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dedicated to the art of the written word

volume 2, number 3
April 1996

================================
POETRY INK 2.03 / ISSN 1091-0999
================================

POETRY INK
Volume 2, Number 3
Issue 10
April 1996

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

**Honorary Editor Emeritus**
John A. Freemyer

**Staff Artist**
Calvin Xavier

**eMail**
<[email protected]>

**World Wide Web**
<http://atlantis.austin.apple.com/people.pages/wayneb/PoetryInk.html>

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

**Web Page Maintainer**
Wayne Brissette <[email protected]>

**Logo & Icons designed by**
Geoffrey Hamilton <[email protected]>

Legal Stuff
-----------
POETRY INK is copyright (c) 1996 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:

**You May**

* Upload POETRY INK to your local BBS and commerical online services,
such as America-Online(tm) and CompuServe(tm).

* Distribute POETRY INK to your local non-profit user group free of
charge.

* Print out and share with your friends, family, classmates and
coworkers.

**You May Not**

* Distribute POETRY INK on CD-ROM without prior written consent.

*Charge for access other than a reasonable re-distribution fee (i.e.
online connection time).

* Charge Shipping and Handling fees for any media POETRY INK is
included upon.

POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS retains one-time rights and the right to
reprint this issue, either in printed or electronic format. 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 7.5.3. POETRY INK is initially uploaded to our
subscribers, 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, Claris Corp.'s
ClarisWorks(tm) 2.1v4, and Michel & Francois Touchot's eDOC 1.1.2. We
encourage others to support these fine hardware manufacturers and
software programmers.

Submission Information
----------------------

POETRY INK is a free electronic literary journal written by and for
writers and poets with access to the burgeoning global community known
as the Internet. Rather than existing solely on the World Wide Web
(that part of the Internet getting all the media attention nowadays),
POETRY INK is designed to be downloaded to your computer and read
off-line. We encourage you to share POETRY INK with your friends,
family, classmates, and coworkers.

Since we are a free publication, our contributors acknowledge that the
only compensation due to them is the right to access a copy of the
issue of POETRY INK in which their work appears. Because POETRY INK is
found on America Online(tm), CompuServe(tm), and other various online
services--as well as our own World Wide Web home page--we do not
anticipate access dificulties. We regret that we cannot provide
so-called "hard" paper copies; if you desire a "hard" copy, you will
need to download POETRY INK and print a copy on your own printer.

POETRY INK accepts submissions on a per-issue basis, with each issue
published on a bi-monthly schedule for a total of six issues per
calendar year. Generally, each issue is uploaded and eMailed to
subscribers and contributors on the fifteenth of every other month
(April 15, June 15, etc.). We do not send rejection letters; if your
submission has been accepted for publication, you will be notified by
eMail within one week of sending in your submission (or within two
weeks if you sent your submission via snail mail).

Our Submission Requirements
---------------------------

* Your name, eMail address, physical (snail mail) address, and
telephone number must appear on each submission. Your name and eMail
address will appear on any published work; the remainder of this
information is only for our files and will not be released. You may
omit including your telephone number if you are uncomfortable
disclosing this information; however, please realize this means that
if we need to reach you immediately regarding your submission, your
submission might be excluded from inclusion.

* Electronic submissions should be submitted as plain ASCII eMail
files, or as BinHex 4.0 (.hqx) or StuffIt(tm) compressed (.sit) file
attachments. Compressed files should be in plain text format (the kind
produced by SimpleText). Regardless of submission format, please use
the subject line "SUBMIT POETRY INK: your name" where "your name" is
your actual name and not the name of your eMail account. For example,
it should look like this :

SUBMIT POETRY INK: John Q. Public

* Please keep poems under 3 printed pages apiece (page size = 8" x 11"
page with 1" margins printed with Times 12-point plain font). Please
limit short stories to under 5000 words

* Please limit submissions to no more than 5 poems or 2 short stories
per person per issue.

* Simultaneous submissions are okay, but please contact us if your
work is accepted by another publication so that we may remove the work
in question from consideration. No previously published work may be
submitted.

* Please include a short biographical sketch (3 to 5 lines) with your
submission; if your work is selected for publication, this bio will be
included in our About the Contributors section.

These submission guidelines are an abbreviated version of our complete
guidelines; all submissions are subject to the guidelines outlined
therein. For a copy of our complete submission guidelines, send a
request to our eMail address.

>From The Editor's Desktop...
----------------------------
Introducing the new and improved POETRY INK!

As promised in our last issue, we have revamped our "look and feel" to
make POETRY INK easier to read on screen and more aesthetically
pleasing to the eye. Our submission guidelines have been drastically
overhauled, although the detailed guidelines are available upon
request. We now sport even more features and columns; we have broken
up News & Views into two segments--Views & Reviews and Footnotes from
Home--and are introducing a new column, Writing Exercises.

So, with all these new sections, we need writers! We are putting out
the call for writers and reviewers to give us their opinions on books,
CD-ROMs, audio books, audio CDs--anything dealing with the written or
performed Word. If interested in contributing to one of our new
columns, please contact us at our eMail address and let us know what
you'd be willing to do! These are the positions we are looking to
fill:

* Literary News Correspondents

* Book and Software Reviewers

* Feature Columnists

* Guest Columnists

Contact us for more information regarding these positions.

Also, if you'd like to have something you have produced reviewed--such
as a chapbook, audio tapes or CDs, or CD-ROMs--send it to us at our
snail mail address and we will give it the attention it deserves.

Oh, and one more very important thing: we have changed our online
account! As of March 1, 1996, our new eMail address is
<[email protected]>. Please make a note of this change, as eWorld(tm)
has gone out of business and eMail sent to our old eMail address will
only be forwarded until July 1, 1996. Also, our Internet Service
Provider allows us 5 megabytes of Web space, so look for more
information on a second POETRY INK WWW site in the next issue!

Spill the Ink and May the Muse be Kind!

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

Belles Lettres
--------------
All eMail sent to
Poetry Ink
becomes our property and is subject to possible inclusion in this
section

**Our Contest Winner Flashes His Cash**
[photo omitted]

> Who says poets can't earn green backs? I believe the attached photo
> should end this myth once and for all...I hereby tentatively accept
> the position of Honorary Editor Emeritus of POETRY INK . I won't let
> the position go to my head!

John "Bigger 'n Elvis" Freemyer
<[email protected]>

Well, John, its good to see that winning the contest didn't go to your
head! For those of you wondering, John's holding up one of the prizes
from our first writing contest--five genuine "Green Backs". In a
separate eMail, John suggested that other contributors send in
pictures of themselves. If enough of our readers think this is a good
idea, we will pursue this idea further. Let us know what you think!

**Now On BMUG**

> Hello, and congratulations on Issue 9. It looks great! Thanks again
> for including my poems. I also wanted to let you know that I have
> uploaded Issue 8 and 9 to BMUG [Berkeley Macintosh User Group], the
> largest of the Mac user groups. BMUG has about 10,000 members all over
> the country, so exposure should be good.

John L. Arnold
<[email protected]>

Thanks for the good word and thanks for Spilling the Ink! It's readers
and contributors like John Arnold who help make POETRY INK the best it
can be by sharing it with as many people as you can! We encourage you
to distribute POETRY INK wide and far. Just be sure to follow see the
Masthead on page 2 for the few limitations on re-distribution.

**Too Good To Be True**
> It is hard to believe that the ninth issue of POETRY INK is out
> there being read world-wide as you work on the tenth issue. I
> suppose it is a sign that I am getting old, time is moving really
> fast. I was looking back over past issues a while ago and the
> changes (improvements) made are quite remarkable. Keep up the great
> work!

