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dedicated to the art of the written word

volume 1, issue 5
October 1995

================================
POETRY INK 1.05 / ISSN 1091-0999
================================

POETRY INK
volume 1, issue 5
October 1995

"Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word"

>From The Editor's Desktop...
----------------------------
Welcome to the biggest and best issue of POETRY INK ! This issue marks
yet another milestone for POETRY INK---we actually went over our
self-defined goal of 150k an issue. So, in a state of mindless wild
ectasy, we decided to change our motto from "getting it in under 150k"
to "Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word." I think the new motto
is a little classier and slightly more professional. I hope you will
agree.

As you probably have already noted, other changes have taken place as
well. We finally got around to adding a Table of Contents , and an
exciting Announcement section is awaiting your perusal. There are
other changes and new sections as well, but I'll let you discover them
on your own.

I would like to take a moment and thank everyone who submitted work
for this issue; we received over 300 submissions to be considered for
publication in Issue 5. Surprisingly, about 10% of these submissions
came via snail mail! While it is not possible for us to respond to
each person who submitted work, we want you to know that your
contributions are appreciated. One of the reasons we do not send out
"rejection" letters is that each issue is produced on a per-issue
basis. For example, we did not start accepting submissions for Issue 6
(the next issue, due out in November) until this issue was almost
entirely "put to bed." This and the fact that POETRY INK is assembled
in our spare time--mostly on the weekends and late at night--are the
main reasons we do not respond to each and every piece of eMail which
comes our way. If we did, POETRY INK would not be produced on a timely
basis. So thank you, and keep those submissions rolling in!

Also, I want to personally thank Ben Judson, Dick Steinbach, and Wayne
Brissette for helping Spill The Ink on the Internet. Ben uploads
POETRY INK to the OneNet BBS system, Dick uploads each issue to America
On-Line(tm), and Wayne has set-up a POETRY INK Home Page on the World
Wide Web. Without the help of these three gentleman, POETRY INK would
probably not be on your screen right now. Send them an eMail (their
addresses are on the Masthead ) and let them know how much their hard
work is appreciated.

Matthew W. Schmeer, editor
<[email protected]>

POETRY INK
----------
**Editor**
Matthew W. Schmeer

**e-mail**
<[email protected]>

**snail mail**
Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647
U.S.A.

Official OneNetBBS Network distribution by
Ben Judson <[email protected]>

Official America On-Line distribution by
Dick Steinbach <[email protected]>

Official WWW Web Page maintained by
Wayne Brissette <[email protected]>

POETRY INK is a regular, erratically published E-zine (electronic
magazine). Anyone interested in submitting poetry, short fiction, or
essays should see the last few pages of this document for submission
instructions. If writing via snail mail, please include a #10-sized
self-addressed stamped envelope so that we may respond to you.
Donations of food, money, software, and hardware are gracefully
accepted.

Legal Stuff
-----------
POETRY INK is copyrighted 1995 by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS, a wholly
owned subsidiary of the imagination of Matthew W. Schmeer. POETRY INK
can be freely distributed, provided it is not modified in any way,
shape, or form. Specifically:

* All commercial on-line services, such as eWorld(tm), America
On-Line(tm), and CompuServe(tm), and local BBSs may distribute POETRY
INK at no charge.

* All non-profit user groups may distribute POETRY INK at no charge.

* All CD-ROM shareware collections and CD-ROM magazines may not
include POETRY INK without prior written consent.

* All redistribution companies such as Educorp may not distribute
POETRY INK without express written consent.

POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS retains one-time rights and the right to
reprint this issue, either printed or electronic. All other rights to
works appearing in POETRY INK written by authors other than Matthew W.
Schmeer revert to said authors upon publication.

POETRY INK is produced on an Apple Macintosh(tm) Color Classic(tm)
running System Software 7.1. POETRY INK is initially uploaded to
eWorld(tm), with further Internet distribution by our readers. We use
Global Village Teleport Gold(tm) II Fax/Modems. POETRY INK is produced
using MicroFrontier's ColorIt!(tm) 2.3.4, Novell Corp.'s
WordPerfect(tm) 3.1, and Michel & Francois Touchot's eDOC 1.1. We
encourage others to support these fine hardware manufacturers and
software programmers.

