New Champions of Poetry

 

NOTE: PLEASE IGNORE THE NOTICE ABOUT THE IMPORTANT NOTICE.

PREFACE 

The business of language is characterized by an amazing variety of professional experts, amateur novices, self-appointed know-it-alls, shameless hucksters, freelance anarchists, sniping weasels, shameless imposters, and bombastic authorities. 

 

Linguistic outlet centers, semantic temples, semiotic monasteries, vernacular malls, and syllabic circuses swarm and hover, slash and burn, hit and run, appear and disappear. Poorly disguised lovers of the fast buck and the latest fad, these editorial entrepreneurs shuck and jive their way into the spotlight, dance around for a while, then drift into the shadows of last year’s old news. 

Like the one-hit wonders who wrote a single catchy hook or an infectious chorus, temporary gurus enjoy our attention for a few flickering moments.

  

More often than not, whatever theory they have espoused lacks substance because they failed to establish a broad, solid foundation for the message they carried.

 

This author took extensive measures to avoid the traps which snared the others.

 

The collection of poems and commentaries contained in this edition was whittled down to a mere 30 in number. These 30 poets make a true group of first-stringers, champions of verse. 

 

722 poets applied for inclusion. Simple subtraction is the best way to learn exactly how many rejection letters were delivered. Some of these were, indeed, teeming with harsh invective—admonishments which, hopefully, convinced some of the writers to quit writing altogether. 

 

Some contained gentle words of encouragement and a “better-luck-next-time” pat on the top of the head. 

A small number of these rejections compelled the author to include them—along with the unacceptable verses—in this collection. These lack substance, but they do provide some measure of comic relief.  

If the reader senses cruelty and a condescending tone, please remember how easy it would have been to resort to vitriolic sarcasm as a means of belittling the worst of the worst. 

And why not? 

Do failure and incompetence always deserve the kind of shallow cheerleading we see when the last runner toughs it out despite having lost his lunch somewhere on the track? 

Why do we stand and applaud for the fool who soils his silk shorts as he careens toward the finish line, which he crosses like a punch-drunk boxer whose legs turn to jelly as he stumbles and falls flat on his face? 

As harsh as some may find these words, the pain of ongoing failure is far worse. More often than many care to admit, there are those individuals who, for one reason or another, should never be encouraged to keep trying. 

Swimming or basketball? Hockey or soccer? 

Comedy or auto mechanics? Poetry or politics? 

If the truth will set us free, we should be truthful with ourselves and with others about whatever it is we do not have the ability or the ambition to do well. 

A man with no feet should not waste time shopping for bowling shoes—unless he believes bowling shoes would be a stylish addition to his wardrobe. 

Rodney B. Scow, Significant Literary Figure

 

FOREWORD  

This anthology grew from concept to reality because 21 poets crossed the finish line after they successfully ran a grueling race. They endured the challenges that began when the starter abandoned the traditional pistol and its silly blanks, posed two simple questions, and required them to provide solid evidence in support of the answers.  

Here are the two questions:  1) What is poetry? 2) Why do you think so?  

Each of the respondents then submitted a poem (and a reading fee).   

While poets are seldom the most industrious people, neither are they likely to ignore the hourglass as sand slips, grain by grain, from the upper part of the glass to the lower part of the device.   

Who is a poet and why was a confidential monetary payment part of this equation?  The poet is an intellectually focused being who has little patience and less time for the barbaric endeavors of life. 

The poet would rather assemble a barbecue without reading poorly written instructions.   The poet does not complain about incoherent user’s manuals written by a distant factory worker who should be spending less time at the local bar and more time at a local library. The poet observes the scenes of life and then describes them with accuracy and grace.  

Think of the way a highly skilled guitar player makes playing the instrument look effortless.   The 21 poets whose writing appears in this anthology provide  answers and examples which make poetry writing sound and look easy. 

Challenge yourself with any writing prompts you may find in this anthology.  Collect the results, and by the time you finish reading, you will have a modest group of work to edit, refine, and revise.   

If you attempt to navigate the transition from spectator to participant, do so deliberately, and remember to use the form found in the appendix to submit an inquiry regarding the entry fee.   

Whether you craft creations from the ethereal stuff of thought, from the wispy breath of an idea, or from the vacuous tentacles of sticky, spider web-like cotton candy tangents, make the effort. But send the inquiry first.    

Rodney B. Scow, SLF* 

*Significant Literary Figure 

CONTENTS

Arthur K. Adzee

Special Offer

Use Only As Directed

James D. Babwe 

Out on a Dusty Trail in the Significant Distance   

Right This Way  

Newland Barnes 

The Weight of Books  

Aaron Bermon 

Good Old Mom  

Melton Cloy 

Your Love of Tools 

Anna Desdealejos 

both sides of the railroad track   

the lie 

 

Earl D. Edwards 

Beautiful Untamed Southern California 

 

Pat Gumwinder  

Science  

Moses Helms 

Shave My Back

Lorraine Hughes-Belkman 

Hippoptolemy   

Girl at the Office 

   

Carla LaRotunda 

Important Items 

INTERLUDE 

Expressions of Abstract Awareness  

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Bernadette Lyndon 

American Man, Japanese Car 

Iris McCutcheon 

Everything Moves Fast and Slow   

We Talked About This  

Bartolo Ochoa 

La Tierra de las Pelucas   

Policy  

Ellis Parsons 

The Magnificent

Wiles Plank 

A Dream for Pablo Neruda   

The Radio Out Here  

Rex Rye 

California Disappeared  

Randall B. Scow 

I See Television  

Ella Marina Tzedrisznyk 

Jealous  

Stewart Williams 

The Last Friday Night Train  

Molando Zack 

Leucadia     

EDITOR’S SPECIAL SUPPLEMENT  

Arthur K. Adzee  

Special Offer  

If your undiagnosed  

sweaty restless palm syndrome 

becomes irreversible or collides  

with explosive anger disorder 

or complications 

from severe acid reflux  

and silent but deadly 

peripheral artery 

HDL cholesterol myalgia, 

an ensuing constellation  

of inflammatory peristaltic deficiencies 

accompanied by  pulmonary thrombosis 

and irregular episodes  

of psychosomatic gastrointestinal disturbances 

characterized by pervasive parasitic dermal lesions

erupting in visible concentric circles  

near one or both thumbs, 

you may require 

the immediate attention 

of certified health care professionals 

and you may qualify to receive (at no cost)  

newly developed medications 

and highly effective treatments  

administered in private 

to prevent headaches, 

ease lower back pain,  

reverse hearing loss, relieve diarrhea,  

repair dysphobic macular preoccupation, 

end constant drowsiness, and restore

 a zest for life that has been painfully absent 

since misdiagnosed  conditions 

resulted in the damaging consequences 

usually associated with death, itself, 

and the related problems complicated  

by the absence of breathing 

and other essential bodily functions-- 

your chances of complete recovery  

are only a phone call away. 

