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dedicated to the art of the written word

volume 1, issue 7
December 1995

================================
POETRY INK 1.07 / ISSN 1091-0999
================================

POETRY INK
volume 1, issue 7
December 1995

"Dedicated To The Art Of The Written Word"

>From The Editor's Desktop...
----------------------------
POETRY INK: Dedicated to the Art of the Written Word. What does this
really mean? I think it means adapting to meet the needs and wants of
our readership while at the same time providing a forum for both the
expert writer and the newcomer just beginning a foray into publishing.
Flexibility is key, and that also means embracing change.

If you are a long-time reader of this magazine, you no doubt have
noticed that POETRY INK has gone through many changes since the first
issue appeared a little over six months ago. We have increased the
number of works appearing in each issue, added new features, began a
series of contests (the second of which will be announced in the
January 1996 issue), and in the process increased our circulation to
about 500 subscribed readers.

POETRY INK has become bigger and better, and the quality of work
appearing has consistently improved. I believe we have found our
niche, and it fits us comfortably. As long as there is a need or an
interest in an electronic journal willing to publish beginners
alongside seasoned writers, I will continue to publish POETRY INK.

The downside of all this is that I produce POETRY INK in my spare time
(on a Color Classic, for crying out loud!). While I am not a
professional graphic designer, I think the layout of POETRY INK has a
certain aesthetic appeal. I do most of the graphics and layout, and my
wife helps me proof-read for errors (no more tpyos!) Thankfully,
several folks I have met on-line have volunteered to help Spill The
Ink (you know you are), but their help is not enough. What I need is
for each reader of POETRY INK to spread the word about POETRY INK and
drum up interest and support! Share it with your friends. If you are a
high school or college student, bring it to class and show your
teachers and professors. Post the Submission Guidelines at your local
supermarket or laundromat bulletin board. The more people know about
POETRY INK , the better we will get because we will receive more
submissions, which in turn means a larger pool of works to use when
selecting material. Think about it!

I strive to present the best of poetry, prose, and prosody which is
submitted for consideration. I hate to send rejection letters; if you
don't hear from me within 72 hours of sending a submission, then in
all likelihood your submission is just not right for the current issue
in progress.

POETRY INK is produced on a per-issue basis (which usually means a
last minute scramble two days prior to release), and is sent out and
uploaded to eWorld(tm) roughly around the 15th of each month. So if
you send something in after the 10th of any given month, it will be
considered for the next following issue. Speaking of next issues, the
January 1996 issue of POETRY INK will have the announcement of our
next contest--please note that the first contest deadline has been
extended to January 15th. See the details further on in this issue.
Also, January will bring a few new features, such as a new Belles
Lettres section and maybe--just maybe--the introduction of our first
regularly featured columnist (who doesn't even know it yet) writing on
literary happenings on and off the Internet. Until then, happy reading
and may the Muse be kind!

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(tm) distribution by
Dick Steinbach <[email protected]>

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

Official Logo and Icons designed by
Geoffrey Hamilton <[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.

State Of Our Web...
-------------------
***Poetry Ink...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 _Tracks_ appears later in this issue, has
generously donated his time and resources to provide POETRY INK a home
on the Web.

During the week of November 27 through December 4, 1995 our Web site
had over 100 downloads. Not bad for a site that isn't even registered
with any Internet search engines such as Yahoo. To mark this mildly
impresive and non-despcrit event, we asked Wayne to write a little
ditty about POETRY INK and the Web connection. He agreeed. So here it
is:

_The POETRY INK Web Connection_

Ask several people what the Internet is, and you'll get several
answers. This isn't that surprising really, because the Internet is
actually many things. For some people the Internet is simply a way to
send e-mail messages to their friends and colleagues across the world.
To others, it is a way to read what others have said about a certain
topic available in any of the hundreds of newsgroups available. Still
to others, it is a world of URLs, links, and homepages. In reality,
the Internet is all of these things and more. I'm not going to focus
on anything more than the World Wide Web (WWW). There are a lot of
good books out, along with some very weak and shoddy books, which can
help you if figure out the entire "Internet thing."

**WWW -- What Is It?**

The Web, as it is commonly called, is really a display and delivery
mechanism. To use information available on the Web, you need a Web
Browser, which allows you to view the graphical and text elements on
every homepage. There are several available, including some that come
bundled with applications. For example, Windows95(tm) came with a Web
Browser that Microsoft licensed from Spyglass. WordPerfect 3.5 for the
Macintosh included a copy of the Netscape browser. Online services
such as America Online(tm) and eWorld(tm) have custom browsers that
you use with their services to access web information. This has
created a high interest in the World Wide Web, both from individuals
and from companies.