Announcement!!!!!!!
-------------------
**POETRY INK is now on the World Wide Web!**

Wayne Brissette, a technical writer for Apple Computer, has linked
POETRY INK to his Web site on one of Apple's servers in Austin, Texas,
USA*.

Wayne, who's poem _Uncertainties_ appeared in Issue 4 of POETRY INK,
has generously donated his time and resources to provide POETRY INK a
home on the Web. By the way, Wayne also maintains the official
"unofficial" Web site of the Central Hockey League (CHL). Go Iguanas!

Point your WWW Browser to this URL:

<http://atlantis.austin.apple.com/people.pages/wayneb/PoetryInk.html>

At the current time, the Web site only contains links to download
POETRY INK's back issues; future plans call for the possibility of
reading POETRY INK directly from your Web browser. Check out the site
and let us know what you think! Spill The Ink!

*Views and information stated in POETRY INK and on it's Internet Web
Page may not necessarily represent the views or products of Apple
Computer, Inc.

Free Stuff Wanted!
------------------
**We Want Free Stuff!**

Okay, we admit it. We are making a desperate plea for free things from
you, our readers, who recieve each issue absolutely free, no strings
attached (feel guilty yet?). But lest you think less of us, here's the
Free Stuff Catch:

We want Free Stuff we can either use to produce POETRY INK or review
for future issues!

What do we mean by use or review? Here's a few examples:

GOOD IDEA: A book you have written and/or published.

BAD IDEA: Free puppies.

GOOD IDEA: A new Power Mac 9500 with 2 gig hard drive and 6x CD-ROM
drive loaded to the hilt with RAM and VRAM, a new Apple Multiple Scan
21" monitor (with video card) and Apple Extended Keyboard II. (Hey
Michael Spindler--you need all the free publicity you can get...)

BAD IDEA: A copy of Microsoft Windows 95 on CD-ROM (we already have a
set of coasters).

GOOD IDEA: A complimentary copy of your band's CD.

BAD IDEA: A complimentary copy of Yoko Ono's Greatest Hits CD.

You get the picture. Basically, we are looking for things to
review--such as books, magazines, and CDs--that have a literary bent. Or
you can send us things we can use to produce POETRY INK, such as new
orused hard drives, keyboards, Mac CPUs, and so forth that are in good
working condition. While we regret that your contribution is not tax
deductible, we won't tell the IRS if you don't. So send us some free
stuff!

Featured Writer
---------------
Jeff Waters
<jeff.waters@landis+gyr.sprint.com.>
1 poem, 1 prose piece, and an essay

_Happiness Is A Loose Noose_

I'm smoking another cigarette
But this will be my last one
I swear.
The ten o'clock news came on
I went to the spare room
as austere as a monk's underwear
and pressed and lifted and extended my body.
My wife burst in, her voice chopping into my skull like a hatchet,
to tell me she's tired of doing dishes and the baby won't go to sleep.
I curled the barbell and licked my lips slowly.
I ran long over the crunchy snow in my soft shoes
and sweated in the sub-zero wind-chill.
(A few Christmas lights remain in the dark streets.)
Now a viola, an oboe, a harp, and a flute
Titter on the stereo while I drink my Baderbrau.
The house creaks arrhythmically.
I am alone.

_Swimming in God's Underwear_

For some reason I keep thinking of the ferry landing in Seattle. It
gives me that lonely edgy feeling you get in a dangerous place you
visited a long time ago. The last ferry leaves about 12:30 at night.
At ten after twelve, we take the long escalator up from the sidewalk
to the lobby. Black-and-white posters of historic ferries slide past
as we glide up the dim corridor. A skinny unshaven old man nods out on
a wooden bench in the waiting room. Pools of yellow light surround a
rack of tourist pamphlets and the one ticket booth that's still open.
Our footsteps echo on the tile floor. The glass doors to the coffee
shop are locked. There are nautical maps of Elliott Bay and Puget
Sound in glass cases on the wall. There's a guy outside the window
with a bandanna and a goatee smoking a cigarette in the dark and
leaning on the rail of the balcony that leads to the ferries. I slip
my hand around your waist and pull you closer. Your hair smells like
lavender. I wonder how smart it is to be going to Victoria. When the
running lights of the ferry appear far out in the black void of the
bay, we pay for tickets, push through the turnstile, and walk into the
orange sodium light of the concrete gangway. A poster explaining the
Washington State Transportation safety rules in green block letters
peels off the plywood wall. The ferry sounds her foghorn and gently
bumps the dock like an elephant scratching her hip on a city bus.