David Simmons
<[email protected]>

Well, David, I don't know if you really are gettting old, but we try
to improve with each issue. Hopefully, we have made all the cosmetic
changes that needed to be made, and now we can focus on improving the
content. So send us some of your stuff to be published, dear Readers!

Footnotes From Home
-------------------
**The United States Of Poetry**
The Independent Television Service (a subsidiary of the Public
Broadcasting System ) is gearing up to air a five-part series on
public television on the state of poetry in America. Entitled The
United States of Poetry , the series takes a sometimes meaningful,
sometimes meandering look at how poetry is coming to the forefront as
both a written craft and performed art. Featuring readings from both
the unknown and the renowned, this is a series not to be missed. ITVS
has also set up a web site to compliment broadcast of the series,
which can be reached at the URL:

<http://www.itvs.org/ITVS/programs/UsofP>.

The site contains links to hundred of writing-related web pages and
also a detailed list of broadcast dates and stations which will air
the show (but check with your local PBS affiliate to see if they are
going to air the series). There's also a communal poem called The
Great American Poem to which you can add your own lines if you are so
inspired!

**Writer's Digest Contests**
May 31, 1996 is the deadline for next year's Writer's Digest Writing
Competition. Grand prize is an expenses-paid three-day trip to New
York City to meet with editors and agents who handle work similar to
your own. New this year, contestants can enter as many manuscripts as
they'd like in the following categories: Personal Essay, Feature
Article, Literary Short Story, Mainstream/Genre Short Story, Rhyming
Poem, Non-Rhyming Poem, Stage Play, Television/Movie Script.

For complete rules and an official entry form, send a self-addressed,
stamped envelope to:

Writer's Digest 1996 Writing Competition
1507 Dana Ave.
Cincinnati, OH 45207
STORY Magazine Contest

May 1, 1996 is the deadline for next year's STORY's Naked Fiction
Competition . The top award is $1,000 cold,hard cash. For complete
rules and an official entry form, send a self-addressed, stamped
envelope to:

STORY's Naked Fiction Competition
1507 Dana Ave.
Cincinnati, OH 45207

**Pulitzer Prizes Announced**
On April 9, 1996 Columbia University announced the winners of this
year's Pulitzer Prizes. Each prize
carries a cash prize of $3,000 and will be presented on May 20. The
winners of the Pulitzer Prizes for
the arts are:

* Fiction: "Independence Day", by Richard Ford

* Drama: "Rent", by the late Johnathan Larson

* History: "William Cooper's Town: Power and Persuasion on the Frontier
of the Early American Republic", by Alan Taylor

* Biography: "God, A Biography", by Jack Miles

* Poetry: "The Dream of the Unified Field", by Jorie Graham

* General Nonfiction: "The Haunted Land: Facing Europes' Ghosts after
Communisim", by Tina Rosenberg

*Music: "Lilacs", for voice and orchestra, by George Walker

Contest #2 Winners
------------------
Well, unfortunately, POETRY INK Contest #2: Formulaic Verse was a
bust. A big bust. As in, "don't even bother next time." So we won't.
As of this issue, we will be discontinuing any contests unless
significant interest is expressed by you, our readership.

If you recall, in our last issue, the challenge was to write a
formulaic verse poem on the subject of streetlights. Well, we only had
two entries, and they both came from Amy DeGeus, and they were better
than anything we actually expected to have submitted. So, Amy, you win
the prize. An official- looking certificate and surprise award is
winging its way to you via the U.S. Postal Service.

Amy DeGeus
----------
<[email protected]>
2 poems

_Pale Saints_

The snow crunching under my feet reminds
me of your heart. This bitter winter spell
cuts through all layers like the time I fell
and you dressed my knee. Chicken mole tastes fine
except it reminds me of Christmas time.
The candlestick gift has stories to tell
of icy discourse. I thought I knew you well--
I ran hard but I was falling behind.
While waiting here for the bus, I shiver
under the streetlight's false glow; its bright chill
pretends at substance. On the other hand,
the candle's glow is real. Now I understand
how that tricked me, because your heart was filled
not with warm, but cold gifts to deliver.

_Just Before Gary_

Along 94 the streetlights extend,
But eastbound travelers must be wary.
The dark cloak falls where the streetlights end
--Just before Gary.

Drivers may think the change temporary
Not knowing that past those lights they have no friend
Save the captain of death's quiet ferry.

The murder capital looms, like a dead end
Even Chicagoans find it scary.
The line of lights wink's out, no help to lend
--Just before Gary.

The Write Thing
---------------
This little humorous tidbit was forwarded to us from an anonymous
individual while we were trolling the Internet. If anyone knows the
origin of this piece, we would appreciate it if you could send the
information to us. Otherwise, here are just a few pointers to teach
you:

_How To Write Good_
Some Common Rules of Thumb To Better Your Writing

1. Avoid alliteration. Always.
2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3. Avoid cliches like the plague. (They're old hat.)
4. Employ the vernacular.
5. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.
6. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary.
7. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
8. Contractions aren't necessary.
9. Foreign words and phrases are not apropos.
10. One should never generalize.
11. Avoid quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: "I hate
quotations. Tell me what you know."
12. Comparisons are as bad as cliches.
13. Don't be redundant; don't use more words than necessary; it's
highly superfluous.
14. Profanity sucks shit.
15. Be more or less specific.
16. Understatement is always best.
17. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.
18. One-word sentences? Eliminate.
19. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
20. The passive voice is to be avoided.
21. Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms.
22. Even if a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed.
23. Who needs rhetorical questions?

Views & Reviews
---------------
In this first installment of Views and Reviews, we will be looking at
two CD-ROMs from The Voyager Company:

"Poetry In Motion" and "Poetry In Motion II".
by Ron Mann
The Voyager Company
1351 Pacific Coast Highway
Santa Monica, CA 90401 USA
1-800-446-2001
<http://www.voyagerco.com>
List price $24.95 each

Long-known for their exquisitely produced "edutainment" CD-ROM
software titles such as "Mozart's String Quartet in C Major: The
Dissonant" and "If Monks Had Macs", the fine folks at Voyager have
outdone themselves with "Poetry In Motion" and it's sequel, "Poetry In
Motion II".

Both of these CD-ROMs are fantastic examples of what a true multimedia
experience should be. It is important to realize that although these
two titles are sold separately, they form a cohesive whole and need to
be experienced together.

Both parts of "Poetry In Motion" are based around Ron Mann's 1991 film
of the same name, which featured poets and writers performing and
discussing their work. Using Mann's film as it's centerpiece, the
CD-ROM version of "Poetry In Motion" incorporates not only
performances and discussions, but also the actual text of each work
performed.

"Poetry In Motion" actually goes an extra step: not only is the
performed text available, but also the published text as well. This
allows the viewer to compare the way a poet writes a poem to the way
the poet performs the same poem. For example, Anne Waldman's "Number
Song" enters a totally different arrangement compared to its original
published appearance when she performes the piece--entire stanzas are
rearranged and words omitted or substituted. Being able to see these
differences makes the poetic process come to life.

The overall design of "Poetry In Motion" is graceful as well. Designed
as a HyperCard 2.2 self- contained program (the HyperCard 2.2 Player
is embedded in each part), "Poetry In Motion" incorporates
QuickTime(tm) encoded segments of "Poetry In Motion" (the film) which
are keyed to the text: as each performer reads their text, the text
scrolls along in sync. If you want to flip ahead, however, the program
allows you to do so as well. Although this text-scrolling feature
worked moderatley well on the Centris 610 we borrowed, on occassion it
did lag behind and cause noticable delays in the film playback.