Having multiple browsers has created problems, though; in an effort to
one-up the competition, browsers have become more and more
non-standard. HTML (Hypertext Markup Language) is what is used to
create homepages. The current standard for HTML is 2.0, there is a new
version in an ISO committee right now (3.0), but it has not been
finalized at this point. Most of the unique and elegant homepages are
using extensions to HTML. This means that information is not always
displayed the same way on all of the browsers.

**POETRY INK and the Web**

In creating the POETRY INK web page, I have tried to keep it simple. I
have made it an archive of all of the past issues, in both the
original eDOC format and also in an Adobe Acrobat format. Since the
real purpose of the web site is to allow you to download past issues
from the web, I have kept the site very minimalistic. There is a
simple background and graphic, which should allow everyone to access
the site very quickly (even those using slow connections, or using a
text only web browser).

If you have problems or questions regarding the POETRY INK web site,
feel free to send me an e-mail with your question. While I don't know
everything about the Internet, I currently running two other web
sites, and designing more for various commercial ventures.

Wayne Brissette
<[email protected]>

To reach the POETRY INK Web site, point your WWW Browser to this URL:

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

The Web site contains links to download POETRY INK's back issues in
both the original Macintosh eDOC format and Adobe Acrobat(tm) PDF
format (for those of you on DOS, Windows, and Unix systems). 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.

The Free Stuff Count...
-----------------------
**We Want Free Stuff!**

Okay, we admit it. We are making a desperate plea for free things from
you, our readers, who receive 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, review for
future issues, or award as prizes in our writing contests!

Here's a few examples of free things we have received from various
on-line folks. Most of these items will be used as contest prizes:

* A United Parcel Services acryilic notepad holder (with notepad)

* An Extra-Large T-Shirt from MacMillian Digital Publishing

* A CD Sampler from the Windham Hill Record Label

* Sandalwood-scented bath oil from the Bayou Blending Company

* A 1-800-CALL-ATT mousepad

* A Schwan Stabilo Conference Marker 141

* 3-pair package of men's Hanes(r) brand socks

These are just a few of the interesting things we have received. We
are always 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 or used 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 and we'll let you know what happens from
there!

Featured Writer
--------------
Wynn Miller
<[email protected]>
1 poem and an essay

_A Recurrent Theme_

What do you know of an algebraic notation
Where a square plus another yields up a third?

Linear formulae, as stultifying as stones,
Given with less brio than a funeral oration
Hypnotic lector, your turgid classroom
Firmly shut a door in one boy's imagination

That night, grandfather died,
In his sleep at seventy-three.
The call came, with maple leaves falling
Parents calling me back home.

There were still a few friends left to carry him across,
Old pallbearers willing to shoulder his weight
-- Something I, with nothing much to carry,
Would have welcomed more than the abstraction of loss.

A person lives within nested boxes: Soul within body,
Name within language, home in a city,
Individual within a family and the family of man.

A lumberman, grandfather Joseph built enclaves
House, family and more, foursquare
Within them, I was an identity (though I knew not then).

A quarter-century later, I remember:
Kind, gentle, serious yet with lightness of being,
He liked he liked to take the measure of a man.

Not in defiance of him, I remonstrated;
What use, abstraction? No life well-lived
Could be honored in symbolic notation
No human qualities celebrated by equation.

Yet, now I can see where no evil lies, in finding
The size of an area shared by two: limn them each
Tote up their squares and add the interstices.
Like a name, a well-wrought cipher adds reach.

Colors change on spectral scales
Before leaves fall to autumn gales
Why must it take so long
To wish to find the circle in a square

Wynn Miller lives in Columbus, Ohio. A graduate of Bennington College,
his recent publications include articles on conflicts between people
and government which appeared in "The Christian Science Monitor" and
"The National Law Journal" earlier this year. For the past five years
he has participated in the Rock Creek Writers Gatherings, which is
sponsored by "The Montana Free Press", where people have the
opportunity to read verse and prose and hear feedback.

About _A Recurrent Theme_, Wynn writes:

It's difficult to say why I wrote the poem _A Recurrent Theme_. I
started out trying to deal with my inability to understand algebra and
symbolic notation, a recurring problem in a world that requires things
be done fast and accurately.

