They let go of control and crash into a parked car. Since watching that scene, a day hasn’t gone by where I haven’t thought about doing that. When I’m driving in my car and see a bend ahead in the road, I always wonder what would happen if I let go of the steering wheel? Where would I end up? Would I get hurt? If so, what would get hurt and what would eventually stop the car? But I never have the guts to do it. ‘Now that’s advertising. That scene is a subliminal message your brain transfers into your idea. Now my advertising company can do that with your products. We put the message into the heads of the masses. Your product will be in their head so much they will have to buy it or go mad. What do you think?’ He was a very good speaker but an amateur businessman. However, I could use a guy like him on my sales staff. He was enigmatic but honest. He had great energy but in no way was I going to switch advertising companies. I’d been with the other firm for ten years. I said, ‘you’ve come a little late in the day, Mr. Bordano. Why don’t you put something more specific on paper and we’ll talk.’ He replied, ‘I will. Thank you for your time.’ He stood up and gave me his business card. We shook hands and he left. I sat down in my chair and thought about the presentation of Billy Bordano. The next week was a blur. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. All I could think about was - my name is John Gold and I have always been in control, or had I? Is control possible? Where does it come from? I tried and tried to get these thoughts out of my head but for some reason I couldn’t. I didn’t hear from him again. I called him but the number was disconnected. I wanted to know how he put those thoughts into my head. I never, ever questioned myself before I met Billy Bordano. Then last night something happened to me. I had my normal, seemingly controlled day and had just started my twenty-five minute commute home. It was Friday; I knew traffic would be horrible, so I decided to take back roads on my way home. Night shrouded its black cloak over us early last night. I was driving down a road I’ve driven literally hundreds of times. The road was eerily dark and empty. The streetlights were unlit and trees swallowed my car like a snake. I have no idea why I did what I did next. An irresistible urge took control of my mind and body. The compulsion told me to let go of the steering wheel. I succumbed to the impulse. A left turn came upon me and my car kept straight. My car bounced and jerked down a hill, entering deeper and deeper into the woods. The adrenaline rush was exhilarating - until an Oak Tree abruptly stopped my descent. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. I felt a fresh, warm trickle of blood running down my face. I knew I had a nice cut above and around my left eye. I was only semi-conscious when I saw an unbelievable sight. I saw a house in the middle of the woods. It looked like any normal white house and even had a white picket fence. My ears were ringing; but I could hear noises emanating inside the humble abode. I was able to stand up and limped to the front door. I knocked and a raspy voice answered, ‘What’s the password?’ The fantastic words which escaped my lips gave me the nickname ‘Sleeping Ali Baba.’ - OPEN BLOODY PIG. The door opened and I stumbled in the house. My vision was blurry but I know what I saw. It looked like a costume party but there were no costumes. Beasts inside the house danced with awful gyrations. I saw human-like beings, covered in hair with beady eyes and big sharp teeth. They were playing instruments. I saw little gremlin-like characters on a stage singing, ‘I don’t believe in charityyyyyy, I do believe in sin. If you want you’re gonna bleeeeed and we’re here to tell you why. I really hate societyyyyy, God never really liked me. Our goal is to punish thooooose who really think they’re good.’ A man without a face handed me a challis. He had no eyes, no nose, no mouth, not even ears. I lifted the challis and drank what was unmistakingly blood. I gagged and dropped the challis. When the challis hit the floor, the crowd became silent. Everything looked at me. A mammoth monster with three arms (the third protruding from his chest) grabbed me. He led me up stairs and shoved me through a door. The second floor was worse than the first. The entire floor was one room. Horribly deformed creatures, weeping, filled the room. A being with no arms, no legs, one eye, a crooked nose and half a mouth lay on the carpet. One poor soul, with two holes where eyes used to be, was naked and had no genitalia. Its