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Pam

by John Delin

saw Pammie in a class play in 1953, at Split Rock School, Syosset, Long Island, New York.  It was her second grade class performing "Goldilocks and the 3 Bears."  I believe she was Goldilocks.

And, also in 1953, she must have been watching as I, 10 years old, came to bat against the Robins, her brother's team.  I faced pitcher Rocco Serena, aged 12, on Syosset's first Little League opening day.  Her brother Robin was playing first base.  To me, Rocco looked like a mean grown-up as I swung in vain at three straight pitches.  I'm sure Pam cheered at that!  Years later, Pam showed me old copies of the Syosset Advance.  One had a 1955 record that showed me fourth in batting at .435.  That made me very happy.  It made her happy to make other people happy.

Pammie and I loved the Syosset of our childhood.   It was a place where one could escape from often difficult life in the home and just hang out all day with other children or alone, leave in the morning and not come home until evening.  Later, as shy teenagers, we couldn't wait to leave Syosset and were drawn to, and became part of the Beat/Hippie/Peace generation and the counter-culture of the 1960's.  But we never forgot Syosset.

In 2000, Pammie suggested we do a web site with old pictures and memorabilia of this small town where we grew up.  After nearly six years, Syosset Scrapbook  is rich and personal history and contains over 1500 images, many from Pam's collection (she saved everything).  Do a Google search on  "Syosset":  Syosset Scrapbook ranks only behind the School District, the local newspaper and the Chamber of Commerce.   She particularly loved our Guestbook, as people, many now scattered all over the country and world, posted their praise of Scrapbook and often reconnected with each other because of it.  

As a rule, she had the ideas and I helped implement them.  John:  "We can't do that.  It's a great idea but impossible."   Pam:  "Yes we can.  You always say that.  I'm sure we will figure it out."  She was usually right.  We made no money and reported to no one.  I continue Syosset Scrapbook in her memory. 

Pam was a writer, poet and editor.  I wrote imagist poetry in the 60's and later wrote occasional fiction and features.   In 2000, she suggested that she and I do a revival, on the web, of ken*, Syosset High School's literary magazine.  Her husband John suggested the title ken*again.  Syosset alumni contributors were rare so we soon went worldwide.  Our standards were simple:  we published what we liked.  ken*again continues in her memory; I publish what I like and what I think she would have liked.

From time to time, I  persuaded her to use her own work in ken*again.  We archived past issues and some of Pam's fine work is available here including her magnificent novella, Blue Balloons.

In 2002, she was stricken with a return (after eight years) of leiomyosarcoma, a rare and deadly cancer.  Even though she subsequently endured major surgeries, radiation treatments and heavy pain medications, she went on with her life with no complaints despite constant pain.  Over the next few years, we continued our web projects as if nothing were wrong.  I often accompanied her to some of our favorite places:  craft shops, discount stores, Home Depot, Costco, yard and estate sales and postcard shows.  She had a keen eye for cool things.  In one estate sale attic, she found two Norwegian sweaters for me, worth hundreds of dollars, which I bought for five dollars each.  Pam and I believed that "being in denial" was very helpful so we rarely spoke of the future.   

Two weeks before her death, she wistfully told me, "We had fun."  I replied, "Yes we did, but we are still here."  Then Pam said, "You are a strange person."  My first reaction was to ask, "How am I strange?"  But after that loaded question, she just smiled.  I added, "Well, I take that as a compliment."  She smiled again.

A few days after that, my wife Janis and I visited her.  Janis had never seen her wonderful and unique home in WoHo (a name coined by Pam for Montclair, New Jersey).  She gave Janis a tour of the house.  We then took Pam for a drive.  When I said goodbye to her, still denying reality, I told her I would see her soon.

The last time I saw her was in her hospital room on February 2nd and she was in a deep sleep, her family with her.  Time and illness could not diminish her intellect, youthful appearance and beauty.

There is only the present, the past is gone and the future is unknown.   And memories of her, her achievements and her gifts to others exist in the present.  In that sense, Pam is still here with us.

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Lark Beltran Robert L. Harrison Geoff Slavin Aurora Antonovic Scott Malby Matt Finney

Kelley Jean White Thomas D. Reynolds EP Allan Mark DeCarteret Rebecca Lu Kiernan Elisabeth Blair

Morgan Lynn Ernest Williamson III Alice Folkart Amy Ashton Handy J. D. Nelson Angelo Giambra

 

  