In thinking about symbolic notation, it suddenly occurred to me that
writing an English sentence is a form of symbolic notation. I have
known this in the abstract, but have only now begun to appreciate the
similarities between language and numerical expression.

Reading through a copy of "The Whole Earth Catalog", I came across a
book on symbolic notation that gave a visual representation of an
equation -- a simple algebraic problem that I have never understood,
even though I was introduced to it more than twenty years ago. The
visual representation (of how to find the area of a larger square) was
so powerful, immediately putting the equation in context, that it was
somewhat of an epiphany.

I recollected when I was first introduced to that formula, and the
overwhelming memory I had of that time was the loss of my grandfather.
He was a fine man, and his loss was keenly felt. As I wrote, a person
is a part of a greater relationship. While I am unable to write or
solve equations, as a result of seeing one graphically displayed, I at
least felt there was a way to frame the idea of a person's place in a
larger picture, and hoped to incorporate that understanding in the
short tribute submitted. Circling back in memory to honor him, I
wished also to contribute an observation on the unsolved problem of
circling the square, something geometry and algebra wish for but have
not achieved.

Richard Epstein
---------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_The Woodwind Connection_

Charlie Babar was named for Uncle Tad,
a botanist, who disappeared one summer,
the year his wife miscarried, came for solace
to Charlie's mom, ran off with Charlie's dad,
and left the bathtub full of Liquid Plumr.
Charlie Babar was slow in bouncing back.
After he took his MFA at Beaux Arts
he threw away his tenure for a prefect,
the boy next door, and even now can barely
visceralize his life-enhancement squarely.
His therapist says Charlie wasn't gay
at all, only arrested, so to speak,
when Father left, some kind of latent defect.
Charlie prefers the oboe, anyway;
he is the second chair now, and he thinks
himself the open conduit to Mozart's
woodwind connection. Charlie has a show
called Kochel Kapers on the radio,
the non-commercial station, once a week.

_Advice to a Middle Man_

Although you are stoic, large of patience,
and stuck with thrifty desires--a Zennish
master of Middle Kingdom--still at time
you will sweat after the unspeakable.

Not refusing to eat animal fats
(eschewing mucous or a clouded mind),
not even wearing rumpled, dowdy clothes
while naming in your mind's sky new comets

clarifies the depths. Tanks silt. Silt rises.
Surely low longings and intestine want
will follow you all the days of your life,
and you will dwell in tents of flesh forever.

The paths of peace abort in a dark wood,
where rude flora grapple for your ankles,
so personal you dare not plant your feet
in that black soil. Give them any first names

you loathe, their family name will be yours.
As a mantra, then, tell yourself toothed saws
and look for a long way out, arm in arm
with these enemies who believe nothing.

Touch the trees as you pass. Breathe. Trust to luck.

Geoffrey Hamilton
-----------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Untitled_

when
i fell asleep
watching casablanca

you put your hand
on my back
to wake me

i'd been feeling
lonely
and ignored
but your touch
told me
i wasn't
alone

later
when you took
your hand
away

i only pretended
to fall asleep again
so you would
put
your hand
back

_The End_

How long before the stars wink out
how long before the moon leaves the earth
Errant daughter, she longs for Jupiter

How long until my cat dies
and I have to buy a new cat
and will she scratch the sofa
like the old cat

And when will my taxes exceed my income
At what point do my new shoes become old
And when will the Sacramento Kings
make the playoffs
and how long will they last
and what's the point in trying

How long can I keep it going
before my head drops through my neck
leaving me with a hole
between my shoulders

I hope the end comes quick

Jeremy Lowry
------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Deep Blue Future_

The ancient wooden boat lies rotting on the misty shore,
mariner absent into the waiting jungle,
and women all in white surround this abandoned Argo,
scarves and hair and sail swirling together in the foam,
so that you cannot tell where the world ends
and the fog enshrouded sea begins.

All across my hands the lines deepen;
canyons on the face of a dry planet,
which sails innocently through space,
and civilizations rise and fall,
drowned in cosmic flood,
smashed by great hunks of meteor
or mystically mingled with the blood of a great mosquito;
with the blood of the world--
to wash away the rot and restore the majesty of the virgin skin.

