Volume 1, Number 1 

                                          Maurice Oliver

                                                                                     A SHRINE TO LIFESAVERS

                                                                                     In this scenario my voice is left intact and

                                                                                     completely recyclable when I drown.  The

                                                                                     day it happens four-letter words stroll along

                                                                                     the lakefront and storm clouds form a riddle

                                                                                     in the sky.  The night before it happens the

                                                                                     town is in full fiesta as real flowers grow out

                                                                                     of the witch's broom.  The signs are already

                                                                                     ominous though.  Instead of a head I have a

                                                                                     striped-on plastic ball in its place, and my Afro

                                                                                     wig tilts to one side.  The next day is Sunday.

                                                                                     When I wake up the Lord has already risen

                                                                                      and made sunny-side-up eggs for breakfast.

                                                                                      I never eat breakfast and hate eggs fixed

                                                                                      that way.  I hate baseball caps and baseball

                                                                                      too.  Now that I think about it, I never much

                                                                                      cared for float-bed trucks or snot rags or

                                                                                      swimming lessons either.  Guess that's why

                                                                                      I'll drown.  And the striped-on plastic ball for

                                                                                      a head doesn't help matters one bit.  Nor does

                                                                                      being a great kisser or having the ability to

                                                                                      repair a refrigerator.  So I sink deeper into the

                                                                                      lake once the boat tips over.  And all the while

                                                                                      there is a constant plumbing of my spirits in

                                                                                      my rusty pipe of wanting.  Heart-shaped pebbles

                                                                                      or prevarication is a mariachi band.  Perceptions

                                                                                      crystal clear to the end-stop.  And as everything

                                                                                      goes black I desperately try to convince myself

                                                                                      that I could have left the raincoat in my hotel

                                                                                      room and wore my new red leather pants instead.

                                         Maurice Oliver is the editor of the literary and arts ezine Concelebratory Shoehorn Review.  His poetry has appeared

                                                       in numerous national and international publications and literary websites including Potomac Journal, Frigg Magazine,

                                                       Stride Magazine, Blueprint Review and Abrabesques Review.  He lives in Portland, Oregon.

                                         Jukka-Pekka Kervinen & John M. Bennett                        

                                             Jukka-Pekka Kervinen is from Finland.  His work has appeared in numerous publications.

                                                      John M. Bennett is a poet and artist who has been published widely.  He lives in Columbus, Ohio.

                                         Frederick Pollack

                                                                                     THE KILLER OF BANDITS

                                                                                     Among the proprietors of our province

                                                                                      the greatest is Dom Pedro.

                                                                                      My Christian name also is Pedro,

                                                                                      and he addresses me as "my friend."

                                                                                      His automobile acquires me

                                                                                      at the station, and as it

                                                                                      proceeds, I ask the chauffeur

                                                                                      (he is the son of a cousin)

                                                                                      about his family.

                                                                                      His answers are always the same,

                                                                                      whatever is really happening,

                                                                                      his gratitude undimmed.

                                                                                      The house (the palace rather) sits

                                                                                      near the shore, surrounded by lawn.

                                                                                      As I walk up the steps

                                                                                      (slowly, for I walk slowly)

                                                                                      Dom Pedro, although a man of noble size,

                                                                                      bounds out, and takes my arm

                                                                                      with great solicitation,

                                                                                      as if I had walked the many miles from our village.

                                                                                      He leads me to a chair

                                                                                      in his office, beneath a fan,

                                                                                      and a servant (the nephew of a late

                                                                                      colleague) brings fruit-juice;

                                                                                      as always, liquor is offered but I decline.

                                                                                      I make my report, about heads

                                                                                      of livestock stolen and recovered,

                                                                                      contraband seized,

                                                                                      the affair of the priest,

                                                                                      the circulation of forbidden

                                                                                      ballads.  I hand over

                                                                                      the bailiff's latest accounts (which presumably tally;

                                                                                      it is not he but I who make this journey).

                                                                                      My patron endures,

                                                                                      perhaps enjoys, my halting rustic speech,

                                                                                      asks thorough questions, then

                                                                                      inspects at length the contents of

                                                                                      my other envelope:

                                                                                      those photographs on heavy stock, of heads

                                                                                      on poles facing the forest.

                                                                                      I name those I can,

                                                                                      conjecture the names of others, and

                                                                                      (superfluously, but it has become

                                                                                      a custom between us) count them.

                                                                                      "This many I have assisted to their deaths."

                                                                                      He drinks (it is not for me

                                                                                      to say excessively); remains alert

                                                                                      as I ask for more arms,

                                                                                      money, horses, and

                                                                                      recruits - young heads from his villages

                                                                                      that otherwise might rest on poles next year.