Operators are standing by, 

but this offer won't last.  

Be one of the first one hundred callers now. 

The number is on your screen. 

Use Only As Directed  

Add boiling water and stir. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Keep away from flame.  

Use only as directed.  

Keep out of reach of children. 

Not for indoor use.

If irritation persists, contact a physician.  

Do not puncture or incinerate. 

Do not store where temperatures

exceed 120 degrees Fahrenheit. 

Do not breathe vapors, mist, or spray. 

Use only as directed.  

If rash or blisters develop, 

discontinue use and return unused portion 

to place of purchase.  

Use only as directed.  

Avoid eye and skin contact. 

Contents under pressure. 

Contents under pressure. 

Contents under pressure. 

Contents under pressure.  

Use only as directed.  

Add boiling water and stir. 

Do not breathe vapors, mist, or spray. 

If irritation persists, contact a physician.

Not for indoor use. 

Keep out of reach of children. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Keep away from flame.  

Use only as directed. 

Harmful if swallowed.

Not for indoor use. 

Store in cool dry area. 

Keep dry. 

Use only as directed.  

In case of accidental ingestion, 

seek immediate medical attention. 

Flush contaminated skin 

with clean water.  

Use only as directed.  

Do not spray into eyes or face. 

Remove contaminated clothing  

promptly (and completely). 

Use only as directed.  

Apply sparingly, 

then wipe clean. 

Use only as directed.  

Not recommended for carpets,  

upholstery, aluminum, glass, laundry, 

leather, plastic, shoes, hats, hair,  

skin, concrete, wood, 

steel, fine jewelry, fine wine, 

fine dining, fine art.  

Please pay promptly  

when presented with bill.  

Use only as directed. 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Arthur K. Adzee was born in Los Angeles (CA), where he was educated by tutors who traveled with a circus company that employed his parents. At the age of 15, Arthur ran away from the circus in search of a more traditional, stable home environment. 

He was taken in by a family friend who owned an auto repair shop where Arthur quickly learned enough about Fiat repair to earn a reputation as one of the most knowledgeable, reliable, competent Fiat mechanics this side of Vesuvius.  

When the longtime friend suddenly passed away, the garage and an undisclosed sum were willed to Adzee just four days after his 21st birthday.  During the next few months, a pair of local swindlers conned Arthur into financial ruin.     

For approximately 3 years, Adzee bounced through an undisclosed number of relationships and a few silly flings, but never settled down.  He decided against    a return to the auto repair business and, instead, formed what he describes as a “rock and roll band that did not know how to play musical instruments.”   

The band, Free Beer, made a name for itself with creative lyrics and wild stage shows, some of which featured spontaneously written lyrics and complicated vocal arrangements.    

The band's only album, Taco the Town, sold over 3 million copies.  Buoyed by success, Free Beer adopted the practice of staging concerts where audience members were encouraged to bring their own musical instruments in order to accompany spoken word performers who took the stage and created extemporaneous poetry “in the moment.”  

During a 24-month time span after Free Beer disbanded, Adzee reluctantly gained no small amount of national and international attention when he denied being abducted by aliens.  

Hounded by individuals and groups who saw him as a “voice in the darkness,”    he refused to recant his denial, and tried to assume a lower public profile.  

Arthur left his house in the suburbs and lived at the San Onofre State Beach Campground for almost 18 months. Living less than a mile from the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station, Arthur surfed in the daytime and wrote in the evenings.  

The importance of his relationship with his wife, Alice--current chair of the  Graduate School of Extemporaneous Physiognomy at the New University              of San Onofre (California)--would be impossible to evaluate. 

At the very least, Alice will publicly acknowledge that she, alone, may be Arthur's only connection with "the real world," as most people commonly visualize that concept and all that the reference implies.                        

“Use Only As Directed” expresses a vigorous sense of rebellion.   A deeper appreciation for the poem’s message requires listening to Adzee’s voice as he grinds his way through the turgid words which drag us through the dirt behind the familiar, rickety wooden oxcart of unnecessary instructions.   

Rather than urging us to ignore or otherwise disregard instructions, Adzee challenges us to read the instructions before ignoring or disregarding them. In this way, we gain a clearer understanding about exactly what we choose to ignore or disregard.  In essence, it is this kind of enlightened action  that follows the visionary poet’s work. 

James D. Babwe

Out on a Dusty Trail in the Significant Distance

Out on a dusty trail 

in the significant distance, 

where antelope do not live 

(let alone play with deer), 

one cowboy's voice remains mercifully inaudible

behind the persistent whine 

of rolling wheels and droning diesels

commanded by heavy feet

pushing accelerator pedals

closer to the firewall floor

in cabs pressed for time.

The cowboy 

is a Ford-driving cattle drover,

a modern saddle tramp

who refuses to cross the Interstate highway 

between his invented ranch 

and any slaughterhouse.

He won't use an underpass.

He won't use an overpass,

but he will chance a trespassing citation

every day as he guides his herd

around the ten square miles 

of a Southern California military base

adjacent to a nuclear power plant

south of San Clemente,

north of Oceanside.

His faith in the Bill of Rights

includes the Second Amendment,

so you better be careful when you decide

to tell him what Johnny Law says about

what he’s willing to do when it comes to

disguising his herd as a lazy group 

of retired circus elephants.

He will happily hide

behind the scent

of a mildly adhesive mixture

of his own sweat, displaced topsoil,

and toxic exhaust fallout,

and if you are not intimidated

by his rough ways,

he will explain his reasons.

Filthy in layers,

he tells self-deprecating jokes 

about the superior cleaning power

of a high pressure fire hose,

and adds that his friends recognize

him most often by smell

instead of by sight.

