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                                          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

                                                                                      A worn copy of On the Road, a map

                                                                                      of Boston in your glove compartment

                                                                                      a crooked smile that women fall for.

                                         Alex Stolis lives and works in Minneapolis, Minnesota.  His writing has appeared in numerous publications.

                                         Michael Keshigian

                                                       Bob Bradshaw

                                                                                                                 MODELING NUDE

                                                                                     This is your first time modeling nude
                                                                                     and you want to drop your robe
                                                                                     as if you were a geisha
                                                                                     slipping out of her kimono.
                                                                                     But the air is as cold
                                                                                     as a stethoscope.

                                                                                     Students break their paints out, scrape
                                                                                     colors across boards
                                                                                     as if mortaring a damaged house.
                                                                                     You feel reassured.

                                                                                     Still one gentleman stares
                                                                                     at your breasts as if wanting
                                                                                     to leave his hand prints on them.

                                                                                     That's when you focus on the building

                                                                                     across the street.
                                                                                     The window with the man
                                                                                     holding the binoculars?
                                                                                     You squirm.  "Don't move,"

                                                                                     the instructor says.
                                                                                     You hope this is a class
                                                                                     of abstract expressionists.  

                                                                                     It isn't.  Don't worry,
                                                                                     the instructor says. Here,
                                                                                     it's art for art's sake.
                                                                                     And then quietly he asks,

                                                                                     Are you doing anything

                                                                                     after class?

                                         Bob Bradshaw is a programmer living in Redwood City, California.  His writing has appeared in such publications

                                                      as Electica, Mississippi Review, Pedestal Magazine and Lucid Rhythms.

                                         Ellen Jantzen

                                                                                                             Masking Desire

                                                       Ellen Jantzen was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri.  She currently lives in Valencia, California.

                                                       Her work has been exhibited widely.

                                         M. Bartley Seigel

                                                                                    A GIRL LIKE CRACKED PORCELAIN

                                                                                    A girl like cracked porcelain, a cutter and bleeder, bored as cattle, sits in the weeds

                                                                                    at the edge of a field under a sun like a cold trencher, smoke and ash, her third eye

                                                                                    watching black satellites orbit like crows.  She is a collapsing star, all gamma, radio

                                                                                    pulse, not birdsong, her voice burlesque, a wild-eyed whisper like shards of glass,

                                                                                    barbed wire in the meat of a tree, terror embroidered lock jawed and dissembling.

                                                                                    A girl like this is nightfall, thunderhead, mushroom cloud, a shock wave rippling

                                                                                    over a darkening plain, her gravity a dance, beautiful as a bullet.  She brings down

                                                                                    disaster no less now than ever, always and never simultaneous, like a river beyond

                                                                                    its banks, undeniable and insidious.

                                         M. Bartley Seigel is Assistant Professor of Diverse Literatures and Creative Writing at Michigan Technological University

                                                       and editor of PANK magazine.  His work has appeared in Diagram, Wheelhouse, Alligator Juniper, and elsewhere.

                                         Dennis Mahagin

                                                                                     LAYERS & LAYERS OF MEANING

                                                                                     They'd been fighting

                                                                                     for the better part of an evening--she kept muting

                                                                                     the T.V. during every commercial as he tried to work,

                                                                                     confounding him with the intermittent silence and no

                                                                                     awareness of what she was doing.

                                                                                     "The suffocation babe," he cried, "so hard

                                                                                     to put into words!"

                                                                                     "Yeah?... Well, tell me how best to keep abreast

                                                                                     of your imagination, Mister?  You, who obsess

                                                                                     night and day on lines which have already been

                                                                                     said a damn sight better, anyway!"

                                                                                     * *

                                                                                     Then, at around midnight, leaning

                                                                                     against the rain-streaked French windows of their balcony

                                                                                     on 45th and Hawthorne, he stared street-side--where the ghost

                                                                                     of Raymond Carver stood huddled in the moonlit halo-mist of the 7

                                                                                     Eleven sign, wearing a knee-length pea coat lined with little spiral

                                                                                     notebooks, like tinsel rows of hot wristwatches.