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Pamela by Lark Beltran Gentled she was into larger night, passing transition's aisle. Consciousness narrowed to pinpoint ray fixed on a loved one's smile, Swallowed she was into Mystery Isle— What twilight, then what dawn! Grief and upheaval wrack those behind barred from celestial lawn. Treasure bestowed, too soon withdrawn ... Someday we fathom why. Though gentled she was into larger night, there is no last goodbye.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       To Pam by Robert L. Harrison School day friends must never leave us except for a better place. Where smiles are bookmarks and the hallways are filled with eternity for all of us.     Hello Jack by Robert L. Harrison Jack are you still on the road in search of neon signs that burn brightly in the night. Did you hear about the old gang breaking up and joining you? You can find them hitchhiking up, having pillow fights  and waiting for Allen to stop chanting to the unknown gods. Beware of the new roads Jack,  for they take you nowhere. I know you hear me because your beer ran out long ago and sober hippies always listen and never talk. See you when the  politicians run out of lines, when the speed limit ends and your imagination runs out of brakes.     When He Smiled by Robert L. Harrison His new dentures were done and now he could smile again. So he smiled at his dentist first then his wife,  his kids, his friends and even his relatives. He smiled at everyone,  at the Malls,  at work even at his boss. But no one ever  smiled back,  not even a grin or raised lip. So he took the  dentures back out and now everyone smiles back at him.     Getting Started by Robert L. Harrison The car windows were frozen and not even the words of Howard Stern on the radio could  melt them. So I chipped and scraped  and fought the good fight with the de-icer,  while mumbling to myself the names of some forgotten saints  in the cold. Now patches of clean glass  reflect the morning sun but my car keys  Were lost In the drifts of whiteness. So I sit in my cleaned tomb pretending to drive as if I were seven years old again.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       April Fools by Geoff Slavin "Preparedness," they called it. "You can't trust the Terrorists," everybody knew. So one day while whistles screamed, jets roared overhead, TV's blared, headlines blood-red,     we all herded into big old brick buildings,     like mid-century high schools.     The kids one door, the adults another. Everyone was excited: At last something was happening—      though who knew what, for certain. Would we come out alive? --- "SURE!" --- Look at our mighty Defense. And our offense is awesome. For years hadn't we poured out the best of our lifeblood for this very day. Hours (or was it days?) we milled about, the kids shouting and running: War games, gas masks, bio-drills. After all, it was the day all were after. Some of course, were afraid, annihilation's no joke. There were speeches urging calm; "Protect democracy" activities; Some met in Room 101, To show us how to identify the enemy— Who look and act "just like us;" while in the caff, Group leaders in pom-poms Waved flags and led sacred songs. My wife and I were frantic— Where's our son? How did we get here? We searched narrow unused corridors looking for doors. Beside forgotten stairwells, armed soldiers with brutish faces snickered and smoked cigarettes, flags, limp as rags, draped from their lapels. I grew angry as the days passed. "There's no war," I said to those we met. "They just want to see     if they can do this to us. And they can." Faces glowed with pride—"We'll kick butt." "There'll be letters to the newspapers,"     I said. "Lots of them.  And I'm going to write them all." "There's no war!" I shouted. "They just want to see if they can do this. And they can." No one heard. They jostled, craning their necks to peer out the windows: Who would be the first to spot     the rainbow     mushroom cloud? "No war!" I yelled, till my throat was sore. "They just wanted to see if they could do this to us. And they can." At last, some all-clear buzzers sounded,                             somewhere, faintly. The doors were thrown open,     the gates pulled back by soldiers, the wilted flags crushed into dust beneath their boots. People wandered out,     a little dazed,     disappointed by the sunshine. I was there, waiting. "No war," I announced. "They just wanted     to know if they could do this to us. And they can." April Fool!   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       What He Wants by Aurora Antonovic a cobalt blue shirt with narrow stripes to bring out his eyes softly faded denims with whiskered creases in the front and soft puckers down the sides maroon boots with mustard-coloured laces a slight wedge to the heel shone to waxy perfection a new image created by a new look to go with the new life showcased in the back of the Sear’s catalogue page 373     Quest by Aurora Antonovic for Jason Sanford Brown the red planet is ruling the sky right now creating the perfect moment for space sailing: here a sphere, there a megacosm a galaxy of binary meter, cosmic analects, blazing ellipsis zero in with a parabolic reflector, decoct the cosmos, break down the galaxy, reveal the stars write your verse with a celestial-tipped pen, leave your fiery mark for all the world to see     Houseguest by Aurora Antonovic Since when does he use towels with satin butterflies appliquéd on them? Pink perfumed soap shaped like hearts rest in a crystal dish on the counter, in the adjoining guest room are vases of my favourite flower, a bedspread in royal aubergine chenille that wasn’t here last time a basket of books—Shelley, Keats, Browning, from one who does not read poetry boxes of bon bons bottles of water so I don’t have to get up for a drink during the night Better than a five star hotel is my friend’s kindness to me which makes me never want to leave, but rather cocoon under the wine coloured goodness he’s laid out for me   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Dreaming by Scott Malby What am I looking for? A definition—life. An intuition—death. Be still.  Too short. Imperfect harmony. In blooms and trees untold inexpressions of an expressible sadness like alter egos of lost children. Unfair.  Sad.  Grieving. When a sonnet is a Neandertal with a grudge, and a lyric pure fantasy, what can be said? Life grazes on perihelions of ice. It crashes through permafrost. In attempting to encompass it all art risks sounding like a player piano playing the same song over and over again, until we too kiss the last tango goodbye. Frank O' Hara is gone and so is Pollock and Auden and Yeats. We've got to get back to the beginning. Start over again trolling the darkness for light until it comes in our nets throw in the face of the inexplicable drinking our breath, seeking its sustenance inside our depths even as it sweeps us up in the purity of its flow, witness to the ritual metaphors of life all love embraces, awakening revelations that life is a dream we need healing from.