Our World

Those Three Little Words
by Pollyanna Puckett


The aging woman sits in her chair
It is placed by the window and next to the clock
Her image has changed. The color of gray lives on every hair
After 3, she watches the children as she sits in her chair and rocks

The night was exactly 25 years ago
She was sitting at the table awaiting the man of her dreams
He approached her with a smile that was just slightly so
Her heart was pounding like that of a teen girl when she gleams

She then stood to smother her man with a kiss
By this he was surpassingly annoyed
but was overruled by her feelings of bliss
Once their lips met, the kiss was quickly null and void

She pulled away, ignoring the emptiness she had just kissed
She told him the good news of a baby in her womb
That was when his open hand became a fist
he beat her so bad, it made her head boom

For nearly an hour, she was his punching bag
After it all happened, he grabbed his coat and went to the bar
It was then that she stumbled to the bathroom and started to gag
She wanted to leave, but that S. O. B. had taken the car

Her stingy, salty tears, slid down her smooth, steamy cheeks
It took so long for her to understand what had just occurred
Though she was scared, her anger was climbing to its peeks
She will never forgive that scum of a man for his reaction to what he had heard

25 years later, she is still filled with rage
That night she lost her baby from her husband's terrorist ways
Two days after the beating, she escaped from that animal cage
But months after, she was still in a dramatized phase

Her perpetual pain has been pricking her like a thorn
It is a pain that can never be surpassed
To be a mother to a baby that died unborn
To bear this pain is worse than being gassed

She has never been remarried
She never even gave it a thought
To the heavens is where her baby was carried
It wouldn't be there if her husband hadn't fought

She never loved another man
She is immune to doing so
It began when she was hit by his hand
With her baby is where she would rather go

And that is why, on this 14th day of May, that she rocks away
in her chair and thinks about that day.
That day that contained so much of her pain, but promises herself,
in a very blunt way, of those three little words to never again say.

"Think about this. the federal government had 8,000 pages of material on Martin Luther King. 9,000 pages on Malcolm X. but guess how many they had on James Baldwin? like 80,000 pages. so what does that tell you about the power of the artist? we're a threat." - da boogie man<br /><br />Those of you who've been in the slam scene for a few years undoubtedly know this man. But for those of you who don't, Boogie's track record speaks for himself.

He was the 1997 National Slam Champion. He won on the Apollo Theater four times in a row (was never beaten). He recently inked a deal with Island/Def Jam. And his books are being printed as we speak.

Boogie's style is smooth, hip hop-ish, witty, and very political minded.

sarcasm
by da boogie man

sarcasm is the orgasm that gets me off
when i can feel absolutely nothing
for example/when i ignore ignorant people
just because they're saying something
maybe what i need to help me succeed is
a rated r movie/rock-n-roll/gangsta rap/
a hate inspired racial attack/a six pack/
a government linked phone tap/pornography/
violence on tv/a std/political hypocrisy/
parents who neglect me/
a system making too much money off of my negative acts-
to positively correct me/an incurable-man made disease-
to terminally infect me/illiteracy/uncontrollable greed/
a cop like furman/ a preacher who considers passing the plate-
a sermon/and a meeting with president clinton so i can begin learning
how not to inhale when smoking weed
without these things
life would be like soda pop-without the fizz
i can't believe what a wonderful world this is
or think of a better place to raise my kids
ooooooooh/that felt so gooooood/yes/Y E S
sarcasm is the orgasm that makes me excrete
premature thoughts that are incomplete
like-when i send money to hungry children in cambodia
and throw trash at the hungry children who sleep in my streets
children who act as if they need shelter over their heads
look human enough to be fed/to have clothes on their backs/
or shoes on their feet
gimmie a break
we have to settle disputes in bosnia/iran/iraq/and kuwait
before we deal with the problems in the united states of hysteria
i think i'm about to reach my apex
so if you don't want to get doused
please clear the area
garbage men/oops/engineers of sanitation
get paid more to dispose of waste than teachers get to educate a nation
that couldn't be why the country is in such a state of deterioration
maybe people have retreated into themselves
because of overwhelming frustration
and the resulting problems/plagues/and pains
are the result of unfulfilling self-induced stimulations
and the reason people are getting jacked by others
is because jacking off has become a played out sensation
N A W - it couldn't be that
sarcasm is the orgasm that gives me spasms in my back
did you know in jail terms
a kilo of coke is less than a vile of crack
what i meant to say is
did you know that the rich don't get richer
and that the poor don't get treated unfairly
it's all a matter of perception
the only difference between screwing /and being screwed
is just a matter of position and the source of the erection
and if you happen to notice any VoCaL iNfLeCtioNs
i'm simply getting one off
without your detection
aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh/was it good for you
sarcasm is my orgasm/and i'm not ashamed to flaunt it
and since i got what i wanted-beat it
i'm through