                                                                                     The master flashed

                                                                                     his famous elfin grin, made a sweeping

                                                                                     impresario bow that sent the wind in a whistle under

                                                                                     scalloped eaves--showing him how in that instant

                                                                                     the stripped and shivering branches

                                                                                     of the December plum tree could be made to dance

                                                                                     inside his plate glass, for as long as he blew hot ponds

                                                                                     of condensation there; and when the apparition spoke

                                                                                     it was in a guttural alien dialect that might

                                                                                     have been a cross between Swahili and Dutch

                                                                                     baptismal liturgies bounced off a marble font,

                                                                                     or something else entirely.

                                                                                     Sometimes you don't have to know what someone

                                                                                     is saying--to understand everything, and Raymond

                                                                                     seemed to nod gravely

                                                                                     at this revelation,

                                                                                     as he made his exit ricochet

                                                                                     off the Hamm's Bear billboard, and shot

                                                                                     straight for downtown on streetlight beams

                                                                                     as slalom ski poles that said:

                                                                                     "shhhh... shhhh... shhhh..."

                                                                                     * *

                                                                                     "Do you want

                                                                                     anything from the store?'' the writer

                                                                                     asked, cinching down the Druid hood

                                                                                     on his Seahawks sweatshirt.  As he

                                                                                     stepped through the back door

                                                                                     there was this look on her face

                                                                                     that said she knew they wouldn't

                                                                                     be seeing each other any more,

                                                                                     and he didn't know

                                                                                     what else to tell her.

                                                                                    THE HORSE I RODE IN ON

                                                                                    --no fine platinum charger with a name like Midnight,

                                                                                    Galeron, or Whiplash the Appaloosa, a map of the world

                                                                                    on her ass and flanks, this horse I rode, bareback--barely

                                                                                    hanging to her stringy, dun mane as always, as reins, my

                                                                                    horse on heavy hooves, pebble smooth, the infectious clip-

                                                                                    clop din she ushers in, slapping off the rutted cobblestones

                                                                                    of all your sad parking lots--a lot like Mick Fleetwood's

                                                                                    snare drum in the rock song called Over My Head, yet

                                                                                    hardly a Stevie, or McVie in throes of virtuosity are we, no

                                                                                    world shakers, can't you see we're just hobbling along here?--when I feel

                                                                                    her worst fears in a reared-back whinny, those hooves pawing at thin air,

                                                                                    as though to shake off a flinch--a pugilist's pulled punch in the midst

                                                                                    of messy clinch-- I lean hard into my horse's corded neck, whispering

                                                                                    gratitude for the way she rescued me, on the cusp of Mojave barbecue--

                                                                                    pea pods, tattoo tracks and peyote pistils metastasizing from my pores

                                                                                    like the snap-crackle time-lapse vine-bindings of every damned

                                                                                    Gulliver, while the bandy-legged, prurient lot of you

                                                                                    formed a bob-and-weave binocular queue on ridge line, clocking

                                                                                    a miracle rarely seen this far north of Glue Factory, before... My

                                                                                    horse, sometimes called Corso's Mistress of the Laughing

                                                                                    Sickness, Blunt Force Trauma, 20/20 Sangfroid, or

                                                                                    something else entirely on the spur

                                                                                    of a certain moment when,

                                                                                    becalmed at last, she'll swish a silken

                                                                                    fantail, opalescent whisper in the dying sun,

                                                                                    then a sudden snort of something like delight

                                                                                    pours from my horse--says it's kosher to sally

                                                                                    forth, to stay the course for as long as my

                                                                                    line of talk (what some might call Luck)

                                                                                    holds out.

                                                                                    So who is the Honcho

                                                                                    I need to see, about a sack of salty oats, cherry red hot

                                                                                    water bottle, and the finest wire brush ever fashioned

                                                                                    in these bucolic parts?  There's a score of ridge lines left

                                                                                    to climb, before our trailhead is diddled

                                                                                    for the last time by Perma Frost, Dust

                                                                                    Devil Dark, or whatever appellation

                                                                                    rings most true in this ghostly

                                                                                    little town you call home.

                                          Dennis Mahagin's poems and stories have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, 3 A.M., 42 Opus, Stirring, Juked, Thieves Jargon,

                                                        FRiGG, Unlikely Stories, and Underground Voices, among other publications.  He lives and works in Washington State.