Between 

wherever he and his bovines 

happen to be

and whichever slaughterhouse awaits--

he may see you cruise north or south

on Interstate 5,

but you will rarely see him.

He knows 

where the taller brush grows 

and he prefers to operate

away from the spotlight,

far enough from the road

to avoid most curious eyes.

His knowledge of geography 

helps him use Earth's

natural features to block out 

most of the distracting

rush and rumble of traffic,

and he is willing 

to take extraordinary measures 

to protect the heavy, gentle creatures

in his care.

He believes that all God’s creatures

should live peacefully, safely ignorant 

of the horrors only a handful of miles 

away from all of us—

especially to the north

on a stretch of Soto Street,

where anyone with a nose 

can catch the mid-summer stench

of burnt oranges and fresh blood

before they see bucolic scenes

painted on the perimeter walls

as an ironic counterpoint

to the murderous business inside.

In the last few wide open spaces

between sprawling Orange County

and expanding San Diego

where life and death 

keep a little ground between them,

the cowboy hitches himself up 

in an imaginary saddle.

Ignoring the oil light,

he skillfully guides his ruminant buddies

from field to field,

where they

chew sweet grass,

swing their lazy tails,

and occasionally swat flies

among the tiny yellow flowers.

The rugged product of pioneer stock

doesn't care who's comfortable

with the notion of clothes on cows,

and even though most of us

have grown accustomed 

to one strange thing or another,

there is something 

permanently and irreconcilably disturbing

about 50 or 60 grazing cattle

poorly dressed as elephants

as they wander among live fire ranges

and aging napalm containers

between Interstate 5 and Fallbrook.

I have seen the cowboy

hold the reins lightly,

not caring much 

about the uselessness of leather straps

looped loosely around a steering column.

The craggy-faced vaquero

already knows 

he's crossed over a line of sorts,

so what good would it do to spoil

the last brief delusions

of his only living dream?

Out here on the dusty trail 

in the significant distance

between the Old Wild West and

a Suburban Tract Home's Concrete Driveway,

there should be someone 

crazy enough 

or bold enough to hang on

to what's left of the beautiful

untamed California

where living things 

wandered when and where

they wanted to wander.

Someone too weird 

for common sense

should be there 

to sing lullabies

in the dimming twilight 

where partial darkness 

wraps itself around 

the unspoiled landscape

of gradually diminishing sunsets

and late afternoon shadows

cast by earth movers

and their sparkling steel blades

waiting for the next tomorrow’s 

fruitless work.

Close to sunset,

the cowboy cuts loose 

with a familiar lullaby,

one which coaxes the living beasts 

as they lumber closer to him, 

so they can hear a little better

as cool Southern California air 

closes in beneath 

sizzling power lines

and faraway evening stars. 

Tonight,

in an unusual departure from numb routine, 

he briefly confuses the cattle 

(and at least one eavesdropper)

when he skips the introductory yodels

of the only lullaby he knows.

He will tell you the yodels 

are not really part of the song, anyway.

  You won't be dismembered 

   and trucked to a store, 

   cubed, sliced, or shrink wrapped 

   into bundles of gore. 

   Your bones won't be hacked up 

   or wrapped in thin plastic 

   like dry cleaning bags 

   babies might smother within or swallow. 

   You'll never be slathered 

   with barbecue sauce. 

   You'll never be baked or sautéed. 

   Your skin will never be torn 

   from you just for the leather.

   We'll have to be lucky, 

   of course, but as long as we are,

   I'll see that you wander unslaughtered.

   You'll moo and you'll chew,

   with little to do

   while your sons

   try to breed with your daughters.

   You'll know nothing of Spain,

   Johnny Cash, or John Wayne

   and you'd never believe the video feeds

   from the streets of Pamplona.

   You'll rise in the morning,

   on your feet not a plate.

   You won't really care if it's early or late.

   Add it all up at the end of the day;

   pretend you drink Coors or Corona.

   You'll never be cleavered 

   or sliced up or baked. 

   You'll never be pureed 

   and stacked like bologna. 

   

   You'll eat tons of grass. 

   You'll make methane gas.

   Standing or not, asleep or awake, 

   you won't have to think;

   you'll eat, sleep, and stink. 

Out on a dusty trail in the significant distance,

the cowboy gathers sagging costumes, 

tosses them into the back of his rusty Ford

and hauls the fragrant load 

to a nearby laundry

while Rocky the Wonderhound

keeps an eye 

on the vulnerable, slumbering herd.

Tonight, 

lonely as the last hope for lost justice,

he trudges past the ghost

of a poorly managed body piercing salon

and its broken windows.

He strides slowly

toward heavy-duty coin-operated machines,

and he knows the dirty clothes 

will soon be as clean 

as these reliable rattling Maytags 

can wash away a day's dirt.

He waits patiently in the truck,

sees the 24-hour laundry

is bounded on one end by a donut shop

and on the other by a plastic sign

where a broken phone number

and life, itself, seems to be teetering

on the outskirts 

of a confused city planner's nightmare

at the southern end 

of San Clemente midnight,

but instead of worrying about 

what it all means,

he walks back inside,

stares at little yellow lights,

waiting for the spin cycles 

to wind themselves down,

then he transfers loads into nearby dryers,

allows himself to be hypnotized by clothes 

diving and tumbling and climbing 

on the other side 

of warm glass doors.

After he finishes folding flannel costumes,

he hauls tidy stacks to the truck,

but before he releases a parking brake

or starts the motor, he decides 

he will simply admire 

tonight's celestial bodies 

for just a little while longer.

He enjoys the gauzy distortion of fortified wine,

which blurs the edges of the big full moon.

He savors inspiration

and its gift of sweet words

which he sends into night, 

where these syllables 

(silly as some may find them)

surf warm summer wind                               

past one-thirty a.m.

toward another hopeful sunrise 

stretched through morning

toward the top of tomorrow's high noon

when a bright blazing sun

bakes memories of an evening

into the pungent scent 

of sage and creosote--

out on a dusty trail

in the significant distance.

Right This Way: A Four Part Trilogy (with Part Three missing)

One: Not Lomas Santa Fe 

On my way home from Lou's Records, 

where I'd just purchased 

a used vinyl copy 

of her greatest hits, 

I saw a well known recording star

who knew the meaning of “lost.”