Four and a half hours later, you are still asleep on a green enamel
pew on the ferry's enclosed upper deck. Your head rests on my shoulder
and my neck is stiff from draping over the back of the bench. I wake
you up to see the sun rise over Vancouver. Silver skyscrapers erupt
from the tip of a peninsula surrounded by a dark green forest of pine
trees. It's as if the native Indians planted magic crystals which
sprouted steel and glass structures. We are too far out in the Strait
of Georgia to swim ashore if the ferry capsized. The breeze blowing
though the open hatch is chilly, but carries the scent of saltwater
and the call of seagulls. You raise your head slowly, leaving a cool
damp spot on my collar bone. The sun is an orange oval on the horizon,
glinting off the wavelets between us and freedom. I want a plate of
waffles and ham with steaming hot coffee. I don't know if it's a good
idea to be going to Goose Island, but we'll be safe there. We'll be
safe.

Jeff Waters lives in Arlington Heights, Illinois. Currently, Jeff
travels often in his job as the Lab Services Manager for Landis & Gyr,
a building controls company. He has made a living as a welder,
submarine reactor operator, and technical writer, but never as a poet.
He has written feature articles for local newspapers and arts &
entertainment magazines, and his poetry has appeared in the literary
magazines "Proof Rock" and "Midwest Poetry Review". His interests
include body surfing, progressive music, and nude cycling.

About _Happiness Is A Loose Noose_ and _Swimming In God's Underwear_,
Jeff writes:

One night I did a search for poetry and writers with America
On-Line(tm)'s Web Crawler and came across the POETRY INK request for
submissions. I grabbed a poem and a short piece from the hard drive of
my laptop and e-mailed it. To my surprise, two days later, I received
an acceptance message. Yes! This is the kind of response I had hoped
for with the Internet!

I lived in Bremerton and Seattle for a couple of years when I was in
the Navy, and the ferry landing was often the last stop after an
evening of cruising the night clubs. The title to
_Swimming in God's Underwear_ literally came to me in a dream: I was
trapped under a ferry that had capsized in Puget Sound, and the futile
struggle to escape in such picturesque surroundings led to the
ambiguous phrase. It could refer to wearing God's jockey shorts while
bathing, or floundering about in the nether regions of the almighty's
lingerie like a cosmic skidmark. Either interpretation conveys a sense
of dislocation and paradox that sets the mood. The reference to two
different destinations, progressively farther north, implies that the
search for safety and peace is far from over, perhaps never-ending.

Bz-zt! I'm in Cleveland checking my eMail by modem.

Nirvana on the plane courtesy of portable CD- ROM with headphones.
NASA research acid fumes bad. On-line poetry profuse, watered-down. Am
I special? Tralfamadorian time is random, not sequential.

I've been told that my poetry is depressing. To me it's a catharsis
for my dark side. By putting into words the things that polite people
never talk about, I purge those thoughts and make it possible to get
through another day at the office. When I read William S. Burroughs, I
think, "My God, at least my life isn't that dismal." It actually
cheers me up. When I think of Anne Sexton's or Kurt Cobain's suicide,
it makes me angry that they deprived the world of so much talent, and
sad that they could not see beyond their immediate pain. A few years
ago, I felt trapped by my middle-class life and marriage. Exercise was
the only way to drive out the demons of vague anxiety and
existentialist dread. The events in _Happiness Is a Loose Noose_ are a
simple chronology of one late evening when I decided it was time to
leave and start a new life, or face the alternative. Despite the
ominous tone, the ultimate message is that no matter how hopeless life
seems, you can choose to change. It is possible to begin again.