Also, the performers are arranged in alphabetical order, and this is
clearly not the way Mann's original film version was assembled. While
it is understandable that some organization to the project was needed,
the re-arranging of performers causes the cohesiveness of the film
clips to fall apart. For example, the second poet on the fist disc,
Miguel Algarin, performed the poem which played over the closing
credits of the film, as witnessed by the film clip. Why did Voyager
feel the need to dissect the motion picture in its quest to develop
the software title?

The performers featured on the discs are as follows:

**"Poetry In Motion"**
Helen Adams * Miguel Algarin * Amiri Baraka * Ted Berrigan * Charles
Bukowski * William S. Burroughs * John Cage * Jim Carroll * Jayne
Cortez * Robert Creeley * Christopher Dewdeny * Diane Di Prima *
Kenwood Elmslie * Four Horsemen (a performing group) * Allen Ginsberg
* John Giorno * Michael McClure * Ted Milton * Michael Ondaatije * Ed
Sanders * Ntozake Shange * Gary Snyder * Tom Waits * Anne Waldman

**Poetry In Motion II:**
Helen Adams * Amiri Baraka * Ted Berrigan * Charles Bukowski * Jim
Carroll * Tom Clark * Robert Creeley * Diane Di Prima * Allen Ginsberg
* John Giorno * Spalding Gray * Bob Holman * Rose Lesniak * Cookie
Mueller * Eileen Myles * Alice Notley * Michael Ondaatije * Joel
Oppenheimer * Peter Orlovsky * Pedro Pietri * Jerome Rothenberg * Gary
Snyder * Anne Waldman * Phillip Whalen

Just looking at these names, it is obvious that this project attracted
"big names" in the field of poetry and literature in general. In
addition to the film clips and text, the "Poetry In Motion II" disc
contains an extensive bibliography on each performer featured in the
entire package. It is interesting to note that seven of these
performers passed away prior to the release of the CD-ROMs: Adams,
Berrigan, Bukowski, Cage, Carroll, Miller, and Oppenheimer did not
live to see themselves and their work etched into the digital medium.

What is even more interesting is the fact that many of the
performances from the more famous poets are complete and utter crap.
Both of Ginsberg's pieces, "Capitol Air" and "Do the Meditation Rock"
are mindless drivel performed to the grinding neo-progressive rock
music of a group billing themselves as the CeeDees. Both pieces are no
more than off-the-cuff quips and one-liners aimed at political
conservatives. Likewise, the Four Horsemen's "The Dreams Remain" is
nothing more than vocal masturbation, with four grown men howling like
Neanderthals and making no real sense. And what is the point of having
actor/musician/self-proclaimed poet-of-the-people Tom Waits mumbling
the cynical lullabye "Smuggler's Waltz"? Is he the celebrity muscian
of the moment? Or is he the deep introspective poet? Or was Joni
Mitchell simply unavailable?

Despite glitches in performance selection, "Poetry In Motion" does
boasts some feature-rich performances. Both of John Giorno's works "We
Got Here Yesterday, We're Here Now, And I Can't Wait to Leave
Tomorrow" and "I Don't Need It, I Don't Want It, and You Cheated Me
Out of It" are not only highly entertaining to see performed, but
intriguing to read on their own as well. Robert Creeley, in his
introduction to "Poetry In Motion II" calls Giorno a "pioneer of
multimedia" who ranks along side the likes of Laurie Anderson. Indeed,
Giorno's use of echo reverb and the lighting of the stage enhance his
performances and creates an experience that holds the viewer
entranced. The same can be said for famed monolougist Spalding Gray's
hushed readings of "Spalding's Dream" and "Tanya's Story", prose
pieces which draw the viewer into Gray's surreal world and leave you
wondering at the imagrey therein. Or even Bob Holman's "Rock & Roll
Mythology", a bebopping white-boy's rap that somehow connects the
visual and the audio within the scope of his performance unlike any
other work on the discs.

Likewise, Ted Berrigan's reading of "Hall of Mirrors" is filmed with
Berrigan standing between two mirrors, the reflections repeating into
infinity as he reads his work. And the sixty-year-old-plus Helen
Adam's joyous rendition of "Cheerless Junkie's Song" sung to the tune
of a Scottish drinking ballad is a sight to behold. Joel Oppenheimer's
"What My Father Said" and "The Thoughts of a Fat Man's Father" are not
only poignant, but performed with a delicacy only Oppenheimer can
provide.

And then there is Charles Bukowski, clearly the centerpiece of Mann's
film, reduced to 24-bit QuickTime(tm) and still cranky as hell. The
long reigning king of the post-Kerouac Beats and Dharma Bums, the
recently deceased Bukowski does not perform, per se , but is featured
in an interview divided between both discs. Bukowski holds no punches
and tells it like it is, which of course is his style and is all the
more humorous for the viewer. Not to be missed is Bukowski's
comparison of writing poetry to a particular bodily function, which is
one analogy you will long remember after shutting off your CD- ROM
drive.

POETRY INK's Rating for "Poetry In Motion" and "Poetry In Motion II":
Worth Buying!

Writing Exercises
-----------------
Everybody suffers from writer's block once in a while, but it doesn't
have to be the extreme it sometimes becomes. In this and future
issues, this column will present various ways to release the creative
juices and put the "oomph" back in your writing.

Before we jump into this month's exercises, keep in mind these three
simple, self-explanatory rules to follow in order to benefit from
these exercises:

1) Keep the pen / pencil moving!
2) Don't worry about spelling and grammar (editing is notwriting!).
3) Do these exercises in a quiet, well-lit place unless otherwise
noted.

Okay, now that we have laid the ground rules, let us begin.

This issue's three writing exercises deal with ways to begin writing.
Often, we have the urge to write, but cannot find a starting point. It
is much like jump-starting a car with a dead battery: once the engine
is running, the battery will re-charge. But it is finding someone with
a pair of booster cables which is the challenge.

So, here we are, with a couple of suggestions for jump-starting your
brain.

**Exercise One**
Do This: Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.

Then Ask: What do you smell? Where do these smells come from? Where
could they come from? What do you associate with these smells?
Remember, the absence of smell is a smell as well.

And Describe: Write for fifteen minutes without stopping longer than
four or five seconds. Don't lift the pen from the page if you can help
it. Answer the questions asked above. Go into detail. It doesn't
matter if you write in poetic lines or prose--just write!

Later:Review what you wrote. Make revisions. Play with it. Correct any
spelling or grammar errors you are uncomfortable with. Continue to
rework and revise over time until are satisfied. If you don't like
what you wrote, let it die. Not everything is worth saving.

**Exercise Two**
Do This: Get your pen or pencil and your notebook and walk outside in
your backyard (if you don't have a backyard, go to your local park).
Lie on your back in the grass. Look up at the sky (it doesn't matter
if you do this during the day or in the evening). Now, imagine that
the sky is a planet you are looking down upon, a planet consisting
entirely of sky and clouds with no visible land masses.

Then Ask: What kind of planet is this? Where is it located in the
universe? Is the planet inhabited? By whom? What do the inhabitants
look like? What do they do? How do they live? Are they alone? How do
they survive? What makes them what they are?

Then Do This: Sit up and grab your pen and notebook.