Until they return to bring in the great blue future.
Until they return with their twinkling neanderthal eyes.
If you stare into the dead eyes of monkeys long enough,
you can see the genius
of the wheel
of the road
of the aqueduct
of the boat
of the cannon
of the army
of the computer
of the atom, the splitting atom, and the shadows it leaves,
twisted on the ground, legions of them
on the dry parched ground which aches for moisture.

I plunge my hands into the water,
dream of the sailor and the sea, and drown in the bone-dry universe.

David Schwab
------------
<[email protected]>
1 prose piece

_Urban Vulture_

The sun rose on a calm morning. Here at the park, he had no friends or
family. Just his friendly newspaper and park bench. It was another
beautifully sunny day. It was a pretty good night, too. Usually cops
come by and try to tell him he can't sleep in the park. He usually
just ignores them and tries to find another place to sleep once
they're gone. He doesn't have any other place to call home, so a lowly
park bench is plenty good for him.

He gathered up his belongings. While picking up his newspaper, he
thought of going to the pier and seeing if the guy running the hot dog
stand will have any scraps for him. He is a regular at the dumpster
behind the city's homeless shelter. No, there's nothing to eat there
but there are people who'll talk with you and not tell you to "move
along."

He packs two empty beer cans and a Coke can into his back pack.
They'll be handy when he stops by the aluminum collection center later
that day. He has a working arrangement with a local shop owner. In
exchange for a plastic glad bag and use of a gallon of water per week,
he collects bottles and cans and washes them out. At the end of each
month, he recycles the cans and pays the shop owner one dollar.
Often, the shop owner won't accept the dollar. In fact, he only ever
accepted it once, when the man wanted a candy bar and a can of Coke.

Today he'll patrol the bay front, looking for money, bottles, cans and
food. He is the urban vulture. No other members of the community want
him. The government wants to be rid of him. And he just wants to make
a living, and survives on the city's waste. He is the urban miracle
because he can survive the coldest of winters with only modest help
from the city's churches and welfare office. He is intelligent in his
business dealings with locals. He has many business agreements for
cans and space to store the ones he collects. He is also book smart.
Anytime he is allowed into the library, he goes. He'll read a book or
two but is careful not to lose it. In sustenance on the city dwellers'
waste, he has mastered the art of controlled starvation and has the
best credit rating in the world. He never spends more than he earns.

He competes regularly with the business deals of other Urban Vultures,
with good vision and noses for deals. He rarely contemplates what got
him in the unforgiving competition, but prides himself on being the
master of his trade.

Yes, the Urban Vulture is an entry level position. It has no salary or
benefits. The only payment is sustenance on a commission of begging.
How one becomes an Urban Vulture is simple. Give up on life and,
eventually, one will be promoted. He gave up the fight, or maybe he
just didn't have any fight left in him. It happens. At any rate, he
is now a full time Urban Vulture.

Now, having eaten his fill for the day, he settles in to a better
bench. One with a view. It's a familiar spot. Across from his old
apartment on the fourth floor of a building overlooking a lake. Now,
the sun sinks in the distant waters. Clouds, like steam from boiling
water, wrap the sun and prepare it for a midnight sleep. He pulls out
the sports section and wraps up in it. Slowly, the sun approaches the
horizon, giving way to darkness. Slowly his eyelids close, giving way
to sleep. Soon it will be tomorrow, and he must continue this harsh
existence. He does it faithfully in hopes that his fight will come
back. Perhaps one day he will rise up and again conquer his world.

Jessyka Gayle
-------------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Wearing Thin_

Every single cell is holding on to this sandpaper flesh
and I'm canned
Cannons sound bright
Love must be in the air!
Plastic
You meant much for the shallow waters you came from
I will always love you!
Then
Stop
Wait
Now
Did you hear the joker beckon you to love her?
This game has bent edges like dead playing cards
Time to play again
like naked men
I saw then as a child
What could I possibly say to you?
Is there any way out of you?
I found many ways into you,
through myself...
longing
To see you naked
Opalescent
Do these sounds carry midnights?
Twilights?
Laughter?
Pink comes all up and aglow upon my altar
Strike me as you wish
For I am tireless and limbless as...
Well, whatever...
Wait in rapture in the dentist's chair
So far the patient is clean
But what of dirt?
Damnation?
I know why you don't look at me
Shapeless Bewilderment
Containment
Wearing Thin
Synonymous with wearing you...