Ben Ohmart
----------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_TLC_

Whispering Pines Road but it was flooded last summer. don't care, they
own the land it was a lock-in. stayed up a full day to night playing
Risk, pretending friends safe with adults. my own age talking about me
in the Sunday school room or choir loft I was trying to take over
Germany, remembering 2 hrs. before about my stupid shoes. a game? I
dunno. 5 people against the wall, bags over our heads, pastor reads
from a card tells us remove something. what was the game? so it
lasts a couple minutes and I'm taking off my shoes, happen to look
beneath my bag, another bag's dropping. I take it off, last guy moving
over to the other side, then they laugh have to smile. think about my
mom making me stay with people. rather be alone alone without
lonliness. but it's the world right? you're not extro you're
introverted no middle ground to stand. a fool's memory is wide. you
know what you take advantage of you're shown what takes advantage of
you. what can you talk about? you play a game that can never really be
won. so I lost all my armies, I was banned from the countries and I
lost the world, but I saw the sun come up.

_Ago_

bullets beyond me, fleshing me out
carnival girls thinking the ride is free
night of the '44 car, real antiques all of us
mom dropped us, $10 to spend?
that much on 30 darts to lose a 3 Stooges picture
kidded Britt about losin' 5 to a guy with a pen
said it was the greatest, Britt thought
he'd get his "trust" money back
"would you give 5 for this great" etc. etc.
we tried throwing money away onto slick
turned over fish bowls for color tv hangin' up
should've known; could see the dust on it.
Immobile fat lady speaking to us, 4 tickets
a white shirt, a skeleton, a spiral dart board:
funhouse? haunted house? but we laughed and hot dogged
no sitting, upright tables, chili on my white...can't remember
mom cars us, bullets before me, now Thanksgiving
Aunt and Uncle hate each other and a turkey brings them apart together
orange decorations, cat on the kitchen counter
paper pumpkins like accordians hang too low for me
Grace it's the only time she's mentioned; extra gravy for me
only grandma likes cranberry shit, none here.
I feel them go into my back. swimming lessons:
me, a crybaby? forced to the Y. they laughed at me
I clutched at the Spanish boy's hair, forgotten for a second
when they had to go to the other side, over the deep end.
I scream and fall and watch my body empty
feel the blue turn and red. memory of now
parking lots soaking up my brains
they've got what my life's worth, laughing
throwing back the driver's license.
try to think. nothing left
--future comes, but it's for them.
them? who are they? future memories
while the siren gets softer. softer

Grant Mitchell
--------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Dawnwatch_

Fist a hint
and then a glimmer
drifting across a slow sky,

dawn begins. A tint
dyeing the stars to dimmer
points that smear in the wind's eye,

watching the westward intent
as black blew to a grey shimmer
tacked, beat day across the sky.

John Freemyer
-------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Father_

My father
was
a genius idiot

He sailed the transpacific
and sold
an Rx
for brain blowouts

He called what he did
selling
prepackaged reality divergence

Mother worried

She said if he ever knew redemption
your father lost it
when he abandoned us

I remember him a little
He had a Pharaoh's laugh
and a knuckle for a nose

_Advertising_

She wore a
plastic strapless Hitlerface dress
and hopscotched without feeling
to some kind of new music.

She wasn't wearing a bra.
Hitler's eyes wiggled as she danced, his
nippled pupils protruding hideously.
I wondered whether
Hitler could see this dress
from his perspective in Hell.
Could he see his face
distorted by the young woman's
athletic body?
Would he brag about it
to other mass murderers?
Were Churchill, Stalin, Tojo,
Roosevelt and Truman envious
of the Hitler dress?

Among monsters
it's always the
best known monster
who gets the girls.
Goes to show
it pays to advertise.

Erik K. Fritz
-------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Tigerlily_

Slow and impatient the steps fall,
forth and back, fro and to,
in a four part rhythm of frustration
and elation and anger
and joy, eyes feed on
those who see
only fear through blackened
glasses, unable to turn
frozen faces trapped in their own
loathing, confronted by hunger
all-consuming.