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Jack-O-Lanterns by Matt Finney After Six Years I still remember The Smell Of That wicker basket And I remember how Amazed I was When you Fit his Ten pound Body into It And to this Day Every time I see A Jack-O-Lantern I remember our shadows Walking Down That collapsing porch.     Cries For Help by Matt Finney I've Sent Out four Birds this Week with "Help me" Written on the Inside Of their Wings But they all came back With "Return to sender" As a reply And to think I was counting on this world for Something.     On Me by Matt Finney When I was Younger I'd flip my tricycle Over And spin its Tires Around and around As if I was Running from Something And I was I just didn't know it at the time But now that I'm older And all eyes Are on me to make Beauty Out of madness I finally know What All the Running was About.     Steps by Matt Finney The stepping stones Are Wet with dew And the moon passes through The Warm Night I try to smile At them But I can only think Of the steps I never took And never will.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Leaning by Kelley Jean White Thick wind. Waiting with us this morning.  Dark bus stop. Stroller and two shopping bags. Need a scarf.  Need a rope to tie us to the morning standing up.  Six am drop off. Day care.  Two hours ride to Bryn Mawr and $30 pay for scrubbing floor wax. Wind to hold me up. Hands too broke to lift a rag.  Half century these bones.  Broke knees.  Clear plastic bonnet wrapped around my head keep my hair dry.  Eyes be dry ‘cept that wind sting.  Too heavy feet in too heavy shoes.  Too late. Wind’s got the only arms holds me now.  Talk to it. Might hear me.  Damn thin wind blowing on that lady’s house.     Letting go by Kelley Jean White why doesn’t God stand where we can see her and run behind us yelling —don’t fall—don’t fall— while we hurry off with precarious balance and scream—look both ways— when we don’t? I’ve said it.  I can hear her say it.  “I’m your mother. I’ve fulfilled my obligation. What you do now is your own decision.” (—o choose me—choose me come home—I’ll cook your favorite macaroni- and-cheese-out-of-a-box play your favorite board games even candy land and chutes and ladders only come home stay–when you go out I don’t know what you do- - - -)   Lethe by Kelley Jean White I keep forgetting. Today I must have left my reading glasses at the office.  I have forgotten where I keep the spare pair as well.  My daughter pulled a neatly knotted bundle out of the desk drawer.  This, I remember; it is that string that held my father’s glasses.  He would bend over the table tying flies, the glasses fallen during the intricate work, lean into the little cone of light from the tiny lamp, the tip of his tongue held between his teeth in concentration. That is my face in intensity too.  I took the string from his dresser because I thought it might be useful.  It would be. It will.  But just now I need to keep forgetting.     Lombard by Kelley Jean White Someone took the prophet’s stones. I saw the greasy marks where they fell fingers splayed beneath a heavy load— that wind that mumbled truth, chanced warning.  They left the rusted nails that pierced crossed boards, let stand the angry pictures cut from newsprint, the barbed wire thorns and twisted coils of rubber, his three feathered wings, his snail shell, and the knife.     Loser by Kelley Jean White I lost my place in the book Lost my extra set of keys Lost you, kept my anger, no idea that you’d leave. Why couldn’t I lose my debts. Why couldn’t I lose weight. Why couldn’t I lose this bitter sadness over misplacing you again.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Shale Universe by Thomas D. Reynolds each layer of shale betrays another above this world, is there another?     Elegy by Thomas D. Reynolds your death a perpetual series of missed appointments everywhere I go you've just left     Exit by Thomas D. Reynolds "Despite theories of a single event which caused their extinction, a natural disaster or cataclysm, it seems probable that dinosaurs disappeared from the Cretaceous world over a long period of time, one by one." till finally there was only one the smallest perhaps of all only the size of a small bird unnoticed among the rocks frightened or perhaps relieved its position never more paramount or inevitably more trivial each decision instantly momentous no matter how slight crossing the open valley or hunting for food in ravines lingering for that last morsel when instinct said go and always that feeling of aloneness yearning for another     My Father as Fossil by Thomas D. Reynolds my father lives in my body imbedded in stone even gestures of my hand echo his     Prey by Thomas D. Reynolds "A dinosaur, like other reptiles, had no limits on its growth. Although the growth rate slowed with age, the dinosaur just got bigger and bigger until it died." its bones never rested perhaps the cracking of joints woke it from sleep cartilage giving way to bone every footprint in the dirt larger than the last even its last one the shadow behind it the slow gray creature one step behind loomed even larger closing in on its prey the dinosaur could never get ahead always losing ground pursued by its own shadow     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Over the snickering cat sills by EP Allan The old man sits in the December sun’s chair staring out at the wind tossed summer scrapings burling over the grey soggy fields                                   how the coffee cradled in the loose folds of his wrinkled veined fingers                                         feels good to him the white porcelain sides radiating the remembered youth                                        of trees when the world was green & the failure of teeth                                      & irritable paste clogged bowels wasn’t even a possible thought in the bright dew decked berry bristling fields                                       how he sits hunched in his old man rocker with the high curved back                       the curious beak of his nose                      teased by the fairy wisped steam curling idyllic from the coffee’s milky surface each slow thought a tumbling lump of pain                        moving out beyond the upholstered horror of the living room through the hungry steak knife kitchen                where the severed fingers of inept old man cooks strew the counter so heavily that even to ask for a bandaide is a faux pas of face slapping duel proportions                              & out into the waiting snow fields where the moon rides the back of flatulent cows            hoping to elope with expensive utensils over the snickering cat sills & out into the either of sleep     The Theater is Closed by EP Allan The theater curtain with its tarnished rose border wreathed around a porcine cherub of dubious diapered joy has fallen in silence                                  the seats kissed by buttocks                               wallets                                          & tube rolled programs with pink & white faces staring at the horror of dull red theater upholstery                                are folded up in frost & night                           the floorboards too are silent listening to the dust tinkle down over their once tintinnabulating toe tapped slats It is closed                  performance over Aristotelian catharsis flamed the stage bloody                            the revolutions which carried triumphant despots to the counting houses where little withered ladies with electric knitting needles wove the hemp                measured the noose & severed the cords of the hero’s strutting histrionics                                  have ended the audience having donkey guffawed themselves silly                          lubbered wet snotty tears & flatulated in all the appropriate places            have gone back to their lives of toil & shaved hamburgers while the December wind scrapes the brittle                  dead husks                                   which wait for April’s green encore to thespiate life once again     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       re:  play by Mark DeCarteret is this now or are they showing us before again?     