And Describe: Stay outside and write for fifteen minutes without
lifting the pen from the paper. Answer the questions you asked
yourself before. Expand. It doesn't matter if you write in poetic
lines or prose--just write!

Later: Review what you wrote and edit to your heart's content. If you
aren't satisfied with what you wrote, let it sit and come back to it
at another time.

**Exercise Three**
You Will Need: An old newspaper , a pair of scissors, a notebook or
notepad, a pencil or pen, and a stick of glue (optional). You may also
wish to involve your kids in this exercise ; it is a good "rainy day"
activity in which the whole family can participate.

Do This: Clear your desk or writing table. Take about twenty minutes
and cut individual words out of the newspaper. Make sure you have a
fair amount of all types of speech: verbs, nouns, adjectives, etc.
About two-hundred or so words is a good total count.

Then Do This: Take about thirty minutes and rearrange the words, using
your desktop as your easel. Connect the words in new ways. Break
grammatical rules and create sentences and poems without tradtional
meaning but which only sound good or are appealing to the eye. Write
down the creations you like on your notepad.

If You Want, Also Do This: Take your favorite poem you have created
during this exercise and glue each word on a clean sheet of paper.
Frame it or hang it on your fridge and display it for all to see.

**Addendum**
These exercises are intended as starting points for writing. We are
interested seeing what direction your explorations in these exercises
have taken you. If you did one of these exercises and wish to share
your results with our readers, send it in! We'll consider it for
publication and review in this column.

In the next issue, we will explore two different modes of writing
poetry--also known as Free Verse versus Form.

Disclaimer: These exercises are meant to assist you in your writing
process; we do not guarantee their effectiveness nor do we warrant
that following these exercises will make you a better writer. These
exercises are not intended to replace your current creative process,
but only enhance your writing practices in times of need.

Featured Writer
---------------
Stephane Berrebi
<[email protected]>
1 poem and an essay

_Restart After Launch_

Winter coming. Fire burning. Doors ajar
World sweet world come closer to me
I know tales of wisdom and despair
Tales for the moon and the clouds
Tales of silence and laughter

Not for the rest of us

I am the worm in your eye
I am the gleam of sorrow
Walk with me and hear my psalms

Once I was a child and the trees talked to me
I could see corn growing
I loved the starry glow of amber
The smell of iron the taste of spiders

I was the flaw in the fabric
They built theories upon me
But the figures didn't match
I was the worm in the sky

I wish I could talk and you would listen
I wish I were a child and could rewind
I wish you knew me when you saw me in the street
Do you only know where I am?

Suppose it's Spain and rolled curtains of sunlit straw
Exhale their scent of flesh and flower
Oh yes, it's Spain! and fountains of marble sing with the breeze
At the exact instant when I learn to fly

Suppose it's the Golden Land of the Nile
I mimic the sacred pose of Pharaoh
You are the felouk downstream
Red ants sailing on wild rivers
With hopeless mountains on both sides

I am the worm in your very best eye
The cavity in your brain
You need not worry just don't look behind
> Interrupt
> Restart
> If sad go to River else continue

In these times there was war and deprivation
Rivers ran red like sore eyes
I chose to seek the shelter of darkness
Now that I gently push the doors
Dead screams follow the candor of the light

In these times they bred lambs for their meat
Like the others I sharpened my blades
Like the others I greased my boots
Like the others I sang the song of death

Once I was a captain and you were just a child
I was empowered to raise armies of the poor
For a sacred purpose I never quite understood

I lost all my love stamps at poker dice
I then tried to trade a couple of secrets
Like where the dead go and who plays the role of the moon
But I can talk no more, signed a non disclosure

Every night I sleep with my secret
And every morning I wake up wounded
With the bitter taste of unwanted truth

> Interrupt
> Restart
> If sad go to River else continue

Doesn't it make you feel like crying?
I am not asking for mercy I don't really need to hide
Each time I get out the world seems younger and more desirable
And my eyes are sharper

I had to build a fake pyramid on top of a cavern
My windows are falling apart won't pass the cold of winter
I definitely need a new rainbow for my status
Strange colorful rockets fall from the sky and fertilize my garden
I noticed a magnetic storm of deja vecu
That left me low res and torn apart
I beg for reconstruction

Please help the buried child afraid of no lies
I lay on the grass between the pavement and the rain

World sweet world come closer to me
I know tales for the moon and the clouds
That would make you cry helplessly for hours

Please take my hand please give me a hug please kiss me
I have plenty of money and redeemable coupons
I took the fast train to the time zone, got a seat on the aisles

Winter coming, fire burning, the door is ajar

Featured Writer Essay
---------------------
Stephane Berrebi lives in Meudon, France, and his poem
_The Fox and The Hedgehog_ appeared in the fifth issue of POETRY INK.
He is active in the multimedia industry in his homeland, both with
Apple Computer and with his own consulting firm. Stephane recently
released a children's CD-ROM in France under the name "Les
Imbattables". He is also working on a new CD-ROM, as well as a few
personal projects including a funny SciFi novel with "multiple reality
levels" connotations, and a "math-novel" for children. While Stephane
is fluent in English, he prefers to write in his native French and is
considering establishing an World Wide Web page for French Literature.

About _Restart After Launch_, Stephane writes:

I must confess I wrote the first draft of _Restart After Launch_ with
a pen on plain old fashioned paper, late at night, rather quickly, in
one flow, under the spur of "inspiration", and some pressure to get it
out too!

As I recall (I don't know where I put the first draft), most of the
"final" text was already there, little was added or withdrawn
afterwards, mostly minor editions were made.

It was three months ago approximately and winter was getting close;
hence the first verses, "recycled" from an earlier text I wrote but
did not finish .

The main body of _Restart After Launch_ is a monologue and an address
to an invisible listener, its tone bathed in an aura of sadness and
loss of illusions. While it is always the same person who speaks, the
identity of the listener(s) changes a few times in the course of the
text, from the world at large, to an invisible and central figure of
the father and then to the woman I love.

In the text, which encompasses the past of the speaker's life up to
his present--giving a vivid and pathetic description of his innermost
emotions--the speaker reluctantly explains that he carries the burden
of a painful secret, not fully known to himself, he has to accommodate
with. He still asks for some help because old spells have not lost
their potency, but he also recognizes that all the implements and
walls to structure life around this pain are crumbling, losing their
purpose, just because of the passage of time which erodes things and
makes them irrelevant.

Nevertheless, come the time of unraveling, the burden remains absurdly
and unexplainably painful.

This is the stuff that makes a whole therapy industry alive and
prosperous, and it can help make a few nice poems, too!

The poem contains colorful and vivid images, some of them maybe
deserving short explanations which, I hope, will not definitively
destroy their poetic effect.

**The worm in the eye:**
It's probably a contraction between the apple of your eye and the worm
in the apple. I don't think it has to do with the worm that causes
blindness in Africa (filaria). It ends up as the worm in the sky,
because our inner perceptions are projected on the outside world, like
phosphenes, or maybe because the eye itself was in the sky...

**Spain:**
In Andalusia, windows have rolled straw stores that protect apartments
from the sun. It simply smells great.

**Egypt:**
The sacred pose of the Pharaoh was the right foot slightly forward,
left hand raised, and, I believe, the right hand on the heart. The
felouks are those traditional flat bottom sail boats found on the
Nile. Near Assouan, the river sometimes flows between steep "canyons".

On a felouk, you may sometimes feel as powerless as an ant floating on
a piece of straw. This, however, is how new or destroyed worlds are
re-populated by new species...

