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  with that said

  may death grant you all

  the wishes life couldn't

  we'll meet again

  someday

  probably soon

  Sadness, Through Male Eyes

  i was going through a

  drawer in my desk tonight

  and came across some

  condoms well past

  their expiration date

  and here they told me i

  would outgrow all those

  high school feelings i had

  of being a loser

 

  The Unexpected Death of an Old Friend

  i never realized your beauty

  until i saw you in your casket

  the soft and gentle features

  of your face were lost

  upon me until then

  and perhaps it was that

  or maybe just seeing you

  finally at peace

  that brought these tears

  i wiped them with my hand

  and pressed my hand to your lips

 

  who would have thought that

  out of all the juices we

  shared over the years

  the ones that meant the most

  would come after your death

  Making A List, Checking It Twice

  i'm wearing my sunglasses in

  a thunderstorm again,

  dreaming about the days when

  i wanted to grow up and be the politician

  who refused to kiss the ugly babies

  while drinking my body weight

  in southern comfort each day

  the grocery store kind though

  life is a marathon, not a sprint

  back when i thought that all my

  freckles would join together one day

  and make a glorious permanent tan

  that was nothing more than another

  installment in my long history of failure

  you would think it would end

  somewhere but no,

  that's what i get for thinking

  time to put the brain aside

  and listen to the gut

  of course

  the gut has been nagging at me for

  years to turn this pen into a gun,

  these words into bullets and this sheet

  of paper into a place for

  collecting names

  i still say i'd be

  better off as a poet

  but who am i to

  question

  my

  calling

  Alan Catlin

  Hugh Casey And Ernest Hemingway: The Artist And The Ballplayer

 

  They were two of a kind, the baseball

  player and the best-selling author,

  hombres muy simpatico, off-season in

  The Keys. The middle aged macho,

  full white beard and face aglow showing

  the wild man the riggings, deep-sea

  fishing and all the rest that goes with it.

  After, in the taverna, they toast

  The Revolución with Cuba Libres, the biggest

  bar joke of the mid-century: the drink

  was nothing more than a rum and coke

  with lime and the revolution years away.

  Later, still, Papa and Casey don lightweight

  boxing gloves in the writer's living room

  and begin swinging, no holds barred, no

  knockdown rules or regulations just two

  men punching themselves silly toward dawn,

  a confrontation not even the wife

  of the moment can stop by saying,

  "Sure, keep it up, break every stick

  of furniture in the fucking place,

  what difference does it make?"

  Finally, the man who threw the wild

  pitch in the World Series against

  the Dodgers arch-rivals, the Yankees,

  the pitch that made Mickey Owens famous

  and Casey a dark footnote in history,

  shared one elemental fact with the man

  who would win the Nobel Prize for Literature:

  when all else fails, a shotgun in the mouth,

  a last image that rips the back of your

  head off.

 

  Working Girl

 

  Small sips are

  all she can manage

  taken from brown

  bagged Tall Boy

  beer too tired to

  move from this

  spot in the sun

  her eyes permanently

  bagged clothes

  wrinkled dirty

  hair uncombed

  a mess as always

  burned out beyond

  belief well into

  her middle age in

  her twenties yet

  somehow ageless

  this sad eyed

  lady on leave

  from fucking the

  endless armies

  of the night

 

  No Smoking

 

  I work at a half way

  place for vets-

 

  that's half way between

  here and nowhere-

 

  old age and death maybe-

 

  The director is one of

  those pressed shirt and tie

 

  gung-ho REMF's

 

  That's a rear echelon mother

  fucker in american

 

  can't wait until

  the no smoking rule

  goes into effect

 

  All those guys have now

  is one room to puff in

 

  I try to tell the director-

  these guys all fought

  in wars

 

  you know what I mean?

 

  Had cigarettes when

  they were nervous

  scared

  relaxed

  relieved

  wounded

 

  They can't drink anymore

  can't chase no women

  or run with no wolves

  so they smoke

 

  They don't have anything left

  that's why they're here

 

  8-30-06

  Midnight

  Hurrying footfalls

  4 shots

  then someone yells,

  "Go, go, go!"