I loved the way she looked

the way the sunlight played upon her hair,

but that's a plagiarized

allusion to a group

that has nothing to do with this

dramatic narrative even though

the beach is less than 100 yards

from the location where this fictional encounter

never happened, except in my imagination,

which occasionally runs away with me.

Anyway,

I wondered how had she found her way 

to Leucadia? 

I approached her in a non-threatening way

in order to ask for an autograph,

but I hesitated. 

Then she hesitated before failing to complete

a response to a question

I did not ask,

and before she continued 

with a response she did not finish, 

I interrupted with a partial question.

How did you find your way to?

Never certain where to start over 

or continue during various junctures 

in this frequently stalling narrative, 

I started to ask for an autograph again,

but instead, I finally uttered a whole question.

Is this is a bad time?

Before she finished saying yes aloud,

tears of sadness and frustration gushed

onto her blouse’s fresh ketchup stains,

splotches caused by the watered down condiment

which accompanied recently consumed French fries

she bought from a local fast food restaurant 

where vegans protested near the drive-thru window.

A gust of wind

whisked a map away from her grasp

and sailed past Roberto's Tacos

and the Log Cabin Apartments. 

We stared together--

saw flying paper shredded 

in traffic by machines of commerce and convenience.

The printed view of Earth as seen from above 

disintegrated within a cacophony 

of quick collisions In the continuous river

of cold depreciating metal—symbols 

of imagined status acquired with credit and kept 

in reasonably good condition 

until the burden of payments

became increasingly heavy because of unforeseen

career transitions or ugly divorces .

Scattered, fluttering fragments of the frequently

folded, unfolded, and re-folded map

eventually fell to the ground 

to rest with aromatic eucalyptus leaves

and unexpected cantaloupes 

planted by accident after falling from a train,

which almost derailed here 

three or four years ago.

I said,  

I was going to ask you for an autograph,

but I decided it would be selfish

and opportunistic.

I said,

It must be difficult. 

I mean,

after all this time, 

and I felt so stupid-hesitating again.  

Billions of goose bumps 

provided her beautiful skin 

with enhanced texture,

and

Dionne said something 

about losing her jacket.

I held her close 

and she wept, 

shaking like large marbles in a blender, 

but much quieter. 

She told me the story and with her words flushed

her suffering with the clean water of confession--

cool liquid fetched from a deep spring 

where a grim gutter of greed and gluttony 

spilled into a muddy moat 

where malicious manipulators misappropriated money 

from her by misrepresenting their loyalties

and re-directing royalties.

Decades of despair 

nearly demolished the optimistic tone 

of her catchy, light-hearted song- 

a ditty with easy refrain- 

about destination 

and the plaintive quest for direction.  

She started to explain she was still lost, 

but I interrupted as soon as she hesitated. 

How many times was this?

Well, in all the excitement,

I kind of lost track, myself.

So I decided the number didn’t matter,

and I said,

Listen, I live here--

close to Leucadia,  

Off of Santa Fe,  

not Lomas Santa Fe.  

Just Santa Fe.  

I have a place where we can stay.  

You could find some peace of mind, 

at least, for today.

We both know L. A. is a great big freeway, 

but this is San Diego. 

It's a much smaller 

great big freeway.

Santa Fe is about two miles away 

— much closer than that other place. 

Two: The Way to Santa Fe 

Her car wouldn't start. 

She explained,

It's a rental. 

I replied,

Ride with me. 

She said, 

Here's some cash. 

Stop over there, 

Park the car and pump some gas.

 I didn't go wrong 

or lose my way 

from Leucadia to Santa Fe. 

We made light conversation

about feeling lost 

about finding the way, 

about a midnight train 

to the Bay Area, 

about hitchhiking. 

At my place, we made a sign, 

decided on the northbound onramp 

to Interstate 5, 

walked there together. 

She talked about Alfie, 

which means I never have to wonder 

what that's all about anymore. 

Awkwardly, 

I moved in  for a good-bye hug 

before I saw she 

was intent on the kiss.

Our farewell 

turned into another meeting of sorts-- 

a moderately painful collision- 

my forehead, her teeth, no stitches- 

a little lipstick, 

a little blood, 

a little mist. 

We promised to keep in touch, 

and when she said, 

I'll call you when I get there, 

I did not disclose to her 

the nature  

of my initial thoughts, 

which were replaced 

by the confident notion

that, at least, she would know 

the way to Santa Fe--

not Lomas Santa Fe.

Four: Right This Way 

Dionne changed her mind, 

threw down the sign, 

walked on by it 

on the way back to my place. 

We awoke with the sunrise, 

sang a pair of songs,  

and she remorsefully explained 

she'd have to move along. 

I helped her find another rental,  

and avoiding the accidental impact 

similar to our 

previous incidental contact,

I drafted to perfection 

a set of new directions 

for her to follow. 

From the San Diego area, 

go north on Interstate 5.

Drive past Oceanside, 

San Onofre, San Clemente, Santa Ana, 

Lynwood, Lakewood,  Inglewood, Hollywood— 

all the way through Los Angeles, 

Smog Vendor for the Western United States, 

Pool Sweeper, Stacker of Converted Apartments, 

Packer of Roads and the Nation's Leader 

in Bank Robberies, 

Choking, Burning, Ever-expanding                              

City of The Big Donuts.  

Continue north 

through The San Fernando Valley, 

over Grapevine Hill, 

and if you're tempted 

to pass cars like 

they were standing still,

if you wind it up 

to a hundred and nine,    

back off the gas; 

let the motor unwind.

If you look into the mirror

and see the red lights blinkin', 

keep your eyes on the road

and your hands upon the wheel,

pull over safely to the side,

and if the cop reads you numbers

from his radar gun, 

tell him you don't know 

what you were thinkin’.

It's a Prius, not a Lincoln. 

When you get back on the road, 

continue north past Coalinga

until you find 152. 

Enjoy the scent of Gilroy's garlic, 

but do not get distracted 

by artichokes in Castroville. 

Hit the northbound 101  

then head for Morgan Hill. 

And when you see your destination 

on the highway sign, 

don't start the celebration  

until you cross the boundary line. 

It's really not that difficult.  