The time zone is probably an adaptation from this zone where time had
stopped and where the most hardened criminals were sentenced in the
"Superman" comic strips of my childhood or perhaps a reminiscence from
some "Twilight" Zone episode of the past.

Of course, when you have a seat on the aisles, you can't get to see
easily the ghostly figures looming outside...

**"Restart after launch":**
Not "lunch." I added "conditional instructions" ("else go to") within
the poem as a sort of special effect for fun, as a reference to the
"cyber" nature of the medium for which I was writing. It is also a
reference to another poem I wrote in French before, where the world of
video games (quest of princess, fear of witchcraft and missiles) and
the emotions of a man about to (successfully) end his quest for love
were somehow mixed, all reunited by the pun on the word console, which
in French and English carry that same double meaning!

After that, before I sent the text to POETRY INK, I did some
calculations on the most read poems in the Writers' Digest section in
eWorld(tm) [now defunct], and their titles. I found that titles with
love or sex connotations attracted the highest numbers of downloads,
followed by those with "Cyber" connotations (a peak being reached for
"Cyber love!"). This made me decide the title would not be on love or
on sex, but could acceptably have a "funny" Cyber connotation.

Voila!

David Hunter Sutherland
-----------------------
[email protected]
3 poems

_Palinode_

Tomorrow bones rise,
rattle beneath skin as failing flesh
holds-fast derision,
holds-out discomfort
to the wailing mass on street on sidebar,

to the outstretched hands that
puppet themselves with rigged palms,
to absurdity's loom whose
applique embellish a pithy quilt,
to the polebearers on cart,
kiosks of naked humanity pass
but un-touch me.

The fragrance,
a sea of lilies, andromines, spray,
enough to forget this
foreign minds' shaped animalism of
thumb and joint and digit.
Enough to espy the contending esthetics
of pain and despair,
and little in harmony's way,
the melody's struck!

_Minerva In Pastel_

Her dark-tweed matte lay
frame to searching eyes,
words canvas almost speak
across beige mottled isles.

of weave or hue, birth lines
A sentinel guards waste
forth form, pastel and lace.

Minerva, all we know
takes hint between each tone
sad glimpse into your smile,

and colors you...
in stray magenta's,
auburn lights descending crowns.
Life colors you,

in rouge and charpet
paramours and stifled loves,
the lockets' blush on flesh cool tinder,
the song of thrush spent on a winter,
a wanton lover, near
and unheard
colors you.

_Empty Page_

Like a medieval monk on manuscript,
or French novelist
quick and fluent maneuvers up sen-
tence. Hind right on balcony,
sorting through pieces of colored glass,
note by note and shape by shape of
written word.

Never a writer would pen
Flaubert, Bovary, Plath whose
poisoned tongue sought immortal passage.
The engineered page

swears fanatical control,
as passion or dream--drives,
devours metaphor and

surely this outworn image
finds me lucid in it throes,
seduced to catch a feeble phrase which is
somewhat wrenched on return as

a lifetime of poise melts in
a brilliant conflagration
transcribed in sparks.

Bulusu Lakshman
---------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_My Mother_

Her name, simply nameless.
Her hands still seem to cradle me.
Her smile bears the light
of a thousand lamps.
Her soft words echo love
and resound in my heart
like dancing anklets.
Her prayers are a timeless uniquity.
Her heart, white as winter snow.
Her sacrifices, too deep for tears.
And she, a poem personified.

_David Schwab_
<[email protected]>
1 prose poem and 1 short story in two parts

_Curious Universe_
A Curious Multiverse

Open_
Blindly walking through the dark. Always I ended up near you. All the
time we spent together is now just a memory. The nights when you'd
hold me tight. Or after we fought that time when everything was all
right. We'd sit and gaze at the stars and wonder. Wondering through
the sky's great mystery. Are we the only two in this universe that
feel this way. Wondering minds run into each other as we kiss the
dream. It faded away.

Close_
Today I am blindly walking through the dark. Never ended up near you.
Your own need for the answer to our doubts lead you away from me. Now
I no longer rest in the knowledge that you're there. Instead I walk
free and hate it. I wander this universe of curiosity not knowing
what's next for me. Will I fly through the clouds and meet the maker,
or will I see you again one day far away. The music plays on as I
wander, now alone without you to wander to(o).

_Primal Knowledge_

**Part I**

Long ago he walked through the forest, the towering trees swayed in
the gentle breeze. The wind did not blow here in the leaves and among
the lush ground. The sun danced in the trees with the leaves as he
scanned, preparing to venture out on the hunt for the tribe. The suns
light almost blinded him when the wind blew the leaves free of its
light.

He and the other men proceeded into the forest, looking for the rare
food they sought to eat. They lived in a forest rich with birds, deer
and other woodland animals that made for a tasty meal. Dessert would
consist of berries and other sweet treats picked from the trees. The
women would venture out in search of these things.

She looked into the bush that lay ahead. No dangers presented
themselves, though she knew that one day she might have to face a
dreaded beast of the wild woods. Just a few weeks ago a group in
search of berries was attacked by a great bear. One of the women was
injured in her retreat through the bush. Two others got a rash from
running through the wrong kinds of plants. This time, she was on guard
with a bow, arrows and a dagger.

She glanced down at her only form of protection. There in her hand was
the dagger that her father had given her. Here it is customarily the
men who fight the wars, but women cannot always be protected by them.
Sometimes they need to fend for themselves. She recalled her
conversation with him.

"The key to a good fight," said her father, "is never to be
unprepared. Plan every move and be ready for the worst."

Soon she and the others began their venture into the forest.

The men found a deer and stalked it. Three of them loaded their bows
and sat ready to fire. They each had an angle on the deer in the shape
of a triangle. They all hid behind trees or near logs, just in case
one of their fellows accidentally shoots and them. They would each
fire one arrow at the animal over a time of about 10 seconds. In this
way, if one misses and scares the beast, the other two still have a
shot. The method was taught to them by their tribal elders.

Snap. Through the air an arrow shot by the lead warrior flew almost in
slow motion. It hit the deer in the hind legs. Snap. Shot number two
fired at the startled creature and hit in the mid section. Snap. Shot
three flew and, unfortunately, missed after the deer collapsed to the
ground. Sailed harmlessly off into the trees since the three warriors
were skilled enough to surround the deer on three sides.

The deer had succumbed to an depressant that the tribe coats the tips
of its arrows with. The deer was now effectively intoxicated. The lead
warrior pulled out his dagger and finished off the poor beast. The
three men along with the rest of the hunting party took the deer back
to camp.

Still searching, the women were having considerably less luck. She
carefully viewed the surroundings. Trees all around her made up the
dense forest's canopy. It was dark here at the ground level. She could
smell the sweet smell of grass blowing off from the river banks just
to her left. A gentle gurgling was all she could hear of the water
that lay near. The others' feet trod on the ground and made endless
crunching and cracking noises as the women trudged over the fermenting
waste lying on the forest floor. Her eyes scanned off to her right
now. She looked just beyond the browned pathway some of the others
were on into some bushes. Several vines swayed harmlessly about a
leafless tree. Bright sunlight shown through. She decided to make her
way to that tree. There might be something to eat nearby the ground.

Now her feet made the incessant crunching and cracking noises. She
knew she was approaching a bird's nest as the mother of the eggs flew
into a tree and chirped angrily at the intruding woman. She noticed
that there were indeed berries near the ground and greedily began to
fill her swamp grass basket. She carefully selected only the ripest
and richest berries and left the unripe ones behind. She might return
to this spot to harvest some more in the future. Occasionally she'd
eat one herself. They were in the prime of the season so the berries
were very sweet and delicious.