What is this beast, horrible
beast whose instincts are, by the critical fires of
right, wrong, and social responsibility, left charred
and purified, hardened in the battle for a soul,
honed in pursuit of true reward.

Passion wriggles free from the shackles
of desire, lust trickles timidly
from longing too long buried. Vision is granted
from sight blurred and weak from the view
atop the soapbox. To fear and still believe,
lose it all to hope to gain what's
never promised, but freely given.

Call For Entries...A Contest Has Begun!
---------------------------------------
Announcing the first (of what we hope to be many)

**POETRY INK Writing Contest!**

**Contest #1: An Exercise In Writing**
We all know that in order to write better, we need to practice. What
better way to practice than to do short writing exercises? Writing
exercises force us to write within a structured environment, but also
allow us to flex some creative muscle. One of the best writing
exercises is to open a dicttionary, choose a bunch of words at random,
and use them to write a poem. So here's the hook for the first POETRY
INK Writing Contest.

**The Pitch**
Write a short poem (10-40 lines) which contains the following twelve
words and phrases:

stapler bough postage stamp
calico mythology thesaurus
Oktoberfest obsidian Tao Te Ching
Hemingway pigskin secrets

These words may be pluralized. These words may be used as either nouns
or verbs, where permitted. You may enter as many times as you like,
but all twelve words must appear in each poem.

**The Deadline**
The deadline for entries is December 15, 1995. All entries must be
postmarked by this date to be considered eligible for consideration.
Entries cannot be returned.

**Where to Send Your Entry**
All poems must be sent by SNAIL MAIL to the following address:

Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
ATTN: Contest #1
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647

**The Prize (This Is What You Really Wanted To Know, Right?)**
Prestige and the knowledge that you were the best. No, really, the
people who submit the top three entires will get some realy cool free
stuff (oh surprise, surprise, surprise). Plus, they'll each receive a
certificate proclaiming their greatness (suitable for framing) so that
they can impress their friends and family. Not only that, but the top
11 poems will be published as a Special Edition to be included with
the January 1996 issue.

So what are you waiting for? Get those entries in! Mail yours today!

George Gati
-----------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Twilight_

You stood at the dark water's edge. I had
to laugh: you with canvas shoes laced together
around your neck, pants rolled up, pale legs blanched
even more by surf. Quietly you took
some more photos of the black girl who'd come
up to you. She smirked and mugged, then giggled
when you asked her where to send the prints. I
cautioned you against the meretricious
orange sun and violet sky. You slowly bent
to tie your shoes; with shameful love, you said,
"Colors are no truer than at twilight."

_Three Dreams_

I dreamed that I bore three blind possum pups
per rectum; naked they emerged, and gnawed.

I_.
O Reader, do you know how much I love
you? Or feel reflected the unquenched fire
that consumes me as I look at you? I
dreamed we stood at Goat Rock's foot. The cold gale
plucked at us; salt needles pricked us; hailstones
of pebbles pelted us from cliffs above--
yet, none of these could hurt. I clutched you. Your
body, cupped in mine, felt like a small, furred,
fragile mammal of fine bone china. I
kissed your eyelashes, the soft warm hollows
of your neck. I buried myself in the
still hot cavern of your mouth. I stroked your
chestnut beard; I lost myself in thickets
of your beard. I caressed your bear-like chest,
licked your tender nipples, then sank into
the crimson sea--and, last, gentle Reader,
impaled you on a spit, flamed you, charred you
in embers, consumed you, meat and fat. I
sucked the liquid globes from their orbits, sipped
the jellied brains from your split skull, drew sweet
marrow from splintered bones; until, crushed to
bloody dust, you healed, made whole, my sickly
sense, raised me up to wind and spray and stone.