near-lifeless body hung from a noose. I needed to leave the room before I vomited. I found another set of stairs. I ran up them and went through a door at the top. The third floor was different from the other two floors. The third split into separate rooms. A naked man, lying on the floor with at least a dozen female vampires all over him created the scene in the first room. They encircled him and sucked his blood. The man stared at me as he lost all color. I couldn’t take it and exited through the door to my left. The next room I entered was horrendous. A naked woman was tied to the wall as a beast chomped away at her stomach. The sick part was that a baby cried inside her womb. The beast was eating the child too. I exited the room by means of a door to the far right. An orgy filled the next room. It was an orgy of beasts and vampiress’s. They were also biting each other. Each bite drew blood and their mouths came away with flesh. I exited stage right. Hanging, dead beasts, gremlins and vampires packed the next room I entered. They were all half-eaten. I needed to escape this madness. I found another door to my right. As I placed my hand on the knob, I realized the next room was the center room and would be the last. I entered. Lit candles filled the center room. A red carpet lined on each side with fantastically beautiful women, masturbating, stood at my feet. A king’s throne, raised on an altar, shined majestically at the end of the red carpet. A man was sitting in the chair, beckoning me. I slowly walked toward the man. As I reached the edge of the throne, I saw the ringleader of this lunacy. It was Billy Bordano. He pointed at me and said, ‘You, John Gold, are the very definition of normalcy on earth. Get on your knees and bow to me as I speak,’ he commanded. The women of the room surrounded me. They all held daggers in their hands. I was trapped. I feared for my life so I bowed. I asked, ‘What do you want from me?’ He stood and then said, ‘You never understood that earth is not about money, power, or control. It is about flesh. So I had to destroy you. You let go in your car now let go with us. Partake in our feast tonight. You will sing, eat and fuck with us tonight or you will die. Not only will we end your life, but also the lives of your wife and children. They will be tortured, raped, eaten and burned. Are you with us tonight?’ The women ripped off all my clothes. They held daggers to my throat, chest, stomach and crotch. Billy Bordano knelt down in front of me. He asked again, ‘Are you with us tonight?’ What was I supposed to do? I had no choice but to agree with him. I spent the night with the beasts in a blood-drenched orgy. The women were the food. The beasts were the entertainment. The corpses were the wine and Billy Bordano was the host. I cried all night and vomited about a dozen times. When the sun rose in the east, the party withdrew and I was sent away. But before I left, Billy said to me, ‘Find a friend and be with him by ten. At that time we will come for you.’ I didn’t want to jeopardize my family so I came here. I didn’t know who else to go to.” --- “Why in the hell did you come HERE?” Arnold asked. “I don’t know why I came here; but I know it’s one minute ‘till ten,” John replied. Arnold laughed and said, “Okay, okay, you got me. Quit playing around.” “I’m not playing around,” John said. “You have always wanted the strange and unusual. Now you will have it.” The house began to gently shake. Figures inside the walls circled the living room. As their horrible faces begin protruding through the walls, Arnold could tell they were every bit as horrible as John described them. Arnold momentarily froze with fear. The beasts broke through the walls. Arnold shed his prison of fear and tried to run. John tackled him by the ankles. Hairy, overgrown beasts with giant claws grabbed Arnold. They sliced his neck, back, chest, and stomach. He screamed in agony. John watched all this happen to his friend. To his surprise, he didn’t feel regret. The male beasts retreated and the lady vamps attacked. They licked and sucked at Arnold’s wounds. Like vultures, the gremlin-like creatures chewed at his limbs. Arnold tried to kick and punch but his strength faded fast. John maintained eye contact with Arnold. With his eyes, Arnold pled for John to help him. John did not. He would not lift a finger. It was better for this to happen to Arnold than John’s wife and children. John broke the eye contact and let Billy Bordano take his place. Billy knelt on one knee and looked down upon Arnold. Billy said, “We are the corrupters. We take