The men made their way back to the camp. They came upon a ridge just
above the valley in which they now live. He stopped to admire the lush
foliage and vegetation that covered the valley walls like a fresh,
ripe, sweet smelling green carpet sprawling out. Limited only by the
other ridge and then only by the limits of the sky. The air began to
take on the familiar smell of burning wood. The remaining villagers
had started fires in anticipation of the men's arrival home. The
setting sun now loomed dangerously close to the valley rim. Soon
darkness would crawl across the valley before taking to the sky.

The smoke rose from the fires like little pillars and then just a ways
above the village, but still below the men, it spread out into a
bluish floating ocean. Slowly from there it drifted into areas of the
valley as yet free from its pail blueness. The wind had now died down.
Only the stomping sounds of the men returning to camp could be heard.
They entered the shadow of the valley wall on the way down.
Accelerated because of the sun's downward trajectory.

The women now turned back to camp. The sun had left them long ago, but
it was not yet dark enough to blind them. They hauled their heavy
baskets in their arms back toward the village. They too could smell
the oak and apple wood fires that the those remaining had lit in
preparation for the night's feast. She sniffed the odorous potion and
it relaxed her mind, set her soul at ease. Soon the rewards of her
labors would be unleashed on all of the villagers and her father would
be proud.

_Primal Knowledge_

**Part II**

Now in the shadow of the urban forest, the multi-million dollar office
towers sway unnoticeably in the high level winds. The wind did not
blow here in the streets buried deep in the shadows of the buildings.
He scanned the solid shadows looking for anyone out of place. They say
to always be alert here in the jungle. He was preparing to answer
quite a lot of questions as today he has a new job interview. You
know, they say that interviewers might make the decision whether to
keep you or not based on what you wear to the interview and nothing
else. He wore a suit and his hair was perfectly combed. He checked his
watch to make sure he wasn't going to be late as the bus pulled up to
his stop.

She left her apartment and was just now checking to see that the click
she heard behind her was the door locking. Gently she twisted and
pushed on the knob. It wouldn't budge so she turned and pushed the
button for her car alarm. The alarm sent a beep back to let her know
it was disarmed. She got in and locked the door. There in her hand
were the keys to the car that her father had given her when she
graduated from high school. She thought about what her father had said
to her after he told her about how much the insurance cost.

"The key to safe driving," he said, "is to never be unprepared. Always
know what the other guy is doing and be ready for the worst."

Soon she started the engine and pulled into traffic, unsure if she'd
ever get that parking space right in front of her apartment again.

He sat somewhere in the middle and stared off lazily out the window.
He then opened a folder he had with him and went over his resume to be
sure there wasn't anything missing. He's got to make sure his
qualifications are up to par since he knew there would be a lot of
applicants for this particular job. He tucked it away as the bus
pulled up in front of the massive office tower and he disembarked. He
walked as confidently as he could through the door. He checked his
watch again, then went to the building directory to find the room the
office was in. He had seven minutes to the interview and the office
was on the second floor. He looked at the mass of people waiting for
the elevator and elected to take the stairs.

He climbed the two flights and went onto the second floor. He made his
way to the office and signed in with the secretary. She said that the
interviewer was with someone and she'd call for him in a few minutes.
When she did, he coolly followed her to the interviewer's office. They
shook hands and sat down. He gave his interviewer a steady eye and
calmly answered each question fired at him. The interviewer accepted
his resume and peered at it ferociously trying to find a stumbling
point. The interviewer fired some more questions, each more difficult
then the last but he calmly and assuredly answered each one. The
interviewer had done his best and now shook his hand.

She pulled into Barney's Diner, here she manages servers and the bar
for a living. She pulled up in front, five minutes early. She's got to
set an example for the other employees. She opens the door and looks
around at the parking lot. Business is slow right now, but within the
hour it should pick up. It is almost dinnertime. She slams the door
and walks to the back entrance with an almost perfect managerial
strut, checking that the car alarm is activated along the way. Once
inside, she has to tie her hair up in a bun and pull on a uniform. The
others greet her while they wait to punch in. Fortunately she is a
salaried employee and doesn't have to do all that mess.

She walked out into the lobby to sum things up. Not too bad, business
is usually slow about this time. She checked the stacks of dishes and
plates; and inspected the glass rack. All was ready. Once punched in,
she got the others to clean the kitchen floor and prepare for the
evening rush. She herself helped slice some vegetables and prepare
some of the evening's main courses for cooking when they were ordered.
She accepted a shipment of French fries and onion rings from the local
fried foods vendor. All in all it was shaping up to be a good night.

By now the interview was a complete success. They both rose and he
shook the interviewer's hand. A firm handshake always looks good in an
interview. Upon completion they bid good night and he walked out of
the interviewer's office into the light of the sunset that was now
bathing the lobby. He nodded a good night toward the secretary who
waived back. He went out and breathed the almost day-old inner city
air. Some how, in spite of the exhaust fumes, it enticed him to walk
down to the pier and take in the remainder of the day's dusk.

He walked down to the pier and viewed a beautiful sunset. The great,
warm, gold-colored ball slowly and gently lowered itself almost
effortlessly into the waters of the great lake. A cloud pierced
through the ball, slowly moving toward the middle. All around this
luminescent ball, clouds and open sky began to change, a colorful
transformation from day to dusk; from consciousness to the soul.

She walked out on her dinner hour. She looked at her watch before
being mysteriously lured by the warmth of the sun shining between two
buildings. With out her knowledge, she was already enticed beyond
resistance to head toward the water's shore. She walked down the
street, intermittently feeling the sun's warmth as she proceeded. She
reached a clearing at the lake front where she sat down at a picnic
table and was mesmerized by the dance of the seagulls on the clouds.
They sat, absorbing the tranquility of the scene; the warmth in the
light of the eve; and the color of the world.

David Simmons
-------------
<[email protected]>
flash fiction

_It's Different_

What was it that changed my mind? Was it Sandy's tears, and Peter's
yelling in the background? Was it fear? Fear of death, or fear of
living and watching things get worse?

I'm not as sure anymore. I'm not sure of anything anymore. It was as
if a darkness had been suddenly lifted to reveal a hidden truth. A
shadow from the past, or maybe the future, whispering a secret that
only I could hear.

********

I thought the days were better then. As I looked out the window and
saw the people standing in the cold of winter, waiting for the bus
that would take them to work. I wondered where all the people were
going as they stared at their watches, or stamped cold feet. Misty
clouds of breath exhaled into the morning cold.

The nurse came in and smiled at me. "How's the morning looking today?"
she asked. I almost answered. I tried to form the words, but they were
lost to me.

She wandered around the room a moment then placed a pill in my mouth.
I smiled, or at least thought I did, and swallowed the little pill
after she tilted a paper cup of water into my mouth.

"Doc says you are going home today." Her back was turned as I mouthed
the word 'Good.' I wasn't sure if it was good or not, but it was
different. It was new.

They kept trying to explain things I already knew. It was the same
every day as they tried to teach me to wash, or shave, or talk. As if
I didn't know how anymore. I knew how, I just couldn't get the timing
right.

I kept trying to bring the spoon to my mouth and dropping the food. I
poked myself in the eye, I don't know how many times, trying to brush
my teeth.

*******

It was hard at first, the tears of her frustration as I spilled the
cereal on my lap for the countless time that morning. Sandy accepted
it. She tried hard not to let the hurt show. She stayed with me and
cleaned up after me and worked hard to get me back. I couldn't
understand why she even bothered, but she did and I tried hard--I
really did.