                                                                                      "You're not getting any younger,

                                                                                      my friend," he says; and I, as always, say

                                                                                      "I ride more swiftly than I walk,"

                                                                                      and he as always laughs and grants me all.

                                                                                      Then we stroll (" - the two Pedros!")

                                                                                      among his paintings, books, and swords; beneath

                                                                                      his chandeliers that are like stars in daylight.

                                                                                      He demands that I dine

                                                                                      with him and the Senhora and his daughters

                                                                                      (whom I have never seen).

                                                                                      I demur, pleading my liver.

                                                                                      He offers me a bedroom

                                                                                      where generals no greater than I have slept;

                                                                                      I tell him I cannot bear a soft mattress.

                                                                                      I accept, however, a cigar

                                                                                      and, gazing at the sea, we sit and smoke.

                                                                                      He has retained the photographs,

                                                                                      and fans them out and closes them like cards.

                                                                                      A book lies on a table.

                                                                                      "Do you believe, my friend, that the soul

                                                                                      is solid?  What I mean is, that it contains

                                                                                      its actions and beliefs, its

                                                                                      affections - and that all are stamped

                                                                                      with its name, like objects in a hotel room?

                                                                                      Or do they wander

                                                                                      alone, isolated, like people in the city,

                                                                                      and only form by chance into a man?

                                                                                      It is a difficult question, you needn't answer."

                                                                                      But I, perhaps stung,

                                                                                      more likely weary, say, "Perhaps,

                                                                                      Dom Pedro, it is one way in this world -

                                                                                      solid in this world, liquid in the next,

                                                                                      clotting at will into different

                                                                                      affections, as you say; or loyalties."

                                                                                      PANCHO VILLA'S LAST WORDS

                                                                                      The profile of the undiscovered deposit

                                                                                      resembles the generous spikes of the maguey

                                                                                      and rises to within a hundred meters

                                                                                      of the driest mummy in Guanajuato.

                                                                                      No one, however, can read her inverse smile,

                                                                                      commanding eyeless stare, or rigid gesture.

                                                                                      None tries, although one stands in line for her

                                                                                      for hours, looks, then gets back on the highway,

                                                                                      where, between GM's yellow mile-long wall

                                                                                      and the wrinkled mesa with its boils of mountains,

                                                                                      a semi, like a great goat, plays with him.

                                                                                      That shipment will wait for no man, and no policeman.

                                                                                      Am I eagle or sun?  asked the poet.  Am I sparrow or streetlight,

                                                                                      intermittent, green in the all-pervading dusk

                                                                                      that leaches paint and slogans from mud walls?

                                                                                      On rusted tracks beside the road, an idling

                                                                                      locomotive draws ahead, and stolid

                                                                                      faces crammed into each carriage break,

                                                                                      above crossed bandoliers, into obscenities.

                                                                                      In the distance where they stop, the festive noise

                                                                                      of gunfire must make it hard to hear.

                                                                                      "Don't let it end like this.  Tell them I said something."

                                                       Frederick Pollack is the author of two book-length narrative poems, The Adventure and Happiness,

                                                       both published by Story Line Press.  His writing has appeared in such publications as Hudson Review,

                                                       Southern Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and The New Hampshire Review.  He is an adjunct professor

                                                       of creative writing at George Washington University, Washington, DC.

                                         David-Baptiste Chirot

                                                       David-Baptiste Chirot lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  His work has been published extensively.

                                         Alex Stolis

                                                                                    NINE LIVES ARE NOT ENOUGH

                                                                                    I

                                                                                    Two cars and a dog, a CD collection

                                                                                    that includes Sinatra and Basie--

                                                                                    enough cocaine to forget you have them.

                                                                                    II

                                                                                    A photo of the Eiffel Tower, worn

                                                                                    away at the edges; golf shoes

                                                                                    one size too small and a bird's nest.

                                                                                    III

                                                                                    Cold steel against your face, rent

                                                                                    three months behind, but enough

                                                                                    is enough and you move back home.

                                                                                    IV

                                                                                    A porcelain faced girl who loves

                                                                                    to grow daffodils but can't live

                                                                                    with your overnight trips to L.A.

                                                                                    V

                                                                                    A 1977 Ford Thunderbird with one

                                                                                    month's payment left, bald whitewall

                                                                                    tires and a trunk full of cassette decks

                                                                                    VI

                                                                                    A maid named Francine who reads

                                                                                    the headlines from the NY Times

                                                                                    while you cop a look at her breasts.

                                                                                    VII

                                                                                     One used needle, a half melted candle;

                                                                                     a friend, who loves you like the brother

                                                                                     he shot when he was twelve--a runny nose.

                                                                                     VIII

                                                                                      A book of matches from the Hilton

                                                                                      two thousand dollars in cash, three

                                                                                      platinum credit cards and one cigar.

                                                                                      IX

                              &