_Sucking At Sex_

I didn't want to puke you up again...
I wanted this to be a Sunday...
A clean day...
Why is it that whenever I look into the sun,
it spits cold, like the mother did?
This flesh is candied...
Stroked by green
Stroked by gray
Did you mean to make this a dirty day?
Ask me to not cease my search-love-life-death
on account of your throbbing...
Silver, Slicing, Magic
Murder this dripping heart
Hour glass inside her
Spend hours
digging inside her

She stretches to let you come into her
Roll and toss...
Have you ever peeled open the petals of a rose bud without bruising
flesh?
Give me the pill...
My Doctor
My Lover
I love your hands
Needled fingers touch this form beneath you
Sliver, Sliding, Static
Take it away from the little china doll girl
She has made it her companion
She rolls
and breathes
and slits open the yoke in your chest...
Sucking another form of love from a stranger

Wayne Brissette
---------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Tracks_

I remember them all;
the boys with their nails
the men with their stories
and the whispers of young girls with their secrets to each other.

I am saddened that I am mostly just a part of storybooks and songs
that nobody sings anymore.
my golden days, and my glory are fading.

But I remember a time when I was important, a time when everyone cared,
a time when everyone was proud of what I was and where I went.

Like a giant spider web, I stretched out from the rocky shoreline of
Maine
to the golden beaches of California.
In Detroit I used to help all day and all night,
but now as I look out on the ghosts roaming buildings
within my sight,
I wonder if I'll ever make them proud again.

As I am pulled from my roots and dismantled, my pain grows.

Gone are the boys with their nails
Gone are the men with their stories
Gone are the girls with their whispers

In the distance the familiar rumbling and
a whistle's shrill voice help me to smile inside myself.
At least today, I'll have some company,
someone that I can help,
someone who still cares enough to ride my web of rails.

Call For Entries...The Contest Continues!
-----------------------------------------

We Are Still Accepting Entries For The First POETRY INK Writing Contest!

Due To Popular Demand, We Have Pushed The Deadline To January 15th!
Read On For Details!

**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 January 15, 1996. 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
7 poems will be published as a Special Edition to be included with
the February 1996 issue.

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

John Freemyer
-------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Christmas on Judgement Day_

She said,
You don't believe
I'm frightened
by Christmas tree lights,
do you?

I said,
No.

She said,
Our lights are burning down all the chimpanzees.

I said,
It smells great, like a forest, in here.

She said,
Of all the soul squishing
bullshit! I'm wearing a gown, earrings,
and these tight new shoes
and you're running around naked!

I said,
Turn off the lights, dear.
The stink of all these burning chimps
has made me forget my manners.

Rob Johnston
------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Fast Food_

What is this food--fast?
Armies of squalid, screaming
squatters...trapped in sedans and
makeshift station-wagons.

Starving, distended children,
salivating on the electronic oracle...
promising limpid lumps of deep
fried goo.

Blue clouds killing corpuscles...
inhaling streams of sodium nightmares,
wrapped in burnt oil, sliding
glass mail-bombs.

Squawking, squeaking distortion
chamber signals misunderstood
pleas of deliverance. What is this...
manna? When is my salvation?

Where are my fucking fries!?!

Paul Semel
----------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Death Didn't Make Me Think Of You_

the death of someone
I once called friend
made me think of others
I've lost to time

but it didn't make me think
of you

it wasn't until
something else
something insignificant
meaningless
and unrelated
that I realized
the death
didn't make me think
of you

I didn't think of you
like I thought of her
didn't wish
you'd call me up
didn't scare me
we might never be friends
before one of us dies

even the death
of someone much like you--
someone I could talk to
open myself up to
be so honest with
I could admit anything to
even things
I never admitted to myself
even her death
left you forgotten

I guess I'm just not willing
to let her go
like I've let you

_RunOnSentences_
(i/DATE)

My Words Flowed Like Cold Soy Sauce From One Of Those Bottles With The
Plastic Tops That Makes The Soy Sauce Drip Out In Spits And Spurts And
i Tried So Hard Not To Sound like i was Trying so hard not to sound
like this was a date as we drove away from the movie towards wherever
she finally decided it was okay for her to borrow money from me and
eat though i told her not to worry about it but she did because she
didn't think this was a date and you could tell by the way we talked
that it was anything but what we may have both thought the other one
thought and even when we started talking about sex it was more like a
"oh yeah, that" than a "why yes, i'd like to have some of that, thank
you" which was fine by me because from the time she picked me up to
the time she dropped me off the only things i kept telling myself were
"don't stare at her breasts" and "this is not a date" which was fine
since if i didn't think it was a date then i wouldn't have to worry
when i couldn't work up the nerve to kiss her good night.