No matter what they say,

those are good directions 

for finding San Jose. 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

James Babwe was born in Los Angeles (CA). His mother was a Russian-Egyptian from Czechoslovakia. His father was a notorious juvenile delinquent from Fiasco (TX), a town in which he was elected mayor at the age of 18. 

By coincidence, both were in LA during a historically significant period of civil unrest and, as a direct result of a liquor store fire, both were rounded up along with the actual perpetrators and detained for almost two hours in the backseat of an LAPD patrol car. Despite the circumstances and the handcuffs, it was love at first sight. 

James attended public schools in southeast Los Angeles and left Southern California to major in extemporaneous physiognomy at the University of Inez Cortez in Zacatecas, Mexico. Three weeks into his first semester at UIC, school officials sent him back to the US because of his role in a series of sophomoric pranks. 

According to Babwe, his status as a freshman “should have warranted the use of a more accurate word—something other than sophomoric.”   

Babwe has published an extensive assortment of written work including fiction, non-fiction, artifactually fictive hypertext, photography, and poetry.  

“Out on the Dusty Trail in the Significant Distance” and “Right This Way” are compelling examples of how Babwe’s work grabs the reader’s attention with a tenacious grip and releases it briefly when the reader finishes the piece. 

Like an infinite echo in an experimental wind tunnel, the words and ideas swirl and bounce and soar and climb and dive and perform amazing stunts within the caverns of the reader’s consciousness.  Representing one of the most exciting developments in the history of literacy, itself, recent studies have shown that certain specific poetic works by James Babwe have observable and measurable positive effects upon the general disposition of readers in any age group no matter what their level of formal education may be. 

In addition, documented research projects in Europe and the United States confirm that healing properties of Babwe’s poetry are effective and long-lasting regardless of pre-existing conditions.  

Working on opposite sides of the Atlantic, two teams of extemporaneous physiognomists reached almost identical conclusions and presented their findings together at the Symposium of Experimental Extemporaneous Physiognomy in Denver (CO) in late 2008.  According to papers presented at the internationally renowned conference, two specific pieces of Babwe’s writing, when read aloud, significantly extend life expectancy in males and females in every age group.

Furthermore, new studies are currently underway to provide more evidence to confirm the original researchers’ conclusions about the apparent usefulness of Babwe’s written work as non-toxic, non-invasive, cost effective cures for the common cold, a number of influenza viruses, and some types of measles. 

When asked to comment about widely circulated rumors and speculation that more serious afflictions—cancer, heart disease, and a broad array of neurological disorders—doctors would only say prospects are “not just interesting, but promising.”  They also reminded members of the media that “these are the early stages of what will definitely become a lengthy, thorough investigation."

Especially considering these important developments, it is no coincidence that the two most thoroughly studied poems are the ones included here.  In anticipation of skeptical responses, the editor will add the following reminders:  

1. Prior to these most recent research findings, the literary critic served virtually no useful purpose. Aside from relatively steady employment within our educational institutions, the critic functioned within our society in much the same way that invasive tree roots interact with old plumbing. Persistent in their mode of attack, the roots will eventually find some weak spot, create a crack, exploit the structural weakness in the breached pipe, and invade the formerly functional works until the plumbing fails.  

2. If self-appointed experts and other tenured academics consider the potentially positive, far-reaching implications of the highly controlled studies and the verified results, these people may wish to consider the potential positive ways in which they, themselves, may become involved in this new and exciting endeavor to share the ways in which literature can heal.  

3. Despite common definitions of poetry which mention the value of conciseness and/or economy of expression, the editor believes Babwe's work warrants exception from these informally agreed upon standards.

Newland Barnes

The Weight of Books   

walking home alone 

after your bike was stolen 

 lonely after you lost 

your lunch money  

hungry after you cracked 

your glasses angry  

the weight of books distracts you 

enough to fend off fear 

of the snarling dog

enough to waylay worry

when you stride past the porch witch 

and her warlock  

who are rumored to finger  

shotgun triggers  

itchy and anxious 

for an unlucky fifth grader’s blood 

enough to brave the dangers 

of fractured sidewalks 

and their unexplained power 

to project force and inflict pain 

upon some distant unsuspecting mother. 

listen to the leaders and all their talk 

of mountains, dreams, and holding hands. 

watch what happens  

when someone decides  

not to argue the point 

about pens and swords 

and instead opts 

for the deer rifle or the machine gun. 

it’s going to take  

more than a dream for me 

because a dream depends upon sleep 

and last time i checked 

not even the short nap 

pays minimum wage.  

find me a shovel and a book 

one with instructions and a practical 

set of steps to follow 

so I don’t look to dreams 

for a way to go 

where  i need to be 

when i need  to be awake 

and not even just a little sleepy.

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Newland “Nuke” Barnes was once detained by authorities after a city  employee in Del Mar (CA) accidentally discovered a tunnel which ran north (for 34 miles) from the Mexican border to a spot underneath a modest mobile home where Barnes still lives with his wife, Paula.   Knowing better than to continue digging across the border, Barnes admitted his hobby was an unusual one, but adamantly denied breaking any local, State, or Federal laws. After a thorough investigation, authorities admitted no laws had been broken and Barnes was released.  

Born in Lexington (KY), Nuke is the grandson of a coal miner. He is the son of a coal miner. He is the nephew of several coal miners. He is also the brother of a coal miner. Unlike the other coal miners, Nuke quit the mines and headed west to California, where he has lived since his 16th birthday in 1987.   

Barnes quit his formal education midway through his first semester as a high school sophomore. The abrupt end of his public school experience was a direct and immediate result of his decision to spend a dollar on a lottery ticket, which he purchased at a liquor store less than a block from the two bedroom home he shared with his four grandparents, his mother, father, and his four sisters. 

Approximately 24 hours after buying the ticket, winning numbers were announced. Barnes held what would be the only winning ticket, but did not immediately attempt to collect the jackpot.  

The middle child of five, Barnes is the only son of parents whose daily life was dominated by the Golden Obedient Disciples of the True Almighty King of Earth,   a small but growing cult marked by vows of poverty and a long list of practices that church members are not allowed to share or  otherwise discuss with outsiders.   

Knowing his parents would, without hesitation, confiscate and destroy his winning ticket then beat him severely with the “magic branch” found in the home of every church member, Newland Barnes borrowed 200 dollars from a friend and persuaded her to drive the two of them to California.   