                                         Peter Chamberlain

                                         Secrets of the Trinity Exposed

                                                                                    Moot, Zoot, Toot

                                                                                               Moot MV-14                                                                      Zoot MV-24                                                                    Toot MV-45

                                                       Peter Chamberlain is a professor in the Expanded Arts Program at the University of Hawai'i at Manoa.

                                         Jason Huskey

                                                                                                              HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

                                                                                  You push the buttons on the phone

                                                                                   like some confused baby.

                                                                                   Stale vodka and no-name nacho chips

                                                                                   on your breath.

                                                                                   Halfway to vomiting for the night.

                                                                                   Your memory's faded

                                                                                    the sequenced digits

                                                                                    like the peach dress

                                                                                    you wore to the junior prom.

                                                                                    Mixed sixes and nines nix the buzz

                                                                                    from your sweaty temples throbbing.

                                                                                    Throbbing,

                                                                                    something below the numbness

                                                                                    whispers tingling tidings

                                                                                    and nude thoughts

                                                                                    of libidinous intentions.

                                                                                    You reach a dial-a-psalm,

                                                                                    an automated response offering

                                                                                    daily prayer, by mistake.

                                                                                    The old woman's voice reminds you

                                                                                    of your high school band

                                                                                    teacher, Mrs. Roberts,

                                                                                    though she's been dead

                                                                                    for years now.

                                                                                    Seeing her in your mind now,

                                                                                    stiff between the satin-sheet siding,

                                                                                    you pull your legs up onto the couch

                                                                                    and let her voice sober your heart.

                                                                                    Deep inside,

                                                                                    you're just ignoring the pain,

                                                                                    that nagging pinprick of truth;

                                                                                    he wouldn't have talked to you anyway.

                                                                                  AFTER A FIGHT

                                                                                   Our blood mixes

                                                                                   about the valleys of my knuckles,

                                                                                   joints jammed and locked,

                                                                                   skin split and burning;

                                                                                   and I'm here by the tub,

                                                                                   running through rubbing alcohol,

                                                                                   trying to get your poison out of me.

                                                                                   One day I won't be around

                                                                                   to finish what you start--

                                                                                   even though you haven't landed

                                                                                   a punch in years.

                                                                                   Years of this

                                                                                   wasted in busted hands

                                                                                   and weekends--

                                                                                   like I have the time,

                                                                                   your dad never spent,

                                                                                   to get you to listen,

                                                                                   to hear it straight as a cross;

                                                                                   but I guess you prefer it

                                                                                   one jabbing syllable at a time.

                                                                                   Flesh to bone to flesh to bone,

                                                                                   until you're halfway to hell

                                                                                   on the sidewalk of your choosing.

                                                                                   At least you got the girl,

                                                                                   always the girl,

                                                                                   like a slave just along for life.

                                                                                   Isn't it always like a woman

                                                                                   to crave a blanket of fleas

                                                                                   until years after the bastards start to bite?

                                                                                   And isn't it always like us

                                                                                   to keep on living

                                                                                   years beyond our due?

                                         Jason Huskey's work has appeared in numerous journals, including Keyhole Magazine, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot,

                                                      and Zygote in my Coffee.  He lives in Virginia.

                                         Justin Hyde

                                                                                    STANDING IN LINE TO BUY LIGHTER FLUID AND A BIC

                                                                                    the cavanaugh house

                                                                                    is an old

                                                                                    army barracks

                                                                                    behind the

                                                                                    airport

                                                                                    where people

                                                                                    with no insurance

                                                                                    go to

                                                                                    die.

                                                                                    mr.arnold's

                                                                                    been in

                                                                                    two months

                                                                                    with cancer

                                                                                    of the stomach.

                                                                                    i got the call

                                                                                    today

                                                                                    went down

                                                                                    over lunch break

                                                                                    for a doctor's signature

                                                                                    so i could

                                                                                    close out

                                                                                    his parole file.

                                                                                    he'd strong-armed a bank

                                                                                    in seventy-seven

                                                                                    a week after

                                                                                    dropping out

                                                                                    of the

                                                                                    tenth grade.

                                                                                    did thirty years

                                                                                    got out this june

                                                                                    lived at the y

                                                                                    and ran stock

                                                                                    at the goodwill warehouse

                                                                                    for a month

                                                                                    before he started

                                                                                    coughing up

                                                                                    chunks of

                                                                                    intestine.

                                                                                   i'd check on him

                                                                                   every other week

                                                                                   he'd always remind me

                                                                                   to burn that cardboard box

                                                                                   with all of his possessions

                                                                                   at the foot of his bed

                                                                                   after the reaper

                                                                                   passed

                                                                                   through.

                                                                                   it's not much

                                                                                   a fool's bounty

                                                                                   but my brother down in keokuk

                                                                                   won't claim me

                                                                                   and i don't want the sharks

                                                                                   picking through

                                                                                   my bones,

                                                                                   he'd say

                                                                                   forcing a smile.

                                                 Justin Hyde lives in Des Moines, Iowa.  His poetry has appeared in numerous publications.

                                         Scott MacLeod

                                                                                                        La Guerre C'est Moi

                                         Scott MacLeod is a writer and artist who has published and exhibited his work widely.  He lives in Oakland, California.

                                         Gabriel A. Levicky

                                                                                                          Congratulation, the Biggest Screen Ever

                                         Gabriel A. Levicky is a writer and artist who was born in the former Czechoslovakia.  In 1979 he escaped the persecution

                                                       by the State Security and came to the United States.  He presently lives in New York, New York.

                                                       D.B. Cox

                                                                                    STREET SOLDIERS

                                                                                    last night i saw you walk

                                                                                    out of the moon-driven dark

                                                                                    a gray beret, crazy bluebird tattoo

                                                                                    across your neck -- Tu Do street, 1968

                                                                                    changed, but somehow still the same

                                                                                    you looked happy to be alive again

                                                                                    as if an angel had rolled back

                                                                                    the stone & pulled you out clean --

                                                                                    seeing your face triggered

                                                                                    something i couldn't locate

                                                                                    like an address book with a missing page

                                                                                    names once vital, lost forever --

                                                                                    but i'm still here covering your tracks

                                                                                    addicted to weakness

                                                                                    relaxed by the fact

                                                                                    of never having to be strong again

                                                                                    so i wasn't ashamed

                                                                                    when you walked by

                                                                                    pretending not to know me

                                                                                    i just re-aimed my dead eyes

                                                                                    to a place over your left shoulder

                                                                                    apologized & asked if you could buy

                                                                                    an old soldier of the street a bottle --

                                                                                    to help cheat the cold

                                         D.B. Cox is a blues musician and poet, originally from South Carolina, who resides in Watertown,  Massachusetts.

                                                       Steve Klepetar

                                                                                    LETHE

                                                                                    On this side we meet, old friends

                                                                                    perhaps waiting in dust for the same train.

                                                                                    Waters trickle through layers of earth.

                                                                                    Here, on this side, we awake--

                                                                                              without cases or keys,

                                                                                    with no passports or tickets, with pockets

                                                                                    empty, with threads

                                                                                    drooping from cuffs and seams

                                                                                              groggy, heavy in the eyes

                                                                                    thirsty as if we had bodies alive

                                                                                    with sweat.  We know our deaths too well

                                                                                    to embrace and mingle vapor shades.

                                                                                    No wind to carry voices, no song.

                                                                                    We murmur, we slowly move our hands.

                                                                                    We open our fists with slow fingers creaking.

                                                                                    We make small gestures--

                                                                                                with our hands we bless and curse,

                                                                                     with hands protect our shadow-darkened faces.

                                                                                     We sit in small circles, heads bowed

                                                                                      low toward our knees.  Our hair trails

                                                                                                 and sweeps.  We have drunk the waters

                                                                                      of Lethe.  Our memories unravel

                                                                                      like dreams.  We burn, each one

                                                                                      of us, small fires flickering at the core.

                                         Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota.  His work has appeared

                                                       in such publications as Poems Niederngasse, Snakeskin, New Works Review and Mad Hatters' Review.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Volume1, Number 2  2008  (top of page)                     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Archives                     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Home Page                    

                            13 MILES FROM CLEVELAND

                             Edited by Joe Balaz

                             Joe Balaz lives in northeast Ohio.  He edited Ramrod--A Literary and Art Journal of Hawai'i and was also the editor of Ho'omanoa: An Anthology

                                      of Contemporary Hawaiian Literature.

                                      He is coauthor, with photo-artist Mary Ellen Derwis, of JOMA--online, an online gallery of concrete poetry and photography www.jomaonline.com

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