Jeanne Gil
----------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Loss_

I cannot escape you,
everywhere I go,
whatever I read,
whatever the song,
I think of you.
So strange.
We never met, shared a life;
how is it that there exists
so much in my here and now,
that summons up quiet thoughts of you?
A poem, a song,
strong urges surge to the forefront of my being.
Tears silently escape their fold,
following a well-worn track on the cheek.
Grieving is a process, a struggle,
to bring the inner reality to grips
with the outer one.
Your name forever engraved in my heart.
Soul meshed within my own.
Rarely do two meet heart to heart,
soul to soul, mind to mind.
It is this I can't let go,
this miracle of completeness with one another.
My being screams in this silence that I must keep,
pining alone, without one to share.
Drifting, slowly, towards the acceptance
that will eventually come.
One chosen over another,
in this contest of the heart.

Tristan Li Tom
--------------
<[email protected]>
1 prose piece

_There's Music In The Air And Oh Yeah..._

There's music in the air and oh yeah, the music can be heard from
across the waterway, the lagoon. It procrastinates out passed the
buffet table and the bar and the dessert table, through the lane and
over the gentle undertow where the bridge crosses. Over the rustling
of the green swamp water grass, the reminiscing of the beauty of the
life of music lingers on. It was early and people began to drift in at
a slow and leisurely pace. Freshly showered, perfumed, lazy days of
life sustain without regret. White linen pants and summer dresses all
year round.

The employees came first, then the aroma of mesquite grilled abundance
which was professionally marinated and cooked full moon for the party
goers, smoked out over the embankment. Slow cooking--a whole days
process in homage to this very night.

Then came the young fresh energetics. More than ready and willing to
celebrate the beauty of their existence, their diversity, their lives
on this planet. The language of the music was not always their own,
but the emotion of the music was universal. There was mingling,
laughing, and frivolous celebration of good things in life yet to
come. Her real name is Betty, but we call her June.

And when it was all said and done, couples walked slowly away from
there, hand in hand, stopping every once in a while with their eyes
glazed over, to make a point of remembering that particular moment in
time for the rest of their lives.

They had said, "We should really do this more often" and meant it.

David Hines
-----------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Occult Dawn_

I_.
clever little obols
surround an ochone Light house: Wild groves of
fleshbare Trees--
withoutaleaf
dappled summer.

II_.
& lost in a shallow pool Opaque--
All stems bled
Dry;
still; Wait for each dirty rain
to pass.

III_.

&...White rainbow...oblique from here.

John L. Arnold
--------------
<[email protected]>
1 prose piece

_Waiting_

You've seen them, the old ones. The ones who are waiting and watching,
sitting in the windows, looking out. They look up the street and then
down the street. Taking in everything, every detail familiar from
having swept up and down the street a thousand times. Sitting in the
window and looking out.

From early in the morning, first light. Sitting and watching and
waiting. The television is always on, turned on on waking and off for
sleep. The constant sound makes it seem that someone is in the room
and somehow lessens the loneliness of the watcher. It seems like
someone is there but the room is empty except for the watcher.

Now the sun is coming up, is that a movement there in the shadows? A
glint of sun on steel? The shape of a dark figure there in the
doorway. Maybe not, false alarm. It looked like the Scythe, there in
the morning light. The imagined sound of the blade moving through the
still morning air, cutting, slicing, gathering souls.

The light is better now, or is it? Eyes failing, like everything else.
The paperboy is coming around the corner now, used to be a job for
kids, not now. Paperboys are not boys, but Asian adults. What
happened? Everything is changing now, too fast, too fast.The news is
always the same: war, pain and poverty. Politics, who cares anymore?
The rich always get richer and the old and poor are made to suffer for
it. It's always the same.

No point in reading the obituary columns anymore, all the friends are
already dead. Everybody you ever knew seems to be dead. Back to the
window, looking up the street and down the street, waiting and
watching.

You know he is on the way now. The television is blaring away,
unwatched. What time does Oprah start? Hard to remember things now.
The mail is almost due now, but what does it matter anyway? Only bills
or junk mail arrive now. No mail, no phone calls, nothing. Only
watching, looking up the street and down the street. Waiting.