II_.
Old age always shimmered as mirage of
stumps, dry river beds; so much more so must
we have dreamed this disease. Surely we shall
awake to find the world unchanged, our lost
lovers, our lost pleasures restored. Restored!
Kindly word, unutterable, unheard. . . .
Long ago, I lay in bed and prayed: "Dear
Lord, let me fall asleep and never wake;
or let me sleep, at least, until death comes,
so that all I suffer may be in dreams."
The hollow dawn assured me I'd been heard.
Then day succeeded dawn, and darkness, day;
and, in darkness, then, I met him, disease.
Disease! I embraced him as a lover,
cherished him more tenderly than men's flesh.
Now, I bear his name, wear his scent; assume
wasted limbs, bloated purple belly, bald
skull, sunken unseeing eyes, burning skin,
stinking wastes, fetid breath. For him, sweetest
lover, I have abdicated mortal
thrones, apostatized human creeds. For him,
lover, I have emptied myself so that
infinite universes will not fill
my void; now, nought but gravity binds me
to this sphere. Yet, though more contingent than
dandelion puffs, I dream my legs like
dull, dense stones impede my rising. I will
never whirl like dervishes; shamans and
Sufis spin in the heart of the maelstrom,
on whose still verge I ever kneel and watch.
My brothers, my lovers pass before my
gaze, as I, kindly one, pursue mutely,
unblinkingly. I judge; I execute;
I profit from their worthless, priceless pain.
And bliss!--and pure unbounded joy!--it is
to watch as others suffer more than I.
Reader, redden not. Enjoy me as a
case history; be avenged, exult; for
when this nightmare passes (if this nightmare
passes), I'll be remembered (if I am
remembered) with, "Oh, yes, he helped so much."

III_.
When the elevator doors opened, I
recognized you, Reader, instantly, of
course, for we'd sung out rapturously in
my dreams of sumptuous detail. But our
waking life is simple, unadorned: I
only breathed, "Ah!" while you stood silently...
Today, I buried you in hallowed earth
hard by the sea. I photographed your stone:
"NO TEARS IN HEAVEN." ("Nor laughter," I thought.)
Soon, I'll love you best, in abstract--your name
carved in rock or sewn in quilts will burst forth
such springs as will wash me for a space, then
dry. Now, the blackened grass I tread seems cool
and tender as my fictive lover's chest;
now, gladly would I sink and dream. I see
myself rising in the ether with the
other disembodied; together, we
rise like incense, a holocaust. Those left
below see smoky pillars raise the sky;
those left below extend their trembling hands,
collect neither raindrops nor snowflakes, but
gather ashes of all they once desired.

Envoi_
Still, comfort: consider the sea, from whose
unshaped, dreamless darkness emerges each
strong-backed wave with its own curve and power,
then breaks.

Matthew W. Schmeer
------------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Maine_

We cannot discern the sand from the sea.
In the ocean's twilight the water kens
An unusual glow and the lobster knows no bounds.
The grinding of surf upon coral is the gnashing of teeth;
There is nothing to stop the world from spinning.

The open sound speaks
Of kings and queens and mermaids
Weeping on the shore
Of Newfoundland, the
Rough ocean carrying the voice
Of Erin across the wastrel seas and
The Norse steering their ships toward
Vinland. The leaves stop turning
In the eddying nooks
Of granite strewn across
The beaches. The lighthouse
No longer beckons us home.

The air is heavy with salt; the staunch
Smell of cod permeates my leather
Watch band and will still be there
Nine months hence.
The land's black rocks clutch
Skin to water, cry of the
Tautness of flesh and the
Life of the world to come.
Here, the fish have
No misgivings.

_The Rain, Part 2_

The broken down Ford
Sinks in its rust.
Weeds do not break it.
Then the swallows arrive,
With their five-fingered feathers
And beaks of tin.
Sometimes I can hear them,
Beating the air against the
Barn's braodside, the straw
Muffling the echoes.
Yesterday, the ground gave way
In the south twenty, and the
Grass is too green
For September.

Stephane Berrebi
----------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_The Fox And The Hedgehog_

The hardy fox knows all the ways of the forest
Lonely fearless and agile
Like the nightly comets his distant cousins
I love him in secret, wish I could be like him

The shy hedgehog hides under a mystic bowl his prickly mood
Humble and stubborn and deep
Under dead leaves and rotting wood
How uneasy to prod but so rich inside

And I, the book born of the trees and radiant with the stars
Shall take them both as models
I'll run electronic and rest in precious shelves
For I am the keeper of Nature's higher truths

Tommy Hutchison
---------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Scenes From Southern Summer_

Tangled in strands of sunlight,
morning glories fade from afternoons.