  Some kind of military

  action on Furman Street

  Dark car disappearing

  where there are no

  street lights

  Then all is

  quiet

  for a while

 

  Leonard J. Cirino

  Logic

  The dog’s mouth

  snaps on a leg

  of lamb

  A bomb goes off

  in the church

  while a mosque burns

  Three children

  hide in the basement

  The attic is full

  The soldiers enter

  All hell breaks loose

  The dog’s mouth

  snaps

  on a leg

 

  Modern Times

  At dawn, every face is a nightmare,

  freckled children and heavily-bearded men

  swirl about with garbage cans and school buses,

  all checking the clock and rocking the streets.

  Later, the business suits turn their eyes

  to their watches as their wives gather

  on driveways or porches, wave good-bye

  wishing the absence would last longer,

  or maybe not as long, while they struggle

  with pucker-faced kids dawdling in doorways.

>   The laments they could turn into songs

  remain frozen in their modern minds.

  Dreaming of ten thousand Buddhas,

  they go on, hopelessly fruitful.

 

  Sorrow And Joy

  “seeing double in the human soul.”

  —Federico Garcia Lorca

  Let me address you Lord, from one who has taken

  the words of Satan to heart, and had his soul eaten

  by the lyrical hawk of sadness and joy, with his beak

  in my eye, talons ripping my tongue, and the crown

  of my sorrow nestled in his cruel and lovely heart.

  Let me tell you I've wandered far from the spirit

  of human joy, and into the Ninth Bardo of hell. Somehow

  I returned and am able to consider both the bloody truths

  and the crucible of beauty. I've fired flesh and consumed

  the body, even while all my dreams float in a canoe

  down a peaceful stream, overrunning the banks, lapping

  joys and kissing the slopes with a religious passion

  known only to the most fanatic saints and fervent sinners.

  Look at my heart Lord. It is soiled with sweat and the dew

  I glean from midnight and dawn, when I finally settle

  into a foreboding sleep. Still, I navigate these waters

  with the joy of an old man who crosses himself

  and plucks persimmons at the end of a cold autumn.

  The Rich And Famous

  The night is hazy and I dream of monks,

  young kids fighting, hip-hop punks jumping flanks

  of cops armed to the teeth, protecting banks

  and the houses of the rich and famous.

  I disdain these shills, their pussy, pompous

  frills, as if they were clowns in a circus,

  playing games with the beasts and audience

  when all they really mean is malfeasance

  to the masses. Their cronies look askance

  at their filthy deeds and ask no questions.

  I can quote their hateful thoughts verbatim:

  No negroes, queers, or wetbacks, no abortions.

  I spit at them and wish them a painful death:

  that or the hope they drink Macbeth's broth.

  Or as the songwriter said, Life's a bitch,

  it's time to go ahead and eat the rich.

  Glenn W. Cooper

  A Room Like This

 

  There are ways of moving through things

  like this. Just lately I have found myself

  restless to wake up

  in unfamiliar surroundings; to wake, for example,

  in some dirty hotel room, wipe the sleep

  from my eyes in the half light, momentarily

  unsure of where I am

  or why. To lay for a moment, observing

  the details of the room, remembering

  the circumstances of my arrival.

  Listening to the light

  rain outside, the traffic moving through it.

  Then to rise naked from bed, draw back

  the curtains and expose the people below.

  To light a cigarette. Wonder

  about what it is that propels us onward

  in the face of so many reasons

  not to move onward. It takes a room

  like this, early morning rain, cigarettes

  in the half light, to help a man

  reach certain conclusions. Like

  the one about remembering to forget.

  There are ways of moving through things.

  This is just one of the ways.

  There are others.

 

  4 Year Old Collecting Eggs

  little Katie

  has a new hen

  and the first egg

  is something

  of an event.

  but when she

  tries to gather

  it up the brittle

  shell splinters

  and gooey yolk

  runs between her

  fingers and

  onto the ground.

  without knowing

  it she sees for

  the first time

  the fragility

  of her world.

