Kerouacking - Austin Straus
The Cripple - Lynette
What I Listen For (for Jerry) - R.G. Cantalupo
The President's Woman - Tina Catalina Corcoran
Ravens - Hillary Kaye

By Austin Straus

hang out near a coast
in case the center crumbles
then catch a cruise across
an ocean, don’t look back

that wide middle maw
gulps plenty, a few coughed up to the rim
stick and prosper, the rest
drift back, find ways
to die

it’s the sea does me,
rolling surf and stench
lull and tender, a place
to hide

blood-shifting sea churning
in my flesh, old goodmama sea
who feeds and fills, makes dark moons
of scared child eyes, lets a kid
drink himself to sleep.

The Cripple

Sitting in pain,
A deserted room,
A chair of cold, uncompromising metal,
Endless pondering of “Should I or shouldn’t I?,”
Paralyzed by a secret fear,
Knotted fingers
tremble beside the silent telephone,
Listening for the threatening doorbell
with unwilling ears,
Haunting faces peer through the windows,
My eyes sealed shut,
Strangers don’t understand,
Hurting in the disability of my own design,
Frightening emotions suppressed,
Poisoned by the Past,
The delicate child of long ago,
A crippled adult.
– Lynette

What I Listen For
(for Jerry)
By R.G. Cantalupo

Jerry hugs a tree and tells me
his wife does this for therapy.
She gets messages,” he says,
and shows me how she presses
her forehead against the trunk
just so. I don’t know what to say.
Jerry is as far out on the fringes
as I ever wish to be, but, as I
watch him, I think, what the hell,
seems just as good as praying.

We’re on the promenade,
a Saturday, a warm Spring night,
women sauntering by in their
alluring, see-thru dresses.
I can’t be intimate with an oak
with so many warm bodies
moving close beside me. I give up,
tell Jerry I have a headache. I’m
unable to achieve treeness when
my head’s throbbing against the bark.

“There’s a difference, you know, “
Jerry continues, “between hugging
a street lamp and a tree.” I look
at him. He’s serious. His eyes
sizzle in the amber light. “Trees
have hearts.” I nod. Take in what
he means. Then, I turn. Say goodbye.
Slip back inside the body of blacktop
and neon. Listen for the hearts
of trees beating in the night.

The President’s Woman
By Tina Catalina Corcoran
Winter 1998
I Pity, the Poor Woman,
Who Fell -- For his Game. . .
Share -- In his Shame . . .
Bare - In his Blame . . .
I Pity, the Poor Woman,
Who Fell for his Game -
Was it worth “15 minutes” of Fame?
Yes, it was. (Yes, it was.)
At the time, I’m not Lyin’,
He LOVED me!
I Pity, the Poor Women,
Who Fell - For his Face . . .
“CHIEF” -- Of the Race . . .
“THIEF” -- Of the Faith . . .
I Pity, the Poor Women,
Who Fell for his Face -
Was it worth “the DISGUST” and “DISGRACE”?
Yes, it was. (Yes, it was.)
At the time, I’m not Lyin’,
He LOVED me!
I Pity the Poor Women
Who Fell for his Eyes...
“The President’s Eyes” . . .
I Pity, the Poor Women,
Who Fell for his Eyes -
Was it worth ALL those LITTLE WHITE (HOUSE) LIES?
Yes, it was. (Yes, it was.)
I SWEAR - I’m not Lyin’,
He LOVED me!
Oh, I SWEAR - Yes, I SWEAR it . . .
He LOVED me . . .
He loved me . . .
He loved me,

by Hillary Kaye

the pain had reached proportion greater than the sun could warm,
and the earth was giving way,
and the tides were changing and the sun was setting
and the moon was waning and stars were telling secrets to the clouds.
and the liars were telling tales to the horse who was galloping on and on and on
because he had the strength to do it
and someone must carry on carry through with it as if the end were near enough to see
they thought they had the answers to get from here to there
who cares the price or millennium of years strangled by this,
that was the map,
she crawled to the door opened it wide and begged for air or insight whichever might come first.

Posted: Thu - March 1, 2007 at 09:29 AM