******* The day came that she no longer even wanted to try, the day
came that she just sat there and cried as I watched the milk run off
my spoon and felt the cold dampness on my legs. This was the day she
called the hospital. The day Sandy and Peter fought as the young men
guided me to the front door. Peter was crying and stamping his feet,
Sandy was crying and yelling at Peter to stop. He was three, he didn't
understand. The door stood open. I stopped walking.

"Nnnooooo! Both of you shut up!"

*******

I'm alright now, I think. At least it's different.

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

_New Hampshire_
we do not know which way it lies
when it is cut and tossed upon the floor
when it is sullied with dirt and decay.
we weave the standards to the ills of the rest
and they weep
like november.

there is a low
there is a low
there is a low which hovers
lowly to the ground and hums
with the cyan tinges of the
open truths.

we cannot call out
the robins
and the swallows do not come to us;
they can tear us apart
with their beaks of rain
and the squabbling of talons.

nowhere can we run
and the earth will swallow us
slicing into our capitols
and eating at our throats
like the serious prong
of the thousand dollar
slashing.

the notes from peoria
and paducah and
perryville do not
have postmarks;
their stamps have been licked
by forked tongues.

we do not know what can be done.
there is a pounding like fists
against our ears and the pummeling
is death upon us.

_Silence_

we cannot stop the
hummingbird's flight among
the nectaring blossoms
and the september rain
falls too soon.
i cannot stand the smell
of my own skin, and
the creepings of flesh
are the musings of
your hair floating
in the moment's passing.

the quickly dying do not
understand the quietings of
light. unlike the litterings
your fingers linger, the
leavings do not care
for the subtle kiss of
ear against lips.

mother come quickly the
moment is dying and
somewhere the madness is
sputtering down.
no one is knowing
the knowing is not
for the knowledge but
less for the now.

_Green_

watching my father eating peas
is not what it seems.
he does not know
i am watching him shovel
the round green spheres
into his orfice, their
cholorophillic beings mashed
to mush by my father's gaping maw.
he does not hold his spoon
as i remember--his hands now
talons in their gripping
and spottled with eighty-seven years.

i cannot stand the smell of his skin.
it is not the smell of urine or stool
or medication but of age plain and simple,
the body coming to a halt
and the cells immobile in their decay.

my father like his peas
and he does not need my assistance.

he does not belong here.
he belongs behind my shoulder,
holding the bicycle steady
as i balance wobbly
on an october saturday,
his eyes too blue as
his sweater clutches his chest
like a wartime bride.

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

_Clothed_

someone would make a lot of money
if they opened a Dumb & Awkward Clothing store
a place for people like me
people who never look good in clothes
and look worse naked
but have to get dressed anyway
because of some stupid law

the place would be near my house
and everything would fit
and everything would be
cheap
cheap
cheap
and I would be their finest customer
cause it would be the only place
where I could buy shirts
with stomach shrinking fabrics
and jeans that would tighten my butt
while adding girth to the front
and all the clothes would smell like that mating hormone
so any woman that sees me in my new threads
will look at me lustfully
and as someone they'd like to engage in a long,
deep,
meaningful,
trusting,
monogamous,
literate,
and eventually sexual relationship with
one of those relationships they write movies about
the kind they write poems, songs, and doctoral dissertations about
the kind they study in big, New England universities
with ivy on the walls
beards on the professors
and only a small percentage of commuter students
the kind of love I should be able to get now
in the clothes I'm wearing

_Shiva_

Sebastian's cats lay near the door
staring thru the gate
at the lifelessness before them
a fellow cat, not breathing
stretched out as if asleep

Sebastian's cats lay near the door
waiting for the other to move
jump up and run away
like it always did
the bell on its collar
ringing with each step

they had both heard the bell
hanging from its neck
as we lay the body down

and they heard the bell again
as we picked the body back up
and carried it away

but the cats remained
staring thru the gate
staring where the other cat had lain
lifeless
as if sleeping

when I went
and sat on Sebastian's floor
the cats came over

and walked around me
in circles
making a low sound
like a quiet moan
as they rubbed themselves
against my sides

and as I ran my hand through their fur
they looked up at me
like I was to say something
like I had some answer
but I could tell
they knew more
than I'll ever know

Shaun Armour
------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Reading Beads_

It's a hard piece of work she thought
reading beads and towing this old line
Like somehow it ever might get better in this place
And knowing it's time to go
hell, that won't make you leave
Cause the rules you were never going to follow
They settle in.
Like your ass in some comfortable old chair
and then, well there you are
Can't figure that too cool
Not by an inch or a mile
As she dances with him slow like, touching, groping
Can't be any older than her first good dream
When everything was clear
He's smart like her, ya like that
And he's pretty smooth, kissing and all
Gonna leave her on that chair,
on that ass
Covered with cum and disillusionment

Fuck me

She thinks

John Freemyer
-------------
<[email protected]>
1 short story, 2 poems

_Collie_

Collie knew the best place to hide from his mother.

There was a stack of logs with a plastic blanket over it in the yard
of an old lady up the street. He ran all the way.

Under the plastic, Collie saw a spider bigger than his thumb. It
didn't scare him when he saw it. Not even at first. He broke its back
with a twig and flicked the spider onto the lawn for the cats to eat.

Down on the dry grass, under the plastic, lying with the logs, Collie
lit matches and the wind blew them out. Each match whooshed for a
split second before becoming a little yellow flower. Then it puffed
out.

Collie could picture himself walking up to his mother, saying, "I'm
sorry for what I done. Here's a flower for you."

He would present her with the burning match.

Then Whoosh it would melt her hand off. Fingers dripping onto the
floor.

Still wagging at him.

He heard something. The old lady yanked the plastic blanket off the
logs.

Collie squirmed around to look at her.

She said, "It's not safe for you to play here. You can suffocate under
plastic." Then she moved around him, past the logs, not looking angry,
dragging one leg behind her. Collie tried to hide the burnt matches
with his left hand as he turned to watch her.

She said, "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing," he said. He rose up on his knees, scraping his foot over
the grass, plowing the matches under a log so she couldn't see them.

She dragged her leg up close. Collie struck a match and flicked it at
her. She swatted it. The match bounced off the pocket of her apron and
droppedon the grass. It flowered there until she crushed it with the
toe of her dusty yellow shoe.

She said, "Ooomm, boy."

"I'm sorry for what I done," he said. "Here's a flower for you." He
flicked another burning match at her. She swatted it down and stepped
on it.

Collie liked the way the old lady looked at him. She wasn't scared.

He flicked another match and she punched it away.

"You stop now, boy. I'm tired of playing this game. Stop." She
stretched her back and stood taller. Bigger than Collie's mom. "I'll
give you something good, boy--something you need."

"Don't you try to spank me!"

"Is that what you need? A spanking? I don't think so. You're such a
good boy. I want to give you something good."

Collie flicked his last match at her. She whacked it. The match spun
back and hit Collie on the cheek, still burning.

He scooted under the plastic blanket. It stank from cat pee. He stood
up, throwing the plastic over the old lady. She laughed and shoved it
off.

Wind lifted the blanket a few feet into the air, flat, stretched out,
slowly floating it across her lawn. Collie and the old lady watched
the plastic glide. He didn't breathe. After almost a minute the
plastic slapped her house, then rolled up and fell on the porch.

"It's my magic flying carpet," the old lady said.