Paula Lee Rounders, 18 at the time, had a driver’s license, owned a reliable car, and trusted Newland enough to go along with his plan. Today, she admits she “didn’t love Newland at the time, but figured I could learn to love him as much as he liked as fast as he wanted me to fake it.”  Mutually wary of organized religion’s rituals and ceremonies, Barnes and Rounders live a quiet, simple life together and write poetry whenever they need a break from the unique underground pastime they both love.  

Aaron Bermon

Good Old Mom

You better believe
you have no choice.
Jump when you hear
the sound of my voice.

Look at me
when I'm talking to you.
Do as I say
not what I do.

I'm counting to three.
Don't ask why.
Listen up, mister.
I'll clarify.

You better believe
you have no choice.
Jump when you hear
the sound of my voice.

That's right, little man.
I'm talking to you
and I'll be done
when I say I'm through.

If you want to know why,
it's because I said so.
How many times
do I have to say no?

Dump out the ashtrays.
Clean out the sink.
When I want your opinion,
I'll tell you what to think.

Go fetch the tissue.
Wipe off the snot.
Tell me you love me
whether you like it or not.

Whenever I talk,
you shut your mouth.
I make the rules.
This is my house.

If you don't want to stay,
get up and go.
As long as you're here,
this is my show.

Look at me
when I'm talking to you.
If I say eat soap,
your job is to chew.

Knock off the whining.
Give me that shoe.
This hurts me
more than it hurts you.

Go fetch the tissue.
Wipe off the snot.
Tell me you love me

whether you like it or not.

Good old mom.

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Aaron Bermon describes himself as a proud native and lifelong resident of San Bernardino, California.  

According to Bermon, his 24-year career as a high school custodian has taught him that “everyone is a teacher.” In the same vein, he wants to make sure his readers understand the poet’s freedom to create narrators who tell stories in the same way novelists have the freedom to create characters.  

Bermon describes his own mother as kind, loving, and caring.  

“The narrator of this poem is a character I’ve created to express a point of view about the heavy handed ways in which some parents treat their children,” he explains.  

Like much of his poetry, “Good Old Mom” is intended to hold up a mirror, one which motivates readers to examine their own habits, their own patterns of behavior when it comes to interacting with children.  

As careful as he is to make sure the reader understands the truth about his own mother, Bermon admits that the inspiration for this poem was based in reality.  

Melton Cloy  

Your Love of Tools  

Full blast, 

the fan dispatched 

shrapnel, dust and dry leaves.

I smelled bits  

of your dead skin 

and remembered 

how you trimmed  

your nails and tossed them 

into the vents 

from the passenger’s seat, 

now empty 

because I finally had enough— 

did not ask you 

to accompany me, 

left without you, 

decided to drive  

until the safety of big distance 

would make it possible 

to sleep without worrying 

whether you would awaken me 

with a sledge hammer 

to the skull.  

You may be pleased  

to know how something sharp 

cut my eye,  

imbedded itself there, 

broke a tiny vein, 

left me looking 

as if I’d been struck  

by a pointed dart.  

Cackle if you like,  

but time will reduce 

the frequency of these incidents  

exactly the same way  

in which miles on this highway 

shrink the size  of my taillights  

as you watch them  

from the upstairs window 

and wonder  

who will remain  

comfortable and motionless 

next time you decide  

you need  a target. 

Melton Cloy is a grocery clerk in Fiasco (CA). Born and raised in Pittsburgh (PA), he moved west after serving as a corpsman in the United States Navy. Cloy’s tours of duty included deployments in South Korea, Costa Rica, Iraq, Afghanistan, Germany, The Philippines, Lebanon, Sudan, Belgium, Holland, England, Antarctica, Greenland, Guantanamo, Saudi Arabia, and Fresno.  

After successful completion of military service, his plans included a return to Pittsburgh, where he hoped to enjoy life with his high school sweetheart and wife. Mrs. Cloy, however, planned for a different kind of future.  

Melton’s wife, the former Ginny Spazinski, formulated a sophisticated set of plans to make herself a wealthy woman at the expense of her husband. Court documents reveal she hired a handwriting expert to forge letters from Cloy containing a variety of wild claims and horrific threats to her personal safety and well-being.   

Upon Melton’s return to their modest home in Pittsburgh, Mrs. Cloy phoned police, pretended to have been threatened and beaten, showed officers several self-inflicted cuts and bruises, hysterically led the police to a drawer containing the bogus letters, and watched as officers handcuffed Melton and jailed him on a variety of felony charges.   

Less than 24 hours after her husband’s arrest, Ginny contacted several network talk show hosts and attempted to negotiate six-figure contracts for interviews in exchange for the story of her “excruciating experience as the wife of a brutally violent man who had been severely damaged by the nature and length of his military experience.”  

Fortunately for Melton, a court reporter who had been hired to document proceedings at the arraignment was returning to work after recovering from a lengthy illness. While confined to her home, the court reporter developed what she calls “an embarrassing attachment” to the plot and characters of a long-running daytime television soap opera.   

As charges against Cloy were read, the court reporter was suddenly struck by the familiarity of the accusations. Maintaining her professional demeanor and continuing to perform the duties she was hired to perform became more and more difficult as the hearing progressed. Immediately after the district attorney finished reading the accusations, the court reporter raised her hand politely and made a request for a brief recess.  

The request granted, she waited for the bailiff to clear the courtroom, then informed the judge she had relevant information about the current case. During the next hour and fifteen minutes, she recused herself from her duties as the court’s reporter and volunteered her testimony on behalf of the defendant. 

All charges against Melton were dropped when the court reporter took the witness stand and described uncanny similarities between a year-old plot from All the Weeks of One Turning World and the list of allegations.  

A key element of the case against Melton was a threat contained in one of his "letters.” According to Ginny Cloy, Melton wrote the letter during a furlough and had inadvertently left the letter at home instead of mailing it. She described the overwhelming fear she felt when she discovered and read her husband’s “macabre promise to disembowel her and the respected psychologist” who she had been seeing for treatment.   

Use of the word “disembowel,” several other vivid, sadistic descriptions and threats, and the inclusion of “the hated therapist” provided an undeniable link to the popular daytime television program. 