A crow sits on the child's dog
lost for dour days.

Clouds tumble between horizons;
the dance of egrets

A fog of gnats and mosquitoes
scatters in the wind from Mexico.

Pulpwood trucks thunder from the forest
carrying dead trees on their backs.

The monstrous crop duster
lumbers over fields of blighted cotton.

Shade trees offer only
token relief from the violence of the sun.

Sometimes the cicadas are so loud
all thoughts are driven from my mind.

_Tomorrow We Ride_

I_. Tomorrow

This place is stagnating.
The dulling safety
only dissolves the soul of adventure.

I need a Harley
a highway
a hip pocket full of ideals
to explore and test.

I need scenery
people
an excuse to live
beyond the 9 to 5.

Tomorrow we take the highway.
Tomorrow we greet the heart of America.
Tomorrow we leave this dulling place.

Tomorrow we ride.

II_. Thunderheads were building by midmorning

The air
for this time of the morning
is far too warm.
Mare's tails
that purpled last night's sunset
are now in the eastern distance
leaving clouds, gleaming white
only around the edges
with grey hearts
that will grow and anger.

My lungs ache from
moisture in the air.
I don't feel able to catch my breath.
In the afternoon,
there will surely be thunderstorms
so let us stay inside
in the dry warmth and comfortable.
The highway will still be there.

Tomorrow we ride.

III_. Dogwoods are blooming

After the rainfall,
the morning is clean
and the new sun takes the edge
off the coolness.

The highway stretches
toward the horizon
but the dogwoods are in bloom
full like ripe fruit
coloring the air
with fresh odors.

Let's wait for dusk
to walk among the trees
and lay in the wet grass
to watch the stars come out.

Tomorrow we ride.

IV_. Have another beer; we're drinking to forget.

Let's get drunk tonight
to get over the days
we've put off our adventure.

Let's dull our senses
to the blunting of ideals
so we don't notice it as bad
even as it is happening.

Let's get so God-damned drunk
the hangover keeps us in bed
all day long.

Then we will ride.

V_. Putting it off

I can make
fifteen hundred dollars a week
pimping washers and dryers
to blue haired old ladies.

Money will make the adventure
so easy.

I'll work for a couple of weeks
hoarding money like a crow gathering tinsel.

I'll just give the highway
a month to ripen and ferment
into rich wine
before I drink of what America has for me.

A couple of months
and I'll have enough money
to free the adventure of hardships.

Then,
then we will ride.

VI_. Years from now

I can no longer tell months from years.
The days blend together
as generic pieces
of a huge jigsaw puzzle
which wouldn't seem different
if today were gone
or tomorrow
or any day five years from now.

I have money,
but never enough
to pay off my debts.

Each sleepy-eyed day
I drive dizzily
and try to remember
the song of the highway
ringing in my ears.
Sliding my car into park
and walking to my job
as a person prepared to take a beating,
I should wonder where my tomorrows went...

David Lumsden
-------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Somewhere There Is Violence_

When you finally get in
the clock-radio knows it is 3:36.

You almost crash to the floor
in stepping out of your skirt.

I pretend to be sleeping, having learned
the uselessness of anger, and raised
indifference to a discipline.

How much longer can this go on
I want to ask myself, but lie
instead in darkness while
you snore and do not dream.

_Nitelife_

Dealing with time in narrow bars until
the trains start for the day. Double
rows of bottles catch the artificial
light so prettily. Keep talking. Stay
awake. Watch how she plays with her ice,
the way that earring sways, and always
above us loud TV music for us too strung
out to notice how the notion of one
person can like the dancebeat recur.

About The Contributors...
-------------------------
Jeff Waters is this issue's Featured Writer. Go read that section to
find out more about Jeff.

Ben Ohmart hails from Syracuse, New York. He claims to have had
hundreds of stories and poems published in 'zines and journals across
the world. He also enjoys writing plays that aren't performed. His
hobby is also his drive: writing.