over (come) by Mark DeCarteret so far we have blown without having found that one note or the stones which we gathered would help us get a read for our hearts & though the sound of our bodies seems to have more in common with silence that hushed report of time we have not once been alone or not near what we'd hoped to fall under     magic Jesus by Mark DeCarteret can't imagine how anyone would keep going without almost nothing to do never eating or sleeping not to mention the bit about having to love one another turn the other cheek etc. when so much of it appears to be outside our capability— a trick of the eye like w/that guy you bring back as someone nearly the same after having caved in on himself again & again     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Rummy Park 38 (Jigsaw) by Rebecca Lu Kiernan You are an accidental angel Caught in gold cathedral light, Lily ringed holy candle glow Painted in the silver sun glitter On ocean waves, Platinum sheet lightning On unbreakable lakes. You are magic, Sawing my doubts in half And halves again. When you are Inside me like this Forgive me if I close my eyes Against your luminous affection. Just, It worries me To look at such a miracle As lions watch Behind serrated palm leaves And crocodiles cruise The billabong bottom Puzzling to separate The dreamer from the dream     Rummy Park 39 (Calla lily Dream) by Rebecca Lu Kiernan Everyone at the gallery comments On the new copper highlights in my raven hair, Wispy shag cut, barrettes of dragonflies, Calla lilies. I wear it as you see it in the dream As I stand with my hands on my hips In the glow of your cautious revelation And the indiscreet Florida sun Miles, maybe light years Beyond the one I used to be Before the tigers of your nights Surrendered unblinkingly to me.     Rummy Park 40 (Incognito) by Rebecca Lu Kiernan I will camouflage myself Inside the complexities of winter light That plays against the sodium wind. I'll make such a complication of my Whereabouts, Spreading rumors to throw you off, Wearing Annie Hall hats And Jackie O. sunglasses And bulky Russian trench coats. I'll wipe my fingerprints Off Brandy glasses and coffee cups And you will never find me Unless you understand The smartest place to keep a secret Is in the opponent's hiding place Beneath his sweaty hands.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       S'butterfly by Elisabeth Blair “S’butterfly is charming 120 years old, or at least older than me, it makes you wonder why the pretty thing was saved, being so out of date, and delicate. I have that answer, any way,” pressing her hands together, “it’s because we like to think decay is all in the mind. – But look at the city”     Instruction is Inclusion by Elisabeth Blair Instruction is inclusion in the game “Don’t stick your fingers inside the cage; don’t touch the bird…” means “you are one of many, many millions, smoothed out in normal expectation with a slice of bread for your sandwich.  Go play.” Instruction is inclusion in the game Subtlety is included: “We have rules.” You can damn the game, but then you need a job   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       lip venom (in four parts)  by Morgan Lynn I Lip I just put on lip venom: lip venom lip venom lip sin/tax pen pay for your thick ink in kind an eye for an I one mask and a dilapidation lip:  a thing of thin tissue two of them together and separate a thin line between black line in purple the purple of the lip always there always blood, blood the thing in tissue that makes it tissue that makes it purple with the threat of black line are lips tissue, or muscle?   II Finger             the rain will not                        get caught                                    in my hair,                                                no ma’am. it will run right down my legs going everywhere such little little rainfingers like those children that weave rugs (where?) like grass under bird feet (what?) is smaller and thinner than rainfingers, what? sometimes the self leaves the body in order to stand in front of it and sometimes behind it either way, touched or touched-too-much, there are tears, those other littlelittle fingers   III Eft venom venom, what eschews oozes spits fights with venom? Amazonian tree frogs, I’m sure,                        snakes, all things antideluvian? [ eft:  the terrestrial form of a primarily aquatic newt ] language being the way of the human mind we are a little limited when it comes to the depths of the ocean where the things reside we cannot talk to with our eyes or smell with our tongues breath and air being necessary to all the five senses we are a little compromised when it comes to knowing (videre) the beings that reside under the sea            language the mouth and breath shapes and the ear hears that efty efty newt he’s here only a short while growing something necessary to take him back to the sea             unlike the jellyfish who likes her new legs being an extension of her brain the human being = legs + brain =            vertebrae                       vert vert vert                                   newty efty: green and new and true   IV Jellyfish “the cranium and backbone lying face down looks like a crustacean,” she said, and spinal  fluid is seawater formed up the brain drinks seawater/saline breathes it like a fish lives on it floats in it like a legless jellyfish—maybe the brain was a jellyfish who lost all its legs but two who walked and walked until they turned hard, until the juice turned to bone hardened by the earth itself formed into long hard shapes capable of breaking—maybe the newly sea-less creature saw trees and wanted to stand like them, wanted to swim in the wind   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Jazz Displacement by Ernest Williamson III tailored liaisons jogging along your way so crass I see jazz Coltrane teaching philosophy again but he's dead I heard somebody say I love really good news in good sounds trumpets pullin' my vibe to strangers makes me stand atop waffling bar stools whistlin' Ellington's big band joustin' hisses abound such a shame to be tap dancin' in these clouds way up here lookin' way way down here     A Bird's Eye View of Man by Ernest Williamson III branded by the sun a litter of potential good sustained lying spliced and red bleeding for the sake of bleeding their praise is the unisex of finality burning smelt lifting sulfuric vapors to my nose pinching my putrid breath annulled is the finch in taxonomies foolish separations I'd rather watch the movement of the coffee black meddling with cream revealing my delight and your envy man is a big horn gifted but loud slurs in one hemisphere and compassion in the other     Poetic Rant #3 by Ernest Williamson III spaces allocated in cruciform words are spaces in tight rooms where walls feed upon their shadows I the subject of your predicated problems your heightened level of morbid probity lest you the pronoun viscerally named speciously contained tight too as the wrinkles of the child feeding his mute father words of precious writing people.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Night Ride by Alice Folkart Gray dreams, cream-in-my tea dreams, salt-in-my soup dreams, cuddle-the-cat dreams. It's so cold. Night mares. Night mares need good riders with stinging whips and boots to make them go fast straight ahead and win. Night mares want more than oats, prance and paw, snort fire bolts, race in my head. The jockey's dead. RUNAWAY! A herd of night mares runs dark fields of fretful sleep, hooves rooting and ringing. Awake! I do, chaff still clinging to my gown, I am unharmed, but still shaking, hoping for sun and day, light and warmth to drive them away.     Desert Guide by Alice Folkart How did we get so lost out there? An arthritic cactus pointed the way, the tip-tilted moon full lit the path. Sharp-honed silhouettes, coyotes, sliced in and out between bulbous buttocks, boulders pink and innocent at noon, but sprawled lasciviously in the cheesy blue-green glow of moon. A hollow-eyed man on a motorcycle, squinting against the wind, dry lips, cold heart, craving a smoke, disappears into that double yellow line. He knows the way.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Nick's Eulogy for Jay by Amy Ashton Handy Today’s lesson began with The Great Gatsby, for me.| For Rachel it began with her birth into purple tracked arms—              a fast learner she found               Rachel was a thing              that took care of itself. Now, slouched at her desk, small in her armor—black leather jacket, cold silver chains, camouflage print pants— Rachel says:  “I ain’t writing this.” Around her the others scribble fictional bitterness. Realizing, I crouch beside her desk, cautiously pry beneath the edge:  “Hey.” What she doesn’t say is              It wasn’t long ago that I buried my mom              and grieved for her, alone. Arms crossed, avoiding my gaze, she smirks.  Hard. Except her eyes begin to leak, and find mine. “But it’s a mad good book,” she says, (apologetic shrug) pretending she can’t feel             the stream down her defiant face             splashing, shattering against the shell of leather             eventually leaving wet patches on her tee shirt like bullet wounds. At this sight I would say             I will be your mother.             I will unwrap you and become shelter--             the place where you can grow             curling warm in my fluid devotion and I will never leave. My fingertips look alien on the boundary of the desk between us. With nothing better to give I say “I’m sorry.”     Dirt Journey by Amy Ashton Handy Muddy footprints in the hall, a reminder of progression. I am washed away cell by cell, molecules of me— a spiral on the dirt journey. A reminder of progression: dust is mostly made of human skin— a spiral on the dirt journey. Touching hands we shed small parts of ourselves. Dust is mostly made of human skin, cached in corners, swept out doors. Touching hands we shed small parts of ourselves, trading loss for growth. Cached in corners, swept out doors no particle reserved, trading loss for growth as our elements co-mingle, sifted. No particle reserved— elephants, chickens, children, dragonflies, as our elements co-mingle, sifted, shape shifted, yet the essence is unchanged. Elephants, chickens, children, dragonflies, we are dressing the earth in a rich new coat, shape shifted, yet the essence is unchanged. Parts unified as soil, black under the sun, we are dressing the earth in a rich new coat, worn to the end of our story. Parts unified as soil, black under the sun, we are buried in the pockets, carried, worn to the end of our story— a spiral on the dirt journey— we are buried in the pockets, carried on soles leaving footprints in the hall.     High Stakes Wager by Amy Ashton Handy I once put a snapping turtle’s head in my mouth on a dare. It was the Anderson kid who laid the bet down, his Darth Vader action figure against my Han Solo that I wouldn’t do it. But I did. Fearfully. Not afraid because I didn’t want to lose my tongue— there was no such risk. She was well dead when we picked her up, before we pried her shell apart to find her, a shriveled sack of flesh, strangely human with her four limbs. Not afraid because her eyes were beady and staring with a set of yellow and red stripes like parentheses around them. Not even afraid of the flavor I’d find— I imagined she’d taste like mossy water and she did. Fearful because I had seen her sisters sunning on logs zipping into the water when I splashed by. They were blinks of life, deceptively still, then gone in a flash to the depths of the pond. We didn’t know how deep it was but we guessed about a mile. Struck by true fear because when I threw her corpse into that pond I imagined she’d sink slowly, shell-less, to the bottom, one dark mile down.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       The Rabbit Blinked by J. D. Nelson I'm the nacho-lord of the bingo hags— Trains again, Larky! Key into the daw-daw, sleepy! I move like a ghost-coyote. I'm pepper'd. I'm a moving dot— the red clay cave awaits!     only an hr & a half by J. D. Nelson Jalapeño poppers & raspberry-pepper jelly for the dippin'— I'm still flying! A metal pail, about the size of a one-pound coffee can, filled with cream cheese— the same old dream, again and again—my tie— my TIME, I should say. Pocket words for the birds, to the brink, blinking— lightning bugs shiver in the corner, sticky with red jelly— muh lips is burnin'!     Jazz & Russian Astronomy by J. D. Nelson I crept up w/ the ghost wax. The Venus People wiped & wiped until the sandy beaches were finally in focus. I stood in line for tickets to see the fike-fike warbler.     toothpaste & kitchen matches by J. D. Nelson busy, cap'n. busy like chicago streets. (the music of the desert in my head) I found a twenty in an old coat & I'd like to buy you breakfast.     Gelatin Monkey Brush by J. D. Nelson We're "LIVE" with Ol' Lemon Lips: The robust CON CRETE?  Minty lions are growling. The CLOWNS came marching IN ON ME, slicing my pillows with BOX-cutters! They're trying to get me to paint my FACE.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Inaudible by Angelo Giambra Your memory is like a song barely heard from another room, wordless voices, so thin the faintest sound sends them scurrying back to nothingness.

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The Entitlement Program   Pavelle Wesser A Journey to the Light   Russell Ainslie The Leap   Richard Meyers The Bigger Picture  Paul García

The Speed of Scrutiny   T. R. Healy Honor of a Woman   Dipita Kwa Exactly What Time Is   Joel Van Noord Private Dreams   Saro Bedian

 

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The Entitlement Program                                        

 by Pavelle Wesser

rista cursed softly at the city’s lack of parking.  No wonder she rarely ventured beyond the suburb in which she lived.  It was Lou who had suggested she set up this appointment, and she had complied.  After all these years of marriage, part of her still remained in awe of him.  She circled the block yet another time before deciding to park in a narrow alleyway.  It was a tight squeeze and highly illegal, but what of it.  She of all people was entitled to a parking space.  Grabbing her pink patent leather purse, she exited her luxury vehicle.

The heels of her new pumps clicked decisively on the sidewalk as she approached a glass-plated building that reflected the afternoon sunlight.  Krista reveled that she had reached the point where luxuries such as this were effortlessly hers.  She clicked up the building’s steps and paused a moment to stare at the logo of the bleeding heart on the double front doors.  Something about it struck as repulsive; for one thing its deep red color gave it the appearance of real blood.  She shrugged and pushed through the doors.  The cool air ruffled her hair as she crossed the marble foyer and approached the receptionist.

“I’m here for the entitlement program,” she said curtly, pursing her lips together.

The receptionist said graciously:  “They’re expecting you on the first floor.”

The elevator that took her up opened into an oval office.  Krista was so preoccupied staring at the glass walls which reflected a bluish hue from the overhead light that she failed to notice the man sitting opposite the long conference table.

“Hello,” he said, startling her, “I’m Boris, please have a seat at the other end.”

“Aren’t I entitled to sit wherever I want?” Krista asked.

“Naturally,” Boris smiled.  “Let’s start over.  Please sit where you wish.”

Krista sat at the original seat Boris had offered her and smoothed her skirt:

“So how does this work?”

Boris folded his hands:  “You’re entitled to complain for as long as you want, and I listen.  How’s that.”

“I can’t wait,” Krista sucked in her breath before embarking on her tirade:

“I realize that Lou has achieved ungrounded success but just because we’re filthy dirty rich it doesn’t mean happiness is ours, or at least mine.  For one, Lou is so busy he’s ceased completely to have relations with me.  I think he’s getting it from his secretary, the whore.  I’m so disgusted, I’ve started sleeping in the guest room.  I told Lou that it’s because I like to keep the temperature low and it would make his teeth chatter.  It’s true, you know.  I suffer from perimenopause, and at night I sweat something terrible.  Sometimes it’s just my legs, and I wake up thinking I’ve peed in the bed.  But that’s ridiculous, I tell myself, because the last time I did that I was five, and now I’m pushing fifty…”

The phone beside Boris rang sharply:  “Do excuse me,” he said.

“Can’t you turn that thing off?”

“Yes, I will ask her,” he said into the phone, “It could be hers.”  He hung up.

“What’s wrong?”

“The car parked in the alleyway, license plate number JDL 222.  Is that yours?”

“Yeah, it’s mine.  What about it?”

“It’s blocking the path the trucks pass through.”

“Well, I’m not moving it.  I’m entitled to park wherever I want, and I am not through complaining.”

Boris sighed:  “As you wish.”

Krista sneered:  “You only wish you could afford a car like mine, Boris?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’ll never be yours.  Hours heaped upon hours of listening to people complain will never buy you my vehicle.”

“Pardon?”

“$75,000—that’s the Kelly Blue Book value of our car brand new.  And we paid cash.  You better believe my husband makes big bucks.”

“I don’t think I…”

“What, hear me?  Are you damn deaf, Boris, because all you’ve been driveling in response to me is ‘what?’ ‘pardon?’”

“No, I am not deaf,” Boris responded.

“Then maybe we’re sitting too far apart from each other on this here conference table, Mister.  Why do two people in a private meeting need such a large table anyway?”

“It’s for group bitch sessions.”  Boris was apologetic.

Krista got up, walked around the oval table and sat on Boris’ lap.

“I’m afraid this is against the rules,” he said.

“I’m entitled to do whatever I want.  I need things, Boris.  It’s why I complain.  It’s a response for deeper needs that aren’t being satisfied.”

“I’ll have to ask you to get off now.”