After viewing several of the episodes in question, the judge ordered Melton Cloy’s release and directed his bailiff to arrest Ginny Cloy, who is now an inmate at a State prison facility in Pennsylvania. The psychologist who conspired with her was also arrested, charged, and convicted of several felony offenses. His insanity defense was dismissed as inappropriate.   In addition, his marriage to Mrs. Cloy was annulled on the grounds that she was still married to her previous husband. 

According to Melton Cloy, poetry writing represents, for him, a viable alternative to what he describes as the “faddish sham disguised as therapeutic treatment that’s offered by the posers who refer to themselves as family counselors and domestic violence professionals.”  He goes on to clarify the dangers of overgeneralization, but adds that poetry writing helps him sort out the details of his defunct relationship. 

Anna Desdealejos  

both sides of the railroad tracks  

recount frightening memory 

drunk daddy fortified wine 

machine gun thugs 

barbed-wire crosswalks 

back-alley stabbings 

snake-eyed dice 

short-skirt hookers 

nasty business 

broken streetlights  

squealing tires 

screaming sleepless helicopter midnight.  

my reminder here includes  

broad daylight 

neatly dressed 

freshly pressed  

rested neighbors 

stand shoulder-to-shoulder 

clarity of vision 

unity of purpose 

willingness 

integrity 

and the courage 

to call  

a fool  

a fool. 

the lie

you told me my name  

was what you called me 

when you called me  

who i knew  

was me was not my name 

was not what they told me 

was my name 

was maybe who i thought 

i was because 

they told me and told me 

and told me until i thought 

my name was what they called me 

when they called me 

by the name  

they said was me  

who would guess 

i would remember  

the name they did not tell me 

would not call me 

when they called me by my name 

it returned like an echo 

so now i'll take a turn 

i will invent as many names  

as i choose when i use the name 

i say is me 

when i say my name 

when I tell you  

who i am 

because 

my voice 

is not an echo  

who i am 

is not that name  

who i am 

is not the name 

you called me 

that name was not mine 

was not me 

not then 

not now 

not ever  

my name  

is what i say it is 

not who you said 

i was when you called me 

what you called me 

when you said my name 

was what  

you said it was 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Anna Desdealejos is the poet laureate of Bellflower (CA), where she has worked as the owner and operator of Anna’s American Bakery since immigrating from Bolivia in 1970.  

Desdealejos is an outspoken advocate for the value of public education and universal literacy. She began writing poetry at work—using a homemade device which allowed her to decorate frosted cakes with personal messages—also made of frosting. 

Her early efforts consisted of short, simple rhymes—sometimes in couplets, sometimes not. Soon bored with the simple content of her poems, Desdealejos experimented with more sophisticated rhyme schemes and more complicated poetic forms.   

She cites the sizes of her cakes as the foundation for her compact writing style and says, “There’s no second page when someone only wants one birthday cake.”  

At the suggestion of one of her three daughters, Anna submitted a few poems for publication in 2001 and has since emerged as a unique voice.  “both sides of the railroad tracks” and “the lie” were vilified in a scathing review in the May 2008 edition of The Journal of Modern Punctuation, and one month later, won First Prize and Second Prize awards from the  respected e e cummings foundation for poetic excellence.  

In July 2008, Desdealejos was honored with a Golden Haiku Award for her use of the haiku form on cupcakes. 

Earl D. Edwards

Beautiful Untamed Southern California  

The last few days  

of Orange County summer 

used to settle for a quiet trade— 

lots of heat and long days  

for cooler afternoons and see-you-later 

when most of us  

were certain life would stay  

like dream forever.

During the first July Saturday,

a skateboard rider dodged my loneliness 

and we excused ourselves 

then glanced north where 

suddenly beautiful chaos 

skipped a slow beginning.  

Burning patrol cars spewed black smoke, 

fueled riot squad panic in faces 

shielded by clear plastic  

while half-naked laughing raw joy 

and obliviously silly talk, numbed by tequila 

and loud-as-it-goes  radio rock and roll  

tasted dangerous like real freedom, 

which prefers death to mindless submission. 

Young lovers of summer, 

we laughed at your new recruits, 

whose tight-jawed bullhorn threats  

could never back the angry talk  

with enough handcuffs for all of us 

on the final weekend before expectations 

told us we were due to hurl ourselves gladly 

into blue collar drudgery 

and all the barely scraping by.  

I guess some of you proved 

something to some of us, 

but who knows what that was?  

Maybe it’s too late to tell you 

I remember you were just as scared 

to chase us as we 

were scared to run away. 

You--  

confused  

broken home 

draft ready 

can't vote son 

of bowling alley beer swilling 

nine-to-five 

dead end retail bargain shopper 

for integrity, 

and hungry for respect 

you would demand instead of earn. 

You-- 

cold call 

slave to bank 

frozen turkey dinner 

closest liquor store commuter 

on the weekends watching television  

in your underwear 

reclining in your phony leather lounge chair 

yelling down the hall 

because you want your kids 

to turn the music down 

before you count to three 

and stomp into their room.

How was it for you? 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Dr. Earl D. Edwards is a resident of Pelo Madera Beach (CA), where he is a charter member of the Rancho Pantalones Trailer Park Poets and serves on the Board of Directors for the Rancho Pantalones Foundation.   

Following in the footsteps of his father, Edwards is a practicing veterinarian. Doctor Edwards enjoys a special interest in horses, primarily thoroughbreds. 

His patented remedy for flatulence in horses was also found to be highly effective with cattle and he has been credited as a true pioneer in the world wide effort to reduce the production of gases which compete with Earth’s natural producers of oxygen.  

Whenever he reads his poetic works aloud for a group, Earl prefaces his reading by explaining that he has no formal academic training as a writer. Next, he explains, sometimes at great length, that his attention to details of experience and his love of language would probably be most responsible for the long list of publications which have included his work.   

This editor will add that these same traits would also bear the responsibility for nourishing a growing list of awards and other plaudits Edwards has earned with his fine work.  

Earl is a five-time nominee and three-time recipient of the coveted Wurlitzer Prize. He has been gracious enough to send one of these winning pieces for inclusion in this anthology. 

Pat Gumwinder  

Science   

We are more than science,  

more than the sum of parts,  

more than arranged logic,  

more than the clank of mechanics,  

more than lumber and nails.   