"I want to ride it," Collie said.

"I'll give you a ride. That's the present I want to give you. I'll
call back my magic flying carpet and tell it to give you a ride."

Her dry yellow fingernails dug into his neck. With an old grunt, she
pulled him close to her. Her body was hard. She touched him. His hand.
His arm.

His wrist.

"I've gotta go home," he said.

She said, "You've got blood on your hand. Did you cut yourself?"

His fingers were brick color. Collie licked the blood with the tip of
his tongue.

She said, "Your arm is bleeding, too."

His white sleeve was red at the elbow. A dot of blood spread out over
his wrist. Then he saw what she was doing. The old lady poked his
shoulder with a needle. He felt it this time. She stuck his neck. He
reached for her hand and tried to stop her. She poked his fingers
three times, fast as a sewing machine. Poked his chin and his ear and
his upper lip.

"I'll slice you to bits, you little monster." Big burping laughter
came out of her. She poked his cheek. The needle ripped all the way in
and clicked his teeth. She left it there.

"You go home, boy," she said.

Collie pulled out the needle. She snatched it from him and threw it
over her shoulder.

"You go home. Do your homework. That's right. Make sure you do your
homework," she said. "Someday you'll be a doctor or a lawyer. Or a man
who needs no job at all. A very rich man. Do you want to be rich?"

Collie swallowed his blood so it wouldn't drip over his lips and onto
his chin.

"I do. I want to be very rich."

"Sure you do. And when you're very rich, and you have a beautiful
wife, and happy children, I'll come to your house on my magic flying
carpet. I'll give your whole family a ride. Your children will call me
Granny. And when you're sleeping at night, I'll kill you with my
needles. And I'll kill your wife and your children, too. I'll poke
them until they die. I have hundreds of needles. Enough to kill
everyone in your family."

Then she laughed.

She pulled a tightly folded dollar bill from her apron pocket and held
it out in front of her. She shook it open in the wind. "You take
this," she said. "It will help you get started. I want you to get rich
as fast as you can. The sooner the better. I'm an old lady. Don't know
how long I can wait."

_At 3 A.M._

She is still sleeping.

A baked ham
lay cooling beneath her cheek,
cloves and pineapple set to one side,
her hair tangled in fat,
juices dripping off the edge of the table
into darkness,
like oceans rolling off the edge of Earth.

I clear my throat.
She awakens with a jolt,
takes up knife and fork,
and begins.

I motion toward my mouth,
rub my empty belly,
lick my lips,
pleading with her.

She shakes her head and
points to the door.
I must go now.
Mother says no.

But I must not starve
so now I will try Father's room.

_Drowning Dogs_

2nd Street began leaking
the rain rushing over
dogs sprawling in shadows
on porches where they have napped
all their lives now drowning
swallowing slick mud slipping
unable to touch down where sidewalks used to be
doors locked
water flowing in slow motion
the dogs not barking
as the unending stream
overcomes them
carrying them south
tails and paws poking above water
then rolling over lifeless
resembling fat air-filled paper sacks

No doubt they thought they were
imagining the rain

Richard Parnell
---------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Stop Scrolling!_

What are you looking for anyway?
How do you decide?
We are all calling out for your attention:
read me,
listen to me,
belive me,
buy me,
value me,
love me.
A quick scan,
and you are gone again,
gripping a plastic possibility beyond loneliness,
until you grow bored again,
or eternally crash.

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

_Cat_

Did you ever have a Cat?
Or more properly,
did Cat have you?
Cat allows you to live with him,
the mere fact that you provide,
means nothing.
Food and Shelter are your problem,
not that of Cat.
Cat is above this materialism.
Dog needs you,
you need Cat.

Cat knows this.

Comfortable surroundings,
warmth, and good food are
graciously accepted by Cat.
If these things are not up to his standards,
You are in trouble.
Cat is a territorial animal,
if you are accepted by him,
and this is not at all certain,
You become part of his territory.
His human.
You are damn lucky,

Cat knows this.

And what do you get in return
for this servitude?
This total domination by Cat?
Cat accepts you for what you are.
He does not judge you.
Cat does not care what
color your skin is.
Too tall or too short,
saint or sinner,
too fat or too thin.
Cat accepts what you are.
Money means nothing to Cat,
as long as you are kind to him,
he will love you.
If you are mean to him,
he will leave you.
You will be less than
you were before.

Cat knows this.

If you are total depressed,
or just feeling blue.
Cat comes to you with affection.
When you think God has abandoned you,
Cat sits on your lap,
each purr restoring your faith.
Love and cherish Cat,
You are a very fortunate human,

Cat knows this.

About the Contributors...
-------------------------
Amy DeGeus lives and works in Chicago, Illinois. She works for a local
Chicago service bureau and in her spare time crafts jewelry from glass
fragments she finds washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan. This is
her second appeareance in POETRY INK.

Stephane Berrebi is this issue's Featured Writer. Go to that section
to learn more about him.

David Hunter Sutherland hails from Fishkill, New York. He is the lead
editor of "Recursive Angel", a magazine which publishes poetry,
fiction, and art from and on the Internet. He has also had recent
pieces appear in "The Trincoll Review" and "The Poetry Forum". A
member of the Academy of American Poets, he has a book of verse due
out early next year.

Bulusu Lakshman lives in Lawrenceville, New Jersey. He has poems
appear in "Feelings", the anthology "In Friendship's Garden", and in
the National Library of Poetry's "Best Poems of 1996". A native of
India, he is currently employed in the computer consulting industry.

David Schwab is a sophomore at the University of Alabama majoring in
Telecommunications and Film. An avid computer user and programmer, he
also is involved in atheletic officiatiing, campus politics, HAM
radio, and video production.

David Simmons calls Ontario, Canada home. He publishes widely, both in
the electronic and printed media. When Dave is not busy rollerblading
with his five-year-old son Kyle, or trying to convince Vera, his wife
of eight years, that quality time means he replies to eMail and writes
flash fiction while she watches a movie, he works as a machinist in a
hydraulic seal company. Other than that he eats, sleeps, and...well,
you know.

Matthew W. Schmeer lives in St. Louis, Missouri. The editor of POETRY
INK, he divides his time between working in the exciting field of
workers' compensation insurance during the day and putting POETRY INK
together during the night. Somehow, he also manages to surf the
Internet collecting way too many Netscape Naviagtor cache files and
cuddles with his wife when she permits. Also, he managed to get System
7.5.3 to run on a Color Classic with no fatal conflicts or errors. He
thinks he deserves a medal for this feat.

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" and its Internet sister magazine, "Hot Wired". A
resident of Los Angeles, California, this is his third appearance in
POETRY INK.

Shaun Armour lives in Toronto, Canada. He is currently in the process
of writing a novel and attempting to earn a PhD. in literature without
the help of any teachers or universities. He likes bowling shirts and
has his own pool cue, but cannot yet eat fifty eggs. This is his first
appearance in print.

John Freemyer lives in Redding, California with his wife Jane and
their two children. He was recently appointed Honrary Editor Emeritus
of POETRY INK, which means we are legally bound to publish any drivel
he decides to submit (just kidding, John!).

Richard Parnell resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He creates
textual/sculptural pieces using hand letterpress printing, pulp
casting, and wood & metal working in his studio and a tthe Minnesota
Center for Book Arts. Several of his works have been exhibited and
collected nationally in the United States.

John L. Arnold lives in San Francisco, California and works as a tour
guide for the Great Pacific Tour Company. This is his fourth
appearance in POETRY INK.

..