Krista stayed perched on his lap.  She placed her head in her hands and started sobbing:  “It’s just not fair.  All this money was supposed to make me happy.  But I’m not, I’m not, I’m not.”  She lifted her tear-streaked face, reached out to touch Boris’s cheek with trembling fingers.

“Uh, Ma’am.  This sector of the entitlement program does not offer the thumb-sucking services you appear to require.  I would refer you to the second floor.  In any case, it’s my lunch break now.”

“My needs should be more important to you than lunch.”

“I’m entitled,” said Boris, pushing her off his lap.

* * *

She sat in the circular office on the second floor.  She believed the woman’s name she sobbed to was Sheena though she hadn’t paid particular attention to the introduction.

“And I went to the club,” Krista wept, “the one we paid a hundred grand a year to belong to, I mean we had to have referrals up the wazoo to get in there.  Anyway, these two ladies were having a conversation about someone they knew who’d had a heart attack.  I kept trying to join in but they closed me out.  They left me there on the cold, hard sidewalk and took off together for a round of tennis.  I went home and I said,

‘Lou, after all the hard work and time you’ve put into your career there are still people out there who won’t accept us, who don’t respect us,’ and Lou said ‘I have to call my secretary now,’ and he left the room.  I know he’s doing things with her, but I’m getting old and flabby and…”

Sheena nodded in understanding and picked up her desk-side phone:

“I’m not sure,” she said into it, “but I’ll ask her.”

Krista lifted her tear-streaked face.  “Oh, what is it now?”

Sheena smiled reassuringly:  “Would that be your vehicle parked in the alleyway two doors down, license plate number JDL 222?”

“Why, yes, it would be,” Krista replied stiffly.

“I will ask you to please re-park it in a legal spot.”

“I most certainly will not.  How dare you interrupt my session with this crap.”

“I just wanted to apprise you…”

“See my purse,” Krista pointed, “Don’t think for a minute that it’s vinyl.  Pink may be a tacky color to some but it’s patent leather all the way.  Got it at the national handbag show held only once a year at the Jacob Javits.  Cost $1200 not including the matching wallet.  I don’t care how much sex your boyfriend has with you, young lady, he will never buy you a purse like this— Never—Do you understand?”

Sheena opened her mouth, closed it.

“Did you want to say something?” Krista snapped.

“I’ll summon the thumb,” Sheena said.

“The what?”

Sheena pressed a button and a thumb attached to a spring descended from the ceiling.  It stopped when it was face-level with Krista.

“That’s positively disgusting.” Krista remarked.

“Suck it.”  Sheena commanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s been sterilized.”

“Well not enough for me.  I could never trust that thing.”

“Why?  I’ve sucked it.  So have many others.  Now you can, too.  You’ll like it.”

“You make me sick.  Women pushing fifty do not suck thumbs.”

“Well, you came here for the thumb-sucking program, didn’t you?”

“I most certainly did not.  I came for the entitlement program.”

“Well, you flunked out.  Didn’t Boris explain that to you?  You’ve been reduced to thumb sucking.”

“I will never.”

“Don’t be so sure.  Boris told me you had deep needs that weren’t being satisfied.”

“Why, you slut!”

“I would reconsider this opportunity if I were you.” Sheena leered.

“I will not.  I never want to look at anything so positively disgusting again, and I’m done here.”  Krista stood up.

“I just want to alert you…” Sheena was saying, but the glass elevator doors had closed thankfully behind Krista, who felt frail and drained beyond her ability to cope.  She rested her body against the glass wall.

“And have you enjoyed your hour of entitlement?” the receptionist smiled as Krista left.

“Absolutely not,” Krista growled, “it’s been the worst hour of my life.”

“Oh, not yet,” the receptionist laughed, but Krista had already exited the building.

* * *

She kicked debris out of her way as she walked gingerly through the alleyway toward her luxury vehicle.  It fit so narrowly within the alley that she would barely have room to squeeze through.  She stood behind it, fishing for the keys in her pink patent leather purse.  The loud roar of an engine startled her and she whipped her head around, acknowledging in horror that she wouldn’t have time to move out of the oncoming truck’s way.  She put up her hand as a supplication for it to stop and in doing so dropped the car keys she’d just procured into the squalid filth of the alley.  She glanced down and noted her new pumps covered in nameless slime.  She looked up and had a split second to register the logo of the entitlement program soldered onto the hood of the approaching truck.

She opened her mouth in a primal scream that never emerged as the truck crushed her against the rear of her new luxury sedan valued at $75,000 in Kelly’s reliable blue book.  She heard her bones splinter under its enormous weight and her vital organs squash like ripe pumpkins.  And then, in an unfortunate finale, the truck’s hood collided with her skull and crushed her mind’s matter into the blood red of the bleeding heart.  In that last fleeting moment, Krista understood that her sense of entitlement, like a phantom floating through her life, had taken full possession of her senses and ultimately killed her.  In that very same instant, it is worth noting, her husband Lou hugged his secretary back at his office and sighed.  He breathed a word of thanks to the Heavens that he had been granted a new life with the woman he loved.  After many years of hardship, he reasoned, he was duly entitled.

 

 

                                                                                                        
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A Journey to the Light                                         

by Russell Ainslie  

                                                                       

he child was cold.  Even with the filthy piece of rag that used to be a cherished blanket wrapped around him, the bitterness of the weather penetrated to the very marrow of the child’s bones.  The smooth hardness that surrounded him collected the cold and radiated it outwards, like a perverse sun.  But the darkness was worse—worse than anything.  Anything except…no, the child could not think of that: not now—it would be too dangerous; he had been told, and he understood.  Oh, yes, he understood.  Noise was fatal and now the child knew exactly what that meant.