More meat than gear,  

more space than substance,  

more mist than muscle,  

more mind than shell.   

Nudged through distance  

like notes from a vibrating string  

or bouncing away like pulses from a drum,  

we move like music— 

notes and melodies  

that leave and stay  

with us anyway.   

We are more than swift analysis,  

more than tidy sample,  

more than thoughtless snapshot,  

more than dots and numbers on a chart.  

We are more than science,  

more than thoughtless remarks 

or easy dismissal.  

We are more than science 

because all of us cannot be contained 

by beakers and jars, 

because all of us cannot be contained 

by reports on a shelf, 

because all of us cannot be contained.

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Pat Gumwinder serves as one of three counselors at Pelo Madera Beach Middle School (CA) where her husband, Neil, works as a vice principal.   

A renowned swimmer who won four gold medals during the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, Pat Gumwinder rescued two paramedics who were, themselves, trapped in the quicksand pool behind the Pelo Madera Beach Middle School cafeteria when they attempted to rescue a drowning student.  

Powering her way past guards posted at the site of the pool, Gumwinder risked her own life when she stood at the edge of the quicksand. As an experienced swimmer, Gumwinder knew better than to dive in and put her own life at risk. Instead, she extended a legal-sized clipboard and told the paramedics to hold on.

   

Following Gumwinder’s instructions, both paramedics grabbed the clipboard and maintained steady grips as the famed swimmer muscled the muddy pair to safety at the side of the pool.  

Later, most of the drowned student’s body was recovered and the quicksand pool, a State Historical Landmark, was subsequently secured against unauthorized access.  

A talented poet in his own right, Neil Gumwinder failed to follow the publisher’s instructions and, unfortunately, his work does not appear in this anthology. The editor hopes Mr. Gumwinder, who continually reminds Pelo Madera Middle School students about the importance of following written instructions, will heed his own advice. 

Moses Helms  

Shave My Back 

I'm feeling hot, extremely hairy-- 

I'm feeling like a welcome mat. 

Grab a can of shaving cream.

Shave my back. 

Hair grows on my face. 

Hair grows on my elbows, too. 

Hair grows on my every place.

I don't know what to do. 

I'm burning up-- 

extremely sweaty. 

Don't joke about my hands. 

I'm getting tired of all this hair. 

It's clogging up my glands. 

Honey, shave my back 

before I have to mow. 

Sweetie, shave my back 

before I have to go. 

Sugar, shave my back. 

I'm asking please, please, please. 

Donut, shave my back. 

I'm kneeling on my knees. 

Please, please grab the shaving cream.

Please, please

shave my back. 

Moses Helms jokingly claimed to be the son of famed potato chip maker, Nora Fudders. He also, tongue-in-cheek, claimed to be the stepbrother of Neil Lance, the first winner of the Tour de France to set foot on the moon.   

Primarily because of his ongoing habit of creating fictional answers to questions about his personal background, true and accurate details about Helms and his life are difficult to verify. According to a growing number of published accounts, Helms is the adopted son of Danny Thomas Edison, the abandoned son of Hal David Brinkley, the disowned son of Boy George Burns, the illegitimate son of Elton John Wayne, and the only son of Dean Martin Denny.  

Helms has told a string of unwary interviewers his mother is Lois Lane Bryant,  Denise Richards Gere, Anne Margaret O’Hara, and Anna Nicole Williams. Recent efforts to verify his address resulted in a discovery that was not particularly surprising, considering the source. Tracing the location Helms used as his return address revealed the address to be the site of a San Diego fire station.            

When contacted, the fire fighters denied knowing anyone named Moses Helms. 

Lorraine Hughes-Belkman  

Hippoptolemy  

People in town knew he was good.  

A cruel relative with a heart made of wood 

had him committed after a judge said he could.  

They called our neighbor Hippoptolemy, 

and nobody who knew him would have agreed 

with those responsible for his lobotomy. 

He waved to birds. 

He spoke to clouds. 

Far from illegal, 

both are allowed.  

No one was hurt by his unusual acts. 

His words contained wisdom. 

Here are the facts.  

Do no harm 

under the sun and other stars, 

he would state.  

Then he remarked, 

I think, therefore, I am  

steering clear of the pharmacies and bars. 

Instead, I use television as a lamp 

and I study theology and geometry.  

These were the words of Hippoptolemy.  

He used to say, 

Trust your sense of good and right. 

Watch one; do one; teach one. 

Don’t play with matches. 

Keep your children in sight. 

Do these things from early in the morning 

until late at night.  

Then he remarked, 

Know the differences  

between climate and weather. 

Frogs need their legs, and crows 

need their feathers.  

Hippoptolemy spoke humbly, 

did not claim he was wise.  

Decide for yourself. 

Try these quotes on for size.  

Whether your furniture is covered 

with beautiful leather or bargain vinyl, 

pay attention to details 

from the beginning of start 

to the end of final.  

Purple and green  

are my favorite colors. 

Refill the ice cube trays, 

my sisters and brothers.  

Toilet paper goes 

so it falls from the front.

Avoid vulgarity,  

especially the word 

which would complete an obvious rhyme 

in this location.  

Hippoptolemy glued an extra ear to his head, 

said listening requires a spare. 

He loved living things, 

gently buried the dead. 

He taught himself 

to play drums one March 

and dared to be different; 

he joined a lute combo the following May, 

and learned to mambo in June.  

One more thing he used to say? 

No lunch is free; 

someone, somewhere, somehow 

still has to pay.  

Hippoptolemy was a remarkable guy. 

He seldom said No— 

preferred to ask, 

Why?

Girl at the Office  

She is completely professional--

indispensible, trustworthy, responsible.  

She keeps files organized, neat. 

She greets everyone 

who walks  through the door 

with a smile.  

She makes coffee, 

answers phones, protects the office 

from unwanted guests.  

The owners know she runs the place.  

But on the weekends and holidays— 

and beginning at approximately 5:30 PM 

on Friday afternoon 

until early Sunday evening-- 

that girl at the office?  

You know Diane— 

wire-rimmed glasses, California tan—  

she walks up the stairs, opens the door, 

closes it behind her— locks it tight.  

She shakes out her hair 

and throws her clothes down.  

Then, