Stiletto Stomp Rag

The princess stomps

her heels to nubs on the fingers

of fellow earthriders


she forgets there are

no royals, and her pouting

tantrum only elicits


grins from hunchbacks

ringing bells, bored

a way of saying


I'll play any game

I wish but unless

you jump to my


drum, entertain my bored

highass, you're dirt, you're

unacceptable, you are


expendable. I must have fun

at any expense

or someone must die. Everyday


the same game is played

and fools suffer it

gladly. Here's one.

One Schmuck's* Birthday Wish

In The 233rd Year
of these states
this national we -- us,
on our way to becoming the past
utterly captivated with our movement
into the future. Stretching
as we do, toward destiny. If only some au courant
poet could live for a few weeks, both
in the now and in that day when
white haired veterans
of the Revolution still told their stories
down at the post office
or in the publick house
by the green












______________________________________
*Lenny Bruce wrote that saying it on stage got
him arrested on the West Coast "by a Yiddish
undercover agent who had been placed in the
club several nights running to determine if my
use of Yiddish terms was a cover for profanity."

A Slight Degree

So why walk out into midnight


taxis in uptown
whisper me a prayer
-I am

light is

watch the cars
disappear
see my heart,
slip up against the wall
of your
midnight

I am left with only

Life-
my little dog on the cement street-

without

you-


- Charlotte R. Thompson
Katy, Texas

---

Charlotte writes: "what an honor! This poem comes from my heart for the people on the street society has thrown away because my friend but by the grace of God go I and all else as well- "

My home shall be a gallery

Stripped of anonymity, I'm striking
as a broken boxer, or Manuel Noriega,
a bearded Apache or Charles Bukowski.
There's a certain wonder in my vacant
hippie blue eyes, or some lost notes of
doubt from the bird-like horn of Charlie.
Slowly, I comb my fingers through
photos of Mike Love and play lame
horses on Saturdays. I well could be
my own first cousin, or some Irish
guy from Murphy's. I'm a hobbit
of blue piercing, early Ethan Hawke
of Dead Poet's Society. An aging
Ellen Degeneres or a crying female
Antonioni. I'm a fabulously forelorn
poet from a forgotten pilot on TV.
I'm young and buoyant, a girl married
to an old, crestfallen woman. My eyes,
my eyes fail to grasp what you're saying.
I'm a 300 pound horse jockey, a poser
pirated on a summer beach. I knitted
this great hat myself. Okay, you caught
me. I stole it. Still, it makes me beautiful.
I'm serious as Lee J. Cobb, only a little
skinnier. Wary, I cower with a hidden
dignity. Yeah, I'm cool with everything,
even this, my uneven divinity. I'm swarthy
and turbaned with a profundity like grief.
From my place on this wall, I see you.
Do you see me?


Brion Berkshire
Kewanna, IN

See me, feel me

I am absolute agony in a tan hat.
The bespectacled golfing executive.
Your youngest child's third base coach
and the Elements of Style. Sammy Hagar's
sad, classic sunglasses and Alice B. Toklas.
Holly Hunter in an upsweep of Elvis Hair,
The elongated countenance of K. Vonnegut.
Tom Cruise hiding some small dark truth.
The roundness that asks one final question.

My face is a wonderful shovelful of pain.
Who me? I'm just here for now, and you are?
Everybody's kid brother. Nobody remembers
I missed the winning shot against Cheboygan.
Amigo? No, not even a playa. Un poco valentón.
A quintessential hint of something small like hope
beneath an encompassing safari hat of loneliness


Brion Berkshire
Kewanna, IN

Countenance

It's the vaulted part of her face
where the arched brow
frames the heavier lids beneath

that echos the emptiness
of faith -- the great church
that called her in and gave
nothing but candles stuttering
in its drafty splendor.

While other features reveal
her hopeless view, the hair frayed,
the lips clamped -- purse tight
as if to contain a black
woman's struggle, that bone
above the eyes

becomes the back wall
of abandoned dreams and buildings
where most weeds tangle
and birds tilt their wings

away from there knowing
it's a place too sad for gathering
nest vine or soil. It's a place
that confines and catches

shadows cast by women
who dread the dawn
and twist daylight
like a rag drenched
in ash-gray water -- each drop still

attempting to mirror
the sun.


Wendy Ann Howe
Palmdale, California

Drive By

It seems I barely
notice you
as I rush
by in my car.

But I do.

I see you
and think
about you
almost everyday.

Once I gave you cookies.
You said,
"Cool!"

I tried to give you
gloves
one January,
but the cold
had driven you away.

To you,
I'm a head
in a car,
doors locked,
stopped at a red light,
Monday through Friday,
8:15.

To me,
you are as
inscrutable
as the shadow
of a ghost.

I don't make
eye contact
when the metal
and glass barrier
of my car
is not
between
us.

I don't get
that
close.

If I look at you,
I acknowledge
your
existence.

If I make a
connection,
I trade
ignorance
and fear for
truth.

If I admit
we are
related
by birth
on this planet
I have to
stop
driving by.

Stop
hiding
in my car.

Stop
thinking
and
looking

and
start
doing---

something.


- Leslie Ann Wells