Used to get a card on Mother's Day, maybe a phone call. Voices in a
hurry, busy with their own lives. Get the duty to the old over and get
on with it. Nothing to say anyway. When does the pension check come?
Hard to remember now. It's never enough anyway, just enough to live in
poverty.

Dusk now, another day passing, light fading. Is that a movement in the
shadows? A figure in a black cape? Is he here? God let it be quick.

No, not yet, but when? To sleep, to wake, all the same now, just
waiting and watching for the Reaper.

About The Contributors...
-------------------------
Wynn Miller is this issue's Featured Writer. Go read that section to
learn more about him.

Richard Epstein calls Denver, Colorado home. His poetry has appeared
in a wide assortment of literary journals both in the U.S.A. and in
Great Britain. He currently makes his living as a litigation
paralegal. Richard is a frequent contributor to POETRY INK.

Geoffrey Hamilton lives in Sacramento, California. When he is not
working the night shift at a local Raley's Superstore, he's either
reading, hiking the Sierras, watching the Sacramento Kings at Arco
Arena, or drinking a microbrewed beer. Geoffrey also designed POETRY
INK's logo and icons. This is his first time in print.

Jeremy Lowry hails from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. A recent graduate of the
George Washington University he currently serves in AmeriCorps, the
national service corps. He has been previously published in student
publications and local 'zines. Jeremy enjoys writing poetry, playing
football and friendly arguments about politics.

David Schwab is a sophomore at the University of Alabama majoring in
Telecommunications and Film. He plans to own a production company in
the future. While _Urban Vulture_ is his first appearance in
print,David has been writing since 1992. An avid computer user &
programmer, he also is involved in athletic officiating, campus
politics, HAM radio, and video production.

Jessyka Gayle was raised in Los Angeles, California. An intensely
private person, Jessyka says that writing a bio goes against her
nature. Suffice to say that she has "been there and back" and here is
her poetry.

Wayne Brissette lives in Austin, Texas. A technical writer for Apple
Computer, Wayne has also voluntarily maintains POETRY INK's web site,
as well as the web site for the Central Hockey League. His new hobby
is photography, which has sparked his creative juices for writing more
often. This is his second appearance in POETRY INK.

John Freemyer works with developmentally disabled children and writes
what he calls "Computer Assisted Poetry" with homemade software of his
own design. John lives in Los Angeles with his wife of 23 years, Jane,
and their two daughters, Marie and Claire. This is his fourth
appearance in POETRY INK.

Rob Johnston hails from Houston, Texas. When not writing, Rob does
graduate research for NASA and trying to finish his doctoral degree.
He has published about thirty academic and research articles and about
a dozen poems. Mostly he's just trying to stay awake. His poem _Oasis_
appeared in Issue 6 of POETRY INK.

Paul Semel has had poems appear in "Planet Magazine", "Mysterious
Wysteria", "Drop Forge", "Coffeehouse", and "Nerve". His day job has
him editing music reviews for "huH", and contributing to such
magazines as "Wired", "Bikini", "Ray Gun", and "Hot Wired". A resident
of Los Angeles, California, this is his second appearance in POETRY
INK.

Jeanne Gil lives in Robbinsville NJ. She works with special needs
children in the public schools. In her spare time she enjoys cooking,
reading, long walks, and playing with her 2 year old son. Her poem _I
Close My Eyes_ appeared in POETRY INK Issue 6.

Tristan Li Tom graduated from California State University--Sacramento
last year with dual degrees in Film Studies and Media Communications.
He is currently an intern at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre in
Berkeley, California. He also works part-time for Apple Computer as an
Authorized Apple Product Representative. Tristan has been previously
published in "Video Magazine", "Widescreen Review" and the BMUG
(Berkeley Macintosh User's Group) Newsletter.

David Hines is an artist/poet who splits his time unequally between
London, Poplar Grove, Toronto and Santa Barbara. He has edited various
literary publications in Canada such as "Quiddity" and "UnderPound".
His first book of poetry, which he is sharing with the Toronto-based
poet Phil Larratt-Smith, is "Caveat to an Eremitical Priest: An
Anthology" [sic] which is to be published in 1996 by viMA Press.

John Arnold is an ex-book salesman, cab driver, and jack of all
trades. He currently resides in San Francisco, California and makes a
sort of living as a Tour Guide for the Great Pacific Tour Co. This is
his first appearance in print.

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

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