- da boogie man

Telephone Booth Number 905 1/2


woke up this morning
feeling excellent,
picked up the telephone
dialed the number of
my equal opportunity employer
to inform him I will not
be in to work today.
"Are you feeling sick?"
the boss asked me
"No Sir," I replied:
"I am feeling too good
to report to work today.
If I feel sick tomorrow
I will come in early!"

Pedro Pietri


Whenever I feel down I need a telephone poem
Which reminds me that no number is really wrong
That speaking up is always good
That hanging on is more important that hanging up
That my party is never completely out of service
That the people are always better than machines
That poverty does not mean being cut off
That on a nice day perhaps our real
Purpose is to be together
And that dreaming can be the most valuable
Activity of all.

Thanks to Pedro Pietri. Let's honor his poetry and his memory.
Katherine Arnoldi

Carrickfergus


I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams:
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams


The little boats beneath the Norman castle,
The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt;
The Scotch Quarter was a line of residential houses
But the Irish Quarter was a slum for the blind and halt.


The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine,
The yarn-milled called its funeral cry at noon;
Our lights looked over the Lough to the lights of Bangor
Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon.


The Norman walled this town against the country
To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave
And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting
The List of Christ on the cross, in the angle of the nave.


I was the rector's son, born to the Anglican order,
Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor;
The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept
With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.


The war came and a huge camp of soldiers
Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long
Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice
And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long.


I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents
Contracted into a puppet world of sons
Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt mines
And the soldiers with their guns.

2Pac

Liberty Needs Glasses



excuse me but lady liberty needs glasses
and so does mrs justice by her side
both the broads r blind as bats
stumbling thru the system
justice bumbed into mutulu and
trippin on geronimo pratt
but stepped right over oliver
and his crooked partner ronnie
justice stubbed her big toe on mandela
and liberty was misquoted by the indians
slavery was a learning phase
forgotten with out a verdict
while justice is on a rampage
4 endangered surviving black males
i mean really if anyone really valued life
and cared about the masses
theyd take em both 2 pen optical
and get 2 pair of glasses





When Ure Hero Falls



when your hero falls from grace
all fairy tales r uncovered
myths exposed and pain magnified
the greatest pain discovered
u taught me 2 be strong
but im confused 2 c u so weak
u said never 2 give up
and it hurts 2 c u welcome defeat
when ure hero falls so do the stars
and so does the perception of tomorrow
without my hero there is only
me alone 2 deal with my sorrow
your heart ceases 2 work
and your soul is not happy at all
what r u expected 2 do
when ure only hero falls

Pedro Pietri
OD


and once again
the mailbox was empty
and his arms were aching
and his nerves
were doing weird things
and his veins were
the worst enemy he had
and once again he asked
those who were waiting
for the bookie
to lend him some money
and once again
they turned their backs on him
and once again he feels
so sick he wants to die
the sight of his saliva
makes everybody faint
and once again he had to cross
the street to the co-ops
the high income district
and once again
risk a bullet in his back
mugging somebody for money
to remove the splinters from his head
and once again the pusher
will be very proud of him

lets take a boat
to lenox avenue
and get some dope
is time to get high
is time to get high
charter airplanes
shoot dead end streets
into your veins
is time to get high
is time to get high
don't change your mind
graduate now from
drinking cheap wine
is time to get high
is time to get high
then dig yourself
minus your freedom
minus your health
is time to get high
is time to get high

waiting
for the pusher
to wake up
is like waiting
to be treated
for 365
stab wounds
at an invisible
emergency ward
why do those
bastards sleep
so damn late
knowing how
strung out
some of their
best customers
are screams the
purple complexion
of the junkies
daylight comes
for the dope fiend
when the eyes
on the cut throat
of the pusher
open

the seconds seem
like castrated centuries
and you have nothing to do again
but hang out and watch the blood
fall from the snow inside
your disappearing eyeballs
until the poison merchant
informs you that he is straight
and it will be time to shoot up
and get closer to the third rail
the system wants you to step on
it did not have to be this way
you was a very bright person
but who the hell wants to clean
toilets for a living until
they are flush dowm those toilets
for being too old to clean them

you remember
how your aunts and uncles and
close friends of the family
gave you nickles and dimes
when you was young and incapable
of committing a serious crime
but now they want nothing to do
with you because they saw you nodding
on the corner
so you leave the earth
to find out what's happening with
relatives from other planets
because nobody wants to admit
that they are related to a dope addict
you need them more than ever now
but their telephones are unlisted
because you got hooked and stop going
to church on sundays like they do
your names are the same but they
will deny that they know who you are
as long as those scars are visible
and your sanity stays invisible
as far as they are concerned
you are dead unless you repent
when the pusher wakes up today
you will forget that they are alive also

the maggot messiah
is heard chewing
his broken glass tongue
your connection
has come to the rescue
of your ambition
for self-destruction
man like this stuff
is the best on the block
you are told
as you are sold the junk
and now you are ready
to take off again
where traffic lights
do not exist
you are
too strung out to care
if is a round-trip ticket
or a one-way ticket
that you purchased
to be vomit by oblivion

two dollar bags
ain't into **** anymore
is impossible to scratch
and nod skillfully
and have abstract dreams
with talcum powder
the pusher beat you
to get himself straight
you take out a knife
and start stabbing clouds
thou shalt not steal
becomes obsolete again

god is on your side
when it comes to stealing
so you can shoot up dope
you steal many valuables things
like portable television
like portable tape recorder
like 16mm movie camera
like semi-expensive jewelry
like remote control wheelchair
like secondhand tuxedos
like tv dinners and cornflakes
you can sell for half price
around the dope infested block

The stolen goods
are sold in less time than
it took you to steal them
you cop somewhere
else this time around
you take down the number
of scars the pusher has
on his face so you know
who to cut up in case you
are sold talcum powder again
the first time you copt
today you was too excited
to think
the panic is more
intense now but you ain't
about to get beat again
you demand a sample before
you score
the pusher gives
you a few blows of heroin
thru your nose and sells
you something else after
convincing you is good dope

you roll up your sleeves
you see a cemetery
located on your arms
you are on the roof
of a condemn building
you are in the stairways
of housing projects
you are in the toilet
of your apartment
taking an imaginary ****
for the next few minutes
you are skillful
making sure the needle
is clean
preparing the dope
for the cooker
you are
gifted when it comes to
shooting pus into your
veins
everything is ready
now you tie a belt around
the upper part of your arm
the left one this time
because the right one died
a long time ago
you sweat
ice with flames inside
the needle finds the target

is your birthday again
and you are inside the cake
baked from the flesh
of dead mice that fell
from your mouth while
you bathe in the urine
after accidently falling
into a toilet bowl
trying to spit out the nails
that your blood swallow
when your eyeballs become
the definition of wrong numbers
trying to light the ice cubes
that replaced the candles
the sun
disappears
you are
not here
you are
in a world
where all
the clocks
have lost
memories
& calendars
are used
for ashtrays

after your head
was into something heavy
and you was nodding
skillfully again
and the abstractions
was ultra-tremendous
and you was on your way
home to pass out
the damn elevators
are not working
and you live on the twenty-first floor
and you are unable
to walk up the stairs
because you feel
very f****d all over
now
that reality is returning
to inflict pain on you
and is too cold
to sleep on the streets
and is too dangerous
to sleep on the stairs
so you blow your head
thinking about what to do

since you do not live
in the incinerator
since you do not live
since you are dying
since you do not want
any interruptions
since you do not want
your head to become
a catastrophe victim
walking up the stairs
for the second night
in a row
you must
try to steal more color
televisions sets tonight
to get real blind
and sleep wherever
your heart stops
for a velvet light
to smell future funerals

for the next nine minutes
you throw up everything
you feel very weak
you faint on your vomit
the 365 stab wounds
return to your body
you open your eyes
your eyeballs fall out
from your very dead face
and you step on them
when you get up from
the pool of your vomit
to try to walk away
from the terrible odors
your body is carrying

your next door neighbor
is coming home from work
he sees the condition
you are in while waiting
for the elevators that
are never going to come
he goes over to offer you
a helping hand and you
mug him immediately and
run out the building into
the streets to get high
on dope all over again

the pusher waits for you
on the corner
he knew you will return
as soon as the dope
wore out in a couple
of hours
you cop again
without examining the dope
this time
you scurry
to the nearest telephone
booth to shoot up again

the time has come
to go straight to hell
right here on earth

taste the **** before
you shoot it up
names from inside
the telephone directory
scream at the dope fiend
preparing himself for his final fix inside
the telephone booth
where the definition
of night and day will
soon come to an end

he copt rat poison
but does not know it
and will not know it
until he wakes up
below the surface
inside a coin where
the wind is unemployed

the strange needle
enters the vein
the telephone booth
is lifted up into
the air of shadows
from morbid clouds
higher and higher
it goes
time stops
the telephone rings

who is it? he tries
to say but nothing
comes out his mouth
is snowing inside
his blood
his heart
stops beating forever

he tries to breathe
but has forgotten how
the telephone booth
disappears in mid air
he dies with needle
trapped in his arm
his last words died
before he dropped dead

for a few seconds
all the buildings from
the hudson river
to the east river
became palm trees
there is enough grass
for everybody to walk on
drums are heard
thru-out the vicinity
everybody was dancing
elephants participated
the wind was scented
with coconut integrity
for the first time
in a long time
it was smelling sweet
everywhere you looked
a rainbow was present

the elevators work now
you are the one
who is out of order
falling over parked cars
hitting your forehead
on the windowshields
of all your nightmares
falling on the sidewalks
of your final headache
to never get up again
the lights of your breath
are turned off forever
you try to reach out
for memories of life
but death has eyes for you
the pusher will wake up
late again tomorrow
but now that you are
unfamiliar with the air
you could care less

at the funeral parlor
you look real clean
your hair is combed
you have a clean suit on
the drug panic is over
you have died forever
to all the pushers
and numbers players
around the neighborhood
where they are killing
everybody with drugs
where you went thru life
trembling and bleeding
unfamiliar with summer
stealing from everyone
to get that angry fix
until your condemn anatomy
had to be disposed of
in the no exit cemetery
for becoming hazardous
to everybody's health

off limits you are now
to everybody including yourself
now that you have been found
without electricity in your breath
is too late for emergency wards
the next stop is the city morgue
congratulations your imitation
of another dead junkie
is so convincing that you will
be buried for the performance
now that their is no correct
or incorrect time about your eyes
you was known as the airplane
that never left the ground
regardless of how high you got
you are gone and gone you are
where pushers can no longer find you
where life is a subject
that nobody talks about anymore

ashes to ashes dust to dust
worms go into your mouth
and start eating you up
and you have to let them
because you are dead
from an overdose of drugs

pray for the dead
and the dead will pray for you
keep shooting up
and this will happen to you

Louis MacNeice
1907 -1963


JUNE THUNDER


The Junes were free and full, driving through tiny
Roads, the mudguards brushing the cowparsley,
Through fields of mustard and under boldly embattled
Mays and chestnuts

Or between beeches verdurous and voluptuous
Or where broom and gorse beflagged the chalkland--
All the flare and gusto of the unenduring
Joys of a season

Now returned but I note as more appropriate
To the maturer mood impending thunder
With an indigo sky and the garden hushed except for
The treetops moving.

Then the curtains in my room blow suddenly inward,
The shrubbery rustles, birds fly heavily homeward,
The white flowers fade to nothing on the trees and rain comes
Down like a dropscene.

Now there comes catharsis, the cleansing downpour
Breaking the blossoms of our overdated fancies
Our old sentimentality and whimsicality
Loves of the morning.

Blackness at half-past eight, the night's precursor,
Clouds like falling masonry and lightning's lavish
Annunciation, the sword of the mad archangel
Flashed from the scabbard.

If only you would come and dare the crystal
Rampart of the rain and the bottomless moat of thunder,
If only now you would come I should be happy
Now if now only.

"An Indian Summer Carol"



All day the dreamy sunshine seeps

In gold the yellowing beeches,
In softest blue the river sleeps

Among the island reaches.

Against the distant purple hills
Rich autumn tints are glowing;
Its blood-red wine the sumach spills,
Deep hues of carmine showing.

Upon the glassy stream the boat
Glides softly, like a vision;
And, with its shadow, seems to float

Among the isles Elysian.

About the plumy golden-rod
The tireless bee is humming,
While crimson blossoms star the sod

And wait the rover's coming.

The birch and maple glow with dyes
of scarlet, rose, and amber;
And, like a flame from sunset skies

The tangled creepers clamber.

The oaks a royal purple wear
Gold-crowned where sunlight presses;
The birch stands like a Dryad fair

Beneath her golden tresses.

So still the air -- so like a dream --
We hear the acorn falling;
And, o'er the scarcely rippled stream,

The loon's long-quavered calling.

The robin softly, o'er the lea,
A farewell song in trilling;
The squirrel flits from tree to tree

Its winter storehouse filling.


Like him, we too may gather store
from all this glorious Nature;
Then, leave, my friend, your bookish lore

And dreary nomenclature.


Leave the old thinkers to their dreams,
The treasures of the ages;
leave dusty scientific reams,

And study Nature's pages.


Her poetry is better far
Than all men write about her;
Old Homer's song of love and war

Had scarce been sung without her.


Haste to the wood, -- put books away,
They'll wait the tardy comer;
For them there's many a winter day,

But brief's our Indian summer!



"Fidelis." As to who "Fidelis" is, I have no idea.
I understand him to be a Canadian poet.

DEMOCRACY


It's coming through a hole in the air,
from those nights in Tiananmen Square.
It's coming from the feel
that it ain't exactly real,
or it's real, but it ain't exactly there.
From the wars against disorder,
from the sirens night and day;
from the fires of the homeless,
from the ashes of the gay:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.


It's coming through a crack in the wall,
on a visionary flood of alcohol;
from the staggering account
of the Sermon on the Mount
which I don't pretend to understand at all.
It's coming from the silence
on the dock of the bay,
from the brave, the bold, the battered
heart of Chevrolet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.


It's coming from the sorrow on the street,
the holy places where the races meet;
from the homicidal bitchin'
that goes down in every kitchen
to determine who will serve and who will eat.
From the wells of disappointment
where the women kneel to pray
for the grace of G d in the desert here
and desert far away:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.


o mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
past the Reefs of Greed
through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on


It's coming to America first,
the cradle of the best and of the worst.
It's here they got the range
and the machinery for change
and it's here they got the spiritual thirst.
It's here the family's broken
and it's here the lonely say
that the heart has got to open
in a fundamental way:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.


It's coming from the women and the men.
O baby, we'll be making love again.
We'll be going down so deep
that the river's going to weep,
and the mountain's going to shout Amen!
It's coming like the tidal flood
beneath the lunar sway,
imperial, mysterious,
in amorous array:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.


Sail on, sail on
o mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
past the Reefs of Greed
through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on


I'm sentimental, if you know what I mean:
I love the country but I can't stand the scene.
And I'm neither left or right
I'm just staying home tonight,
getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags
that Time cannot decay,
I'm junk but I'm still holding up
this little wild bouquet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.


Leonard Cohen

Shrinking Away


Survived the war, but was
having trouble surviving
the peace, couldn't sleep
more than two hours
was scared to be
without a gun.
Nightmares, daymares
guilt and remorse
wanted to stay drunk
all the time.
1966 and the V.A. said
Vietnam wasn't a war.
They couldn't help, but
did give me a copy of
the yellow pages.
Picked a shrink off
the list. 50 bucks an
hour, I was making 125
a week. Spent six
sessions establishing
rapport, heard about his
military life,
his homosexuality,
his fights with his mother
and anything else he wanted
to talk about.
At this rate, we would have
got to me in 1999.
Gave up on that shrink
couldn't afford him and he
wasn't doing me any good.
Six weeks later my shrink
killed himself. Great.
Not only guilt about the
war but new guilt about
my dead shrink.
If only I had a better job,
I could have kept on
seeing him.
I thought we were making
real progress, maybe in another
six sessions, I could have
helped him.
I realized then that surviving
the peace was up to me.

Jim Northrup writes a syndicated column, "The Fond Du Lac Follies," describing life on and about the Rez of the same name in northern Minnesota where he lives with his wife, Patricia, (who is not a poet!) and their family. They live the traditional life of the Chippewa, including making the most beautiful rice baskets for the wild rice harvest.

Winter Place
Genny Lim


I live in this foghorn moon of a fishhole alley
Every night there's derelict dog, mangy with a cataract stare
Lickin' the wounds of old North Beach
Leftovers, fish 'n chips, upchucked cheesesteak, antipasti
Blasted against the antiseptic glare of trendy restaurants,
glossy Gelatos
Where MTV couples glide frozenly by
Catching in the corners of their ray banned eyes
Their store bought reflections


It ain't so bad
Sundry hookers straining their fleshbait
out of windows, doorways
Orifices of the Europa glistening like fish
It ain't so bad
The winos and the refugees, bag can ladies and panhandlers
Eye talians, Chinamen, tourists, punks, junkies
Boat people and runaways
Converging on this teeming waterhole
where the corporate buffalo roams

The city reeks of crab shells, fishheads, cabbages
Soiled pampers, cappuccino and Kotex
in shocking orange and pink
Day glo shopping bags ripped and spewing out the
Guts of Chinatown, Chinatown, where the lights are low
They all come
The natives like homing pigeons
Midwesterners like homesteaders
Southerners like shipwrecked sailors
Eastcoasters like fugitives
Through the fog laden cable cars plummeting
over Russian Hill backyards and
narrow chopstick alleyways
where camera toting tourists
eat cheap chop suey and
snap moon faced babies wide eyed on their mothers' backs
out of curiosity
It ain't so bad
the Indians once said as
they traded their land for horses
as they traded their land for firewater
as they traded their land for beads


It ain't so bad
the Coolies reasoned
as they jumped ship only to
sweat in baskets
with pickaxes and dynamite
twenty thousand feet in the Sierras
like wet human laundry



Voice of courage, jazz, lifeforce? What's for sale in San Franscisco's Chinatown is not the poetry of GENNY LIM -- her poetry's NFS (Not for Sale). A professor at New College, Genny often performs with music, tours, still finds time to raise her two daughters, be the inspiration of a million poems, and live where art and life collide joyfully and daily.

POSTURE


When you're down and under and crushed and shattered
smashed and trodden and beaten, bamboozled, kicked and
destroyed    lost out, gone mad, fell back, shot up,
done in, wiped out     When your heart is broken    and
your nose is running, your days are numbered, your lot
is cast, you're wasted, worried, choked up and ruined
left out, disinherited, sweating, frustrated, alone and
demolished, hopeless, despairing, depressed and insane
you're lousy    you know it    you wish you could change
Your coat's ripped, your nose is crooked, your brain is
mush, your hands are cursed, your life is worthless
and you're uncomfortable    a hunchback, a sucker,
a recluse, a frog     When you know you can't make it
You're hideous, helpless, pusillanimous, squirrelly and
dumb

just bear in mind
that 9/10s of everything
is posture

Stand up!


MAUREEN OWEN lives in Guilford, Connecticut and works for Inland Books, one of the foremost names in poetry distribution. She was Coordinator of the St. Marks Poetry Project during the 1970s. Editor of Telephone Books and Magazine.

The Only Place


The only place a woman can go to be alone
is the bathroom.
A woman would like to be wrapped in strong arms
when she cries, without having to explain,
or huddle on the couch wrapped in a blanket and a cat.
But all over America, women crouch instead
on a white, cold monument to wasting water.
We lean against a chilled tile wall,
stare at ourselves in an icy mirror,
flush the toilet to cover howls and curses,
brush our teeth twice to cover the taste of anger.
We lock the door, fill the tub with hot bubbles,
take a long time shaving our legs and armpits,
study the way waves break over bulging stomachs.
We scour the sink and rearrange the bottles under it,
refold towels, throw away old prescriptions,
count bandaids and bottles of suntan lotion.
We turn out the lights, stare into candle flames,
light incense, try to pretend we've taken our troubles
to a glowing temple, placed them in the lap
of a smiling golden Goddess.


Outside, men
who wouldn't know what to
do
if a woman curled up
in bed and cried
can relax before
bloodless images on
TV
and think, "She's only
in the bathroom
doing some woman's
thing."
Behind a locked door,
a woman
spins the empty toilet
paper roll
like a Tibetan prayer
wheel,
chanting "Help me,
help me, help me."


Linda Hasselstrom is a poet, an essayist and a working ranch woman. Winner of the Western American Writer award, she lives in western South Dakota.

Desert Cenote

There is sadness among the stones
today, the rabbits are silent.

No wind. The heat bears down.
It has not rained for one year.

We have faith out here, desert
people, we wait, knowing with sureness

the swift cross of clouds, the blessings
of moisture (to deprive a man is to give

charms to him). I love this dry land
am caught even by blowing sand, reaches

of hot winds. I am not the desert
but its real name is not so far from mine.

Keith Wilson is the Poet Laureate of Las Cruces, New Mexico. His credentials range from Beat to Cowboy to university prof. He has inspired many poets, including Denise Chavez and Kell Robertson.

Pitiful Souls of Men!

Pitiful souls of men! O hearts all blind and unseeing!
Lo, how deep is the darkness of life, how great are the dangers
Ringing you fill of days! Why see ye not that for nature
One thing alone is needful, that pain be kept from the body
And that the soul rejoice and be free from sorrows and terrors? ...
Nor will the body the sooner be quit of a fiery fever,
Tossed on a purple couch with rich embroidery woven,
Than on a humble bed with a threadbare coverlet o'er thee.
Since, them, for bodily weal no hoarded treasure availeth-
No, nor the pride of rank can avail, nor the glory of empire-
Think not by such toys that the soul is profited either.
Say that before thine eyes the field is alive with legions
Aping the pomp of war and marching in mimic manoeuvre--
Strong reserves in the rear, and on each flank cavalry stationed--
Marshalled in goodly array and moving as one to thy order:
Canst thou, for all this show, thy soul from religion deliver,
Scaring its ghost from they heart? Art free from fear of they ending?
Hast thou a care-free breast and a mind all empty of terror,
Seeing the fleet sail forth and deploy itself on the waters?
Nay, but we know these shows are a mockery all and a plaything.
Truly the fears of man and the cares that shadow his pathway
Yield not to clashing of arms on his throne nor the master of empire,
Neither the glitter of gold nor the shimmering glory of purple:
Freedom of soul, be assured, is achieved by nothing but reason.
Is not the whole life, moreover, a struggle in darkness?
Even as in black gloom do children tremble at all things,
Fearing to go in the dark, so we ofttimes in the day-time
Shrink back afraid from things that are no whit more to be dreaded
Than those bugbears false that in darkness terrify children.
All this terror of mind and all this darkness of spirit
Neither the rays of the sun can dispel nor the shafts of the daylight--
Only the shape of nature herself and the law of her being.



By Lucretius.
Lucretius, c. 99-55 B.C., a Roman poet,
concluded that all things - including man -
operate according to their own laws and
are not in any way influenced by supernatural
powers; with this view, he thought, man should
be free of the yoke of religious superstition
and the fear of death.



Globed From The Atoms

Globed from the atoms falling slow or swift
I see the suns, I see the systems live

Their forms; and even the systems and the suns
Shall go back slowly to the eternal drift.

Even if there lurk behind some veil of sky
The fabled Maker, the immortal Spy,

Ready to torture each poor life he made,
Thou canst do more than God can -- thou canst die.

For I, if still you are haunted by the fear
Of hell, have one more secret for your ear.

Hell & its torments are not there, but are here.

Life

The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man Less than a span,
In his conception wretched, from the womb so to the tomb;
Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years with cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, What life is best?
Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools:
The rural parts are turn'd into a den Of savage men:
And where's city from foul vice so free,
But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head:
Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse:
Some would have children: those that have them moan Or wish them gone:
What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double stife?

Our own affections still at home to please Is a disease:
To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil:
Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace;-
What then remains, but that we still should cry
For being born, or, being born, to die?

By Francis Bacon (1561-1626).

Blue Collar Boy


I'm a blue collar boy
Like hunting, fishing and driving my ATV
A 100 percent white Christian goy
Got married in my favorite tee
At the end of the driveway I stand
With my friends every night
Covered with grease, a beer in hand
And a joint to light
A little bit redneck and slightly tanned
Have NASCAR on the tube
And country music in the air
While I give my baby a lube
What you think, to be honest, I don't care
This blue collar boy is happy as he is
Excuse me now, while I take a whiz

Merle C. Paxton




Hotdogs, Cigarettes And Beer


Hotdogs, cigarettes and beer
That's what I love in life
Driving my car with my honey dear
She has a name but I call her wife
She too loves hotdogs, cigarettes and beer
That's why I love her so much
And why I keep her near
She's cuddly and soft to the touch
And always has some hotdogs, cigarettes and beer
They're tasty, they're tasty
Hotdogs, cigarettes and beer
Don't shrug them off and be hasty
They bring to life good cheer
We sit around in our middle class neighborhood
Eating dogs, drinking beer and smoking butts
In this blue collar town that means life is good
You may think we're all nuts
But we're happy thanks to the hotdogs, cigarettes and beer

Anson Pine




The Backbone Of America


We went from a agriculture society
To one with a manufacturing heart
Today we have become a society
That works part-time at a Wal-Mart
We used to be called their employees
Now they tell us that we are associates
With lower wages and less benefits
Which I find appalling and inappropriate
We've been shafted by NAFTA and CAFTA
While the flatulent mad cows laugh with glee
As they exploit labor here and in Central America
Selling out the very essence of this country
They are destroying the backbone of America
Today the blue collar worker hasn't got a chance
And a country without any kind of backbone
Might as well, just change its' name to France

Haji O'Brien




Blue Collar Blues


Day in and day out
It's the same old sorry grind
Get up at five, go to work
And try not to lose my mind
Trying to make ends meet
I have more than paid my dues
Soon I'll be out on the street
Living the Blue Collar Blues
My income keeps going down
While all my bills, everyday, increase
I can't afford health insurance
And my pension has been ceased
TV talking heads keep talking
They keep saying the economy is good
Don't know what America they live in
If I could afford to move there I would
Losing my battle to make ends meet
Lying in a gutter without any clues
Soon I will be living in the streets
Singing to myself the Blue Collar Blues

Shecky Muhammad

Gambling Nut


I'm a gambling nut
Like to play the games
Been called a poker slut
But usually worse names
Don't win much cash
It's a habit I've got
Like hot-knifing hash
Or smoking pot
It's fun and relaxing
Except when I lose
It can get rather taxing
That's when I hit the booze
So I play the games, for the fun of it all
It costs a couple bucks
But what the fux

Elwood Clyde Walken Jr.


Gambling Grandma


When Grandma is not playing the numbers
She can be found down at the track
Betting on the dogs and the horses
And in between races taking a nap
She plays Lotto and power ball
And church bingo each and every week
I tell her she should stop gambling
But she is waiting for a winning streak
I tell her she is just being very foolish
Blowing all of her life savings on games of chance
She looks at me and laughs and says
I'm not blowing my life savings just your inheritance

Shecky Muhammad


Nature's Gloomy Rig


Sitting at my computer playing internet poker, son this **** is rigged
Mr dealer man dealt me a winner, I'm doing an Irish jig
Just like wrestling, each table scripted, so I think I will pass
The only poker I see here is the hot one up my ass

Standing here at the track, let's see who's making money
Just the guy who owns the gelding and his log cabin honey
My new address is the YMCA because my horse lost by an inch
For Thanksgiving we had candied yams, greens, and roasted finch

Now I have my wagers set, I'm betting on the NBA
You get 23 thousand dollars per basket, not a bad days pay
The official just made a dubious call and I lost by half a point
It's time to look at last month's Swank and light up my last joint

Trent Freskos

George W. Bush Poems


Mr. President
(I Love You)


I love you Mr. President
It's automatic, you got my vote
I'm not one bit hesitant
It's as sure as an Iraqi will cut someone's throat
You may have lied about WMD
And sent troops to Iraq without a plan
Then changed the mission to set Iraq free
It doesn't matter 'cause You Da Man
You're tough and strong
And never back down
You can't help it if you are always wrong
It doesn't matter if WMD is ever found
You invade and kill
Your policy not quite sound
As the world watched
Exploit the military for a thrill
In a war you obviously botched
Everyday more Iraqis lift a gun instead of the Qur'an
But I don't care 'cause You Da Man
I have no job, I have no life
The only fun I have is watching the Iraqi's strife
It doesn't matter that you don't know what to do
As long as you walk tough
And on the Iraqis turn the screw
For me that's enough
I support the war, through thick and thin
Unless of course the Democrats win

Elwood Clyde Walken Jr.




Oh, Georgie
(What Have You Done?)


Oh, Georgie, what have you done?
Got us stuck in an endless war
Now we can't cut and run
I should have voted for Al Gore
Shiites, Sunnis and Kurds
Europeans, Asians and the rest
They all think we're turds
You have made us the great American pest
The world use to look up to us
But thanks to you, we are the evil one
No longer do we have their trust
You may think you are God's son
That everything is good and nice
But to me you are the Antichrist

Manmohan Noonien Khan