How long had the child been enveloped in this frigid darkness?  It seemed forever, and yet timeless.  Time has no meaning when the blackness is all-pervading—this was another bitter truth the child had learnt since the day when the fires raged and the sickening, hollow sound of many boots marching on frozen ground rang through the small village, drowning out all other sounds.

Events had happened with dazzling speed.  One minute, it seemed, life was as it had always been—hard but good.  Work to do, friends to play with, a loving family and a warm fire to come home to; but the next, Chaos reigned.  Life would never be the same again, if indeed it could be preserved at all.  The village was no more, a flaming ruin where people screamed and died, where men in grey uniforms fired guns indiscriminately into the tangled mass of people, blank looks on their faces and blood on their hands.  It was there, standing in the ruins, that his mother’s friend had snatched him up and bundled him into the blackness with desperate entreaties for him to be quiet, for God’s mercy keep quiet.

The bumps and bruises of constant motion had imprinted itself onto the child’s skin, marking it in ways that could be felt if not seen.  The pain had numbed somewhat after an impenetrable amount of time had passed, but not totally abated—each fresh jolt of the cart set his nerves afire and he had to bite his lip until it bled to keep from moaning aloud every time the cart rumbled over a pothole in the road.  What the child longed for most of all, apart from wishing the men in uniforms had never come to his village at all, was the chance to get out of his confinement, to stretch his legs and feel the sun, however pale and weak it was at this time of year, shining on his face.  To turn that small, delicate face up to the sun and dream of better times.  A small tear trickled from his eye and rolled down through the grime on his face, leaving a partially clean track behind, a track which was invisible in the dark.

Suddenly, the child heard voices, and the cart drew to a halt, with bone-shuddering abruptness.  A ball of fear cramped the child’s stomach as the sound of boots came running up to the cart, and a voice in a harsh foreign language shouted a terse command at the people riding up front.  Familiar voices answered back, sounding desperate and horribly tired.  There was a sound of a struggle and the box was rocked backwards, then a single shot rang out and a woman screamed.  The child could not understand what the voices were saying as his box muffled them too much, but he suddenly understood he was going to see the sun once more, after all.

 

 

                                                                                                        
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The Leap                                                  

by Richard Meyers                                                                          

want to make the leap.  I want to be catapulted into the evolution.  I must be one with the power of the new creation.  Then I might complete the transmutation from human to divine.  It is time to realize the shining of the Indigo Light in which I may read the lost sacred texts of the mystery schools and unfold the scrolls of the Essenes.  I am weary of stumbling over the obscure pages of the Akashik Chronicles never accessing the whole truth.  These old wizard strategies for slipping between parallel realities must end.  Those promises abandoned me years ago.  I made choices I believed in, but they failed to create the complete shift that would shape the outcome of a truly new reality.

I traveled far in hopes of the great change.  I went to the forgotten libraries of Peru and Tibet.  I returned with secret knowledge that I thought along with the technology of mass prayer might alter the dark conclusions of recent history.  Some say our prayer gatherings turned Clinton’s planes back from the planned carpet bombings of Bosnia.  We may have saved the life of the Dalai Llama, but we were ineffectual in preventing the starvation in Sudan and Ethiopia and the genocides in Cambodia and later in Rwanda.

Once again the light surrounding my life is divided; my fingers of godly feeling cannot hold against my thoughts still lingering in clouds of duality.  My emotions feel unguided.  There is always the interruption, waves of refracted illuminations that break the unity in thought that should drive feelings in the direction of unbendable light.  My eyelids were once rosy blinds through which revelation glowed.  Now I open my eyes to glossy hospital walls where brothers lie failing to have made peace with one another.  So often individuals in their lifetimes repeatedly sing the dirge of estrangement and disharmony.  So how can we expect an outcome of accord and fulfillment collectively?

In the mornings the newspaper arrives on the lawn covered in blood.  I unfold it and out falls monster teeth and hate bites and well-sharpened deceits, then the depleted uranium and bird flu viruses and abruptly come the flashes of unprecedented disasters like tsunamis and hosts of hurricanes and earthquakes and some very unnatural occurrences caused by unheeded global warnings.  The planet is burning from the inside, sending waves of calamity against our feverish and fragile lives.  The earth has surely lost its glue.  Great enterprises of pitch and moment, like the bard wrote, have gone awry and ordinary truth has lost the name of action.

Geologically the earth is shifting, the magnetic field changing direction, the weather altered.  Psychic energy is accelerating towards a cycle of unprecedented consciousness.  Surely a Shift of the Ages is at hand.  Apocalypse, now is upon us!  Just unfolding the pages of the entertainment section I find crack pipes and tattoo parlors and festivals of the fantastic and occult followed by numerical records of the number of deaths in battles all over the world, conflicts unparalleled in scope, predictions of doom far darker than those of Nostradamus and Cayce.  By nightfall while the troubled world prepares for sleep my front lawn is strewn red in blood.

But my house is so quiet, sunken in sleep.  The neighbors awake numb from the “shock and awe” of an existence flung headlong into cataclysmic upheaval.  Are there new beings of unique intelligence being born in this tired world, those perhaps superhuman, charged with energy of cosmic light, somehow altered in DNA structure, children of a new order prepared to channel the message of asce