the normal, the good, and the naӗve and turn them into crazed monsters. Everyone has a demon buried deep within him or her, no exceptions. As for you, Arnold Benson, your demons are at the surface - and well, they just don’t cut it.” Billy Bordano withdrew and the monsters resumed their attack. Arnold weakly tried to fight. The beasts easily overpowered him. As John watched his best friend die, he thought - some cannot hide their demons forever. The longer the demon hides, the more it festers and grows inside you. When it comes to the surface it is bigger, uglier and much more evil than it would have been long ago. If your demon has been hidden for years, pray you never hear the presentation of Billy Bordano. Elephantine hand, art by Xanadu Laundromat Sonnet (5) Michal Ceraolo The people who profited from the machines had decreed they deserved more for doing nothing; the greed of leeches keeps no bounds: the machines would no longer take coins; they would be converted to take a card for which all residents would be charged an upfront three-dollar fee; and there was also a seventy-five cent fee hidden on every card- seventy-five cents that would never pay for a load and was thus useless to the residents if not the owners And the machines keep leaking Rose Patricia Tully A rose blossoms slowly and so beautifully. Over time each pedal will open expose the heart of the rose. With warmth the pedals fall, no longer needed because the heart is so protected and so trusting. Once the heart is without its pedals and is truly exposed for the first time, it is then that it begins to whither and die. For the truth of its protector no longer warms it, but burns it, slowly destroying its will to live on. Unbreakable Seal, art by Aaron Wilder ODE #1 TO A PACK OF UNFILTERED LUCKY STRIKE CIGARETTES Kenneth DiMaggio It could only mean that you had steel wool for lungs and a cast iron carburetor for a heart because tough guys like you always tasted a few pubic hairs with every drag which is why every time you had to smoke you also needed a little whiskey to sizzle out any cancer silk stuck between your teeth And your soft cellophane package of unfiltered Luckies was small enough to fit in and be played with by your palm the same way you nervously turned up and around your chrome Zippo lighter or tape measure on the mahogany countered bar --a sign of DO NOT DISTURB --Tradesman or blue collar worker mourning a lost hot rod youth too much Vodka in your DNA and machine oil in your chromosomes And is it a cold sore or lesion in your soul spreading what only a drink and a cigarette and the most raw and strong and above all bitter that will stop the defoliation of your spirit If only you could have learned how to share to speak the way you once on the field learned to fight to dominate and now when you cannot even be master of yourself with now a restless hollowing and turning Front gate to the Dachau Concentration Camp, Germany photo, John Yotko LIFE SENTENCE Camille Dull I live one long run-on Sentence chaotic Adjectives bumping Quaking adverbs crashing Dichotomous nouns splashing Pools of vowels reeling Contradictory phrases scintillating Synonyms cajoling metaphors murmuring Conjunctions coalescing, evaporating Dangling participles sending Rumbling spasms of verbs churning Tumbling, falling, sliding Slipping slowly Fading Gone painting by Nicole Aimiee Macaluso Live Like Plastic Michelle Greenblatt wild with starlight (mangled, unfolding) fear cracks open like december, a million trees under diverging sky overhead and below the noise quietly retracts survival is buried deeply inside the thin line connecting ocean to horizon whatever crimes I have committed, whatever larcenies, trespasses, now holding you is trying to catch the wind with a butterfly net. the hours/days churn in the cement mixer of time, you subside, slip out of view, leave no fingerprints only a note pinned on my body to teach me a lesson. I wake and read it: Michelle, this is how you live when nothing has a container, when you live like liquid and do everything to hide it. Was It Snowing, art by Brian Hosey SOMETIMES COOL James B. Nicola Sometimes Cool is the word you use in place of Silly when you want to be silly and don’t want others to laugh. Sometimes Cool is the word they use in place of Silly when they want you to buy Silly so that others won’t laugh. Sometimes Cool is cool just cool but rarely. If too many knew the difference in these three, there would go the economy. Woodgrain, art by Tracy M. Rogers That Man Mark D. Cohen Today is August 14th I just paid $2.59 for a gallon of gas On August 1st, I paid$2.29 Do not talk to me about diminishing reserves This is all about international geo-politics And the Arab nations being absolutely furious About what happened at Abu Ghraib And here I sit in my living room In total amazement I simply cannot believe the things That man on Pennsylvania Avenue Has done to MY country Meanwhile the rednecks wave the flag And raise the flagpole The flagpole that is going to knock us all to the ground Sooner than we think Sunday, August 14, 2005 THE RELIGIOUS LEFT OR JESUS WAS NOT A CONSERVATIVE SHARI O’BRIEN * At the end of the seventeenth century in the British colony of Massachusetts, twenty-four people who were perceived as guilty of witchcraft were hung or tortured to death. The mass hysteria generating the Salem witch trials was the product of a conservative brand of Christianity called Puritanism. Church leaders served as an advisory board to government officials; together they forged a coalition, a seventeenth century version of a moral majority regarding themselves as duty-bound to carry out the will of God. With illustrious “disciples” of Christ like preacher Cotton Mather urging the hangman to snap the noose around the neck of one warlock even while he unflinchingly recited the Lord’s prayer, how could the good people of Salem go astray? Despite the barrier between church and state that some have imagined the Constitution erected one hundred years later, religion and politics have been flirting on the North American continent for more than three centuries. In fact, the two have been carrying on an affair, sometimes more flagrant than clandestine. And while it may seem that the voice of the moral majority that shrieked in Salem in 1692 was muted by the twentieth century, there is a little doubt that it is blaring from high-tech stereo speakers today. Interestingly, however, the Republican party has become the almost exclusive paramour of conservative Christianity only within the last twenty-five years. As recently as the 1960’s, Democratic Governor of Alabama George Wallace was the darling of many southern Protestant denominations. The collective mission of Wallace and his Christian soldiers was not to keep the world safe from witchcraft, but to preserve the status quo of segregation across the South at a time when left-wing jurists - - no doubt Communists in the grip of Satan! - - were handing down landmark civil rights’ rulings. Certainly this confederacy of Southern Baptists that formed in the fifties, sixties, and seventies could never be accused of “liberalism”, despite membership in the Democratic party. In 1976, another southern Democrat, Jimmy Carter, became the first president of the United States to describe himself as a born-again Christian. Though Carter shared Wallace’s formal party and religious affiliations, he was a political moderate who infuriated many southern Christians with his progressive views. Alliances between church and state, then, are nothing new in American history. What is of recent vintage is that the Republican party, long the bastion of mainstream Christians like Episcopalians and Presbyterians, has become the stronghold of the Christian far right of almost every geographical region as the twenty-first century continues groping its way through its first dark decade. One faction of one political party has honed an image of itself as the bride of Christ. Correspondingly, by publicly exploiting ties to fundamentalism, conservative Republicans have convinced many voters that they have a monopoly on moral values. The contemporary fusion of card-carrying Republicans and fundamentalist Christians traces its genesis to 1979 when Jerry Falwell founded the Moral Majority, a political action group composed of conservative Christians. Lobbying for prayer in schools and against such diabolical, feminist-driven plots as the Equal Rights Amendment, the Moral Majority promoted highly conservative candidates until officially disbanding in 1989. Its gauntlet was taken up by the Christian Coalition that distributed voters’ guides throughout the nineties, explicitly backing most of the Republican platform and conservative Republican candidates like George W. Bush, who became its poster boy. Today, what can only be deemed a theocracy has emerged from the marriage of the fundamentalist faithful and the now spacious right wing of the Republican party. Despite laying the blame for September 11th at the door of feminists, gays, and civil libertarians, this marriage is rock solid, spawning legions of adherents among otherwise rational Americans. While those of the Religious Right are convinced their world view is grounded in the Bible, clearly, Jesus himself was not a conservative. In fact, the life and message of Jesus was antithetical to the conservative Jewish world into which he was born. A revolutionary who threw the money lenders out of the Temple (Mark 11:15), Christ was a bleeding heart liberal who befriended whores, thieves, and lepers. He preached a Gospel of almost unadulterated anti-capitalism, admonishing a rich man to sell his possession and distribute the proceeds to the poor “and you shall have treasure in heaven . . . For it is easier for camel to go through a needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God”(Luke 18: 22-25). Evidently, members of the Christian Right gloss over this and other parallel passages as they steadfastly support tax cut for the wealthiest of the wealthy. The Religious Right, moreover, claim that their God directed, in 2003, a preemptive strike against a sovereign nation, yet Jesus sermonized on the Mount: “Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God” (Matthew 5:9). Time and again, Jesus urged his listeners to love not only their brethren but their enemies as well (Luke 6: 27-35). While the Christian Right mocks peace activists, they eschew the fact that Jesus was the Prince of Peace himself. It is probably safe to conclude as well that Jesus would express outrage if consulted about yet another kind of violence, that directed against the world’s poor. The question “what would Jesus do?’ on a planet in which, every 3.6 seconds, another precious life is lost to starvation is a rhetorical one. Put another way, those same “pro-lifers” of the Christian Right ignore the admonitions of their savior when they support political agendas protective of mega-billionaires and the corporations they control. Jesus urged his followers to feed the hungry and clothe the naked for “whatever you [do] for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you [do] for me” (Matthew 25: 35-46). Imagine a dialogue, then, between ultra-conservative Christians and their Lord about a state of affairs in which 15 million children die of hunger annually, yet the world’s entire sanitation and food requirements could be met by the 13 billion dollars the Western world spends onperfume alone each year. Certainly, I concede that one can identify biblical passages that seem to bolster the views of the Religious Right. For example, Christ said “Think not that I come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace but a sword” (Matthew 10:34). And Paul in the New Testament states that homosexual offenders “will not inherit” the kingdom of God (1 Corinthians 6:10). But a strong case can be made that a ChristianLeft can be found in the very words of Jesus. And abundant proof is at hand in the Bible that Jesus today would disapprove as heartily of large sections of the Republican as of the Democratic planks. Jesus, and in fact Mohammed, Buddha, and every great prophet the world has known, belong to all of us, Republican and Democrat, conservative and liberal, the mighty and the powerless. The God who sent them all is a God of social justice, a God of mercy, a God of the entire Universe, or He is nothing at all. * A poet, university lecturer, and attorney, Dr. O’Brien has been in recovery from conservativism for several years. Because it is a heredity condition, many of her relatives remain in its velvet clutches. WCR Legs 1, art by David Matson (last summer, while on vacation in Wash. State) R. Kimm Hunting in the Cascade Mtns, in the desert, in the arid Columbia Basin, in the Mexican Supermarkets in Odessa, Othello, Sprague, the littered-w.-wrecks Spokane Indian Res- ervation, the pony spacey loquacious Col- ville Indian Res. just N. of the concrete Grand Coulee Dam, w. its blinking green night running lights hunting for you for your big smile for your big dark hair your big throaty chortle Yr big smile -- ennobles Yr big hair teases (you like to suck on its tails when running the machine alone -- 3 a.m.) Yr big chortles lift my spirits unexpectantly (its soo-o big!!) Yr keyboard work, yr frets, high-laced boots, (yr tongue, yr pedal-to-the-medal sexy, yr lips when you pointedly pucker them) yr booming bass, alto, tremolo thrill-soprano to me heart (yr franko complexities + possibilities) “I want ‘ya to listen to these songs on this tape -- they’re my new composition...” Still Life Through Window, art by Cheryl Townsend Monthly Excursion Stacy Dore Past the man handing out pamphlets making proclamations into a mic. broadcasting low frequency all the horror. . . the horror Past the pair of heavy doors Pussshhhh the waiting room is peopled with mothers’ bodies that house them: some wanted some unwanted some still unshowing unsure bellies still concave not yet rounded the signs of new life? Past legs, all sizes sticking out At the counter, they sit behind thick bulletproof transparent barrier chosen to protect them I speak confidently slowly, most of them preoccupied with multitasking phones and computers and lists of those waiting in the space now behind me She buzzes me in through the double doors that are locked from the inside into their crisp, clean space where i can speak freely without the glass to separate us. Past the private door she finds them pills the man outside said are against the will of god We wait for my receipt from the outdated printer (not yet ink jet) I finger the free condoms in the jar tenderly secret candy we talk about new laws Another jar protesting buttons I put it on the overhead visor, over the seatbelt warning Emotionally Disturbed, art by Melissa Reid À TU, LA VICTIME Aaron Wilder I’m sorry, but I can’t be your guidance counselor anymore. I’m sure that I’ll never see an end to it all. An end to all your drama. You’re always playing the central actress in tragedy after tragedy. Stop acting like that correctional institute inmate from California. You haven’t the slightest thing in common with her. That is not where your bones will rest and neither of us will be your mortician. Just stop the screaming, the kicking, the tears of agony. You’re not the victim this time. We are not dating, so stop acting like it. Stop trying to make your life worse than everyone else’s. It’s getting old and I don’t care anymore, as restless as you’ve made me. You swing your life by the sappy rock lyrics you dramatize. You’re not one of those kids of that rock wife, the ones who changed their names and ran away. They remind me more of myself than you. Of the two of us that ran away, I’m the only one who’s changed names. You still state yours proudly, linking you to your family and past, as I shudder when my old name is shouted or even whispered, the one I left in Phoenix with the darkness of my old life. It’s the one I thought I left behind with you, but, you’ve chased me up here to plague me with what I didn’t want to relive. You followed me as I ran away as far as my wallet could bear, Just to hear you play the victim all over again. All you wonder is why I’ve changed. Why haven’t you? But none of that matters, nothing concerning me matters to you. Your subconsciously self-inflicted crises are all you expect my life to revolve around. But I can’t communicate this to you in English. This over-use of the subjunctive of emotion is all you’d hear. My poor little victim, how much will it cost for you to stop rocking my boat already overturned in this unsteady sea? Find some new life support, this crutch can’t hold you up anymore. Please find a way to be happy that doesn’t make me miserable. Oh yeah, and stop making yourself the victim, I don’t buy it. Jump, art by Aaron Wilder AUTISM Brian M. Burke I am forever pulled in pain and doubt The screaming never ends a constant backache that begs the question Is it age or one two three many liftings? He’s up on the table again He’s at the refrigerator pulling clothes out of drawers spilling blocks on the floor And the screaming always the screaming the looks from strangers Not quite pity But when he sleeps when he climbs into my lap up please daddy looking for a kiss perhaps one day Perhaps. Butterfly Collage, art by Mike Hovancsek My Steel Toes Jason Robinson oxblood in color Doc Martens these boots i wore across america and back i had the idea that my footwear could double as a weapon or as a work tool in the labor pool in my city of destination when i was broke drunk evil and alone these boots i slept in i dared not take them off for fear of theft my boots survived san diego skid row in los angeles stinky greyhound across west texas and the pregnant girl with rotten teeth scratched they brought me back to carolina they sit in my closet now polished and revered A Woman and Her Dead Husband — After reading Russell Edson Corey Cook A woman couldn’t bring herself to bury her dead husband. She decided that the two of them would continue their cohabitation. During the day the woman propped her husband up with plush pillows in his Lazy-Boy. At night she dragged him into the bedroom and hoisted him up onto the mattress. The woman would take the man with her when she ran errands as well. She would carry his limp body out to the car and flop him in the passenger’s seat. He would ride to the grocery store with his eyes closed and mouth open - head beating against the glass. The woman’s friend stopped by for tea and asked her, “Don’t you think you should bury your husband? He has become a burden to you in his death.” “I cannot do that. Death yields new life. I must wait...” the woman replied as she smiled at her husband - her right arm around his slackening shoulders. growing younger Steve DeMoss where distortion ends and parallel begins was a travel I intended to, but could wait. When it used to be a glass of milk, and then to the moon I was so very young, still a child. Now a ride into town on the local bus after my medicine is all the excitement one can consider. Dixie, art by Aaron Wilder hula Tori Grant Welhouse i make up motion & charge the very air. my legs rub together. my bare feet stomp. i am groundswell. i play with currents that foretell the gathering of a storm on a far-off scrap of land. palm trees bend nearly in half. i have their rapt attention. oh, what i am capable of! i can sink fishing boats. bigger than weather, i am now the rumble in the earth, undulating belly, self-consciousness submerged, adorned with its perennial debris: lily behind one ear, grass anklet, leis, leis, leis. i feel the surge through my feet. oh, what a rush! the lava i hide. the skin i show, the skirt handmade & tropical, hothouse blooms the slit up my thigh. arms, legs, long, dune back do not yet speak pudenda. it is hawaii day. i am entertainment. translations mask (in Serbian) translation by Colin Madison maska krabuljni ples pridrïavanje odijevanje kostim lice suzan bomba maska plaça spoj reçi visok maska nadati se nijedan on the california streets — in Bulgarian translation by Aeon Logan On the Flip side (in Welsh) translation by Carter Donovan Acha ‘r Chnithia ochra oes mwyach sanity i mewn ‘r byd Fi jyst all t choelia a bodola anymore Fi aberfa t ‘n weledig unrhyw braw ag a fi ll choelia a mae na braw a fel Bwysa ‘m chyflwr translation by Colin Madison So Many Lies (in Sanskrit) The Third or fourth Fourth of September (in Czech) translation by Howard Shindo âlen urãitù Tercie ãi ãtvrtina âtvrtina of Zá?í nûjakù ãas tebe spravedlivù mít aï k cenûní zubÛ a baissista ono vyjít najevo cvalík tebe mít humoristickù p?ipustit aï k ty sám aby you’ve platí nesprávnù spravedlivù cenûní zubÛ a baissista ono a archiv jít s duchem ãasu cvalík brát tvÛj lék , dostat ko‰em celù obchod nad s. Wrong Attention (in Tamil) translation by Howard Shindo you will (in Marathi) translation by S. Anderson translation by Mackenzie Silveer Creatures Can Live in Words (in Hindi) translation by Mackenzie Silveer self-destructive (in Indonesian) self-merusak Saya sudah self-merusak terlebih dahulu dan anda suka pada saya then mungkin saya sebaiknya kembali kembali sampai hari-hari itu ketika tidak berarti yang saya dengan. Mengapa akan itu zat kecuali kalau adalah anda? translation by Dagny Hendrikus i must believe (in Braille) translation by Marina Arturo Have To Ask (in Bengali) translation by Helena Wolfe i’m always the one (in Hungarian) én mindig a egy én mindig a egy aki mondta felfedez a bábu minden nekem van megtett van megtöröl -a orr és tiszta -a szobák és most nekem van -hoz tiszta megjelöl az én -m élet és nekem van senki sem segíteni neki én translation by Shannon Peppers Maybe That Is Enough (in Gurmukhi) translation by Sydney Cooke Now I’m strong (in Filipino) ngayon I’m malakas di ang mahati ako lagi diwa ako was nag-iisa ako was tratuhin nang masama ka tumulong ako nina giving ibigin at giving umasa ngayon I’m malakas translation by Courtney Steele I have my dreams (in Greek) translation by Kyle Mackenzie What Do You do (in Papiamentu) kí bo hasi kí bo hasi si abo kasi muri bo wear bo seat faha mas bo no bai pa motosaikel rides bo kamna further fo’i e kaminda algun por bati abo ei, abo konosé kí bo hasi si abo kasi muri bo bisa hende abo stima them bo tema mas kí bo hasi translation by Jimbo B. here is me (in Korean) translation by Steve Errman izbire ne sovraÏijo sebe za izbire si naredil praviãen izdelava desni izbire translation by Sydney Anderson who is at my side (in Russian) translation by Sloane Emerson Say It In The First Place (in Swedish) Säga Den Inne om Första Ställe när en främling talar du var dag så pass du er skön, är en lina er korsat? Varför er du talande jag den här? Gör JAG jämn veta du? Vill du ignorera dem? Vill du hoppas den vilja gå bort? translation by J. Best Saving Yourself, in Arabic translation by Gabriel Athens a diamond - in Persian translation by Sue Matsushita down the drain (in Chinese)