Grant Mitchell lives in Bothell, Washington. A lifelong Pacific
Northwest resident, He is embarking on a second career as a high
school English teacher after having proved to himself and others the
oft-proven logical impossibility of remaining sane and sober while
employed by the U.S. Postal Service. This is his first apperance in
print.

John Freemyer resides in Los Angeles, California. He recently returned
to writing after a fifteen year bout with manic-depression. His poem
_Suburban Vampire_ appeared in the third issue of POETRY INK.

Erik K. Fritz is a sophomore at the University of California--Fresno.
He is pursuing a degree in English with an emphasis on creative
writing. Most Sundays this fall you can catch him at home, rooting the
Dallas Cowboys on to Superbowl XXX. This is his first appearance in
print.

George Gati calls West Hollywood, California home. Originally planning
to spend a lifetime career in data processing--systems analysis and
data base administration--after earning his B.A. in English twenty
years ago, he ended up in nursing. Since 1985 he has spent his time
working in hospitals, primary care facilities, and research
institutions in the fight against HIV. While he has written since
adolescence, this is his first appearance in print.

Matthew W. Schmeer is the editor of POETRY INK. He decided it was time
to publish some of his own work in POETRY INK as a bold and shameless
display of self-promotion.

Stephane Berrebei lives in Meudon, France. He is active in the
multimedia industry in his homeland, both with Apple Computer and with
his own consulting firm. He is currently working on a collection of
educational games for young children. While he is fluent in English,
he prefers to write in French and is considering establishing an
Internet Web Page for French literature.

Tommy Hutchison lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. His previous credits
include publications in "Poet's Review", "Locust Creek Relief",
"Manna", and "Old Hickory Review".

David Lumsden lives in Melbourne, Australia. He works as a software
designer, specializing in Smalltalk. His poems have appeared mostly in
Australian poetry mags, as well as the odd appearance in the U.S.,
Canada, and Britain. He was the founding editor of the magazine
"Nocturnal Submissions", and is planning to launch a new poetry-only
magazine called "Nerve" early in 1996.

Submission Guidelines
---------------------

(You may want to print this for future reference.)

* Failure to follow these guidelines will mean automatic rejection of
your submission! Please read the following very carefully!

* By submitting works for consideration, you agree that if accepted
for publication, you grant POETRY INK, the electronic magazine
produced by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and Matthew W. Schmeer the right to
publish your work. This right includes initial publication and any
subsequent re-release of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work
appeared, either in the electronic or the printed medium. All other
rights to your work are released to you upon publication. If we wish
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* By submitting work for consideration, you acknowledge that the works
you are submitting are your own original works and are products of
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you, and not POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and/or Matthew W. Schmeer, will be
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* By submitting works for consideration, you acknowledge that you are
not nor will ever be requesting monetary compensation for the right of
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS to publish your work. You therefore acknowledge
the only compensation due to you by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS is access
to a copy of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work appeared.
Acceptable access to POETRY INK is the posting of POETRY INK on
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we decide is fair and cost-effective.

* Submissions should be written in the English language. We regret
that we are unable to publish work in foreign languages, but we cannot
spend time flipping through foreign language dictionaries trying to
check grammar, spelling, and meaning. Unless you can provide an
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* No previously published work may be submitted. Simultaneous
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page with 1" margins printed with Times 12-point plain font).

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* No more than 5 poems or 2 short stories submitted per person per
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SUBMIT POETRY INK: John Q. Public

* Manuscripts and submissions cannot be returned, nor can we offer any
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inconvenience, you must realize we have to support ourselves somehow.
Therefore, due to the amount of expected submissions, we cannot
acknowledge receipt of your work unless we decide to publish it.

* If your work is accepted for publication, you will be notified as
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* Subscribers to the PATCHWORK mailing list will be given special
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PATCHWORK, or to subscribe, send an e-mail message to patchwork-
[email protected], with the subject "HELP" (no quotes). It is not
necessary to include any text in the body of the message.

All submissions, inquiries, and comments should be directed to:

e-mail: <[email protected]>

snail mail:
Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 USA

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