 

  A Destroyer Of Men

  Sean O’Grady,

  with over eighty

  professional

  fights to

  his name by

  the age of 23,

  gave new meaning

  to the expression

  “glutton for

  punishment.”

  But heck, he won

  70 of them so

  I guess he

  dished out more

  than he took.

  The kid could

  really punch.

  Now he sells

  real estate

  for a living

  and is learning

  all about

  destroying men

  in other more

  subtle but

  no less brutal

  ways.

 

  Some Men

  it is said

  that Picasso always

  did three things

  before embarking

  on a new

  creative period.

  first he would return

  home to Spain, then

  he would buy a new house,

  then finally he would

  get himself a brand

  new woman.

  just like that.

  some men have it all

  figured out.

  Christopher Cunningham

  Words Like Terror

  make

  good poems.

  words like

  savage

  and

  light.

  words like

  grace and

  asphalt

  and guts and

  thunder.

  like

  screaming.

  like

  the laughter

  of

  dying

  and

  like

  sal

  va

  tion.

  Nothing Is Remembered

  the grave stone tilts

  above the

  plastic flowers.

  maybe a lawnmower

  rubbed up against it.

  someday the

  damn thing is going

  to fall.

  nothing is

  remembered

  forever.

  A Moment Of Something Glittering

  it is late in the day

  and the last bit of sunlight

  cuts its way thru

  the last bit of

  autumn leaves

  left hanging

  on shadowy tree limbs.

  it catches the roofs of cars

  and broken glass on the pavement,

  it pushes on the back of an

  old woman struggling up a small hill,

  it lingers in the eyes

  of birds perched above the street.

  there are facets cut into the air

  and it is a moment

  of something

  glittering,

  something gem-like,

  before the smoke of night

  and the darkness of time

  conspire

  like thieves

  to bear it away

  value

  in the

  impermanence

  of

  everything.

  These Quiet Nights

  after the storm

  there is a hush.

  a held breath

  in the moist silences.

  after the storm,

  these quiet nights

  are all that remain.

  we work hard all our lives

  battling forces
/>
  we cannot defeat,

  our voices mingling

  with the roar of passing time.

  but after the storm

  there are

  chances to wipe the water

  from our eyes and

  see with

  uncertain clarity,

  to rest our ragged throats,

  to hope.

  these quiet nights

  refuel us

  as

  dark clouds

  gather

  in

  threatening

  skies.

 

  Soheyl Dahi

  No, Not Me

  After Harold Norse’s ‘I’m Not a Man’

 

  I am not a real American

  because I speak English with an accent

  even though I don’t think with one.

  I am not a real American

  because I don’t play or watch baseball,

  I hate apple pie, red meat, pick up trucks

  and sleeveless t shirts.

  I am not a real American

  because I won’t die for oil,

  or vote republican or democrat.

  The difference between the two is the same

  difference between Pepsi and Coke.

  I am not a real American

  because I will not do the pledge

  and I smile at those who tell me,

  "go back to where you came from."

  As a citizen of the only empire,

  I have a right to be here

  or anywhere.

  I am not a real American

  because I don’t hate Jews, Arabs, Blacks, or Latinos

  and I won’t sell my house if one moved to my street.

  I am not a real American

  because I don’t care what people do in their private lives.

  Hell, if two men or two women want to get married,

  that’s all right with me.

  I am not a real American

  because I don’t think homelessness is a fact of life.

  I am not a real American

  because I will not call a human being illegal.

  I am not a real American

  because I like poetry and art

  especially during war time.

  I am not a real American

  because I listen to KPFA

  and I have friends who say they are

  communists or anarchists.

  I am not a real American

  because I refuse to work 80 hours a week

  for a corporation which will chew me and spit me out

  at its convenience.

  I am not a real American

  because, unlike 89% of the population,

  I hold a valid passport.

  I am not a real American

  because I cry when people are called

  collateral damage.

 

  I am not a real American

  because I speak English with an accent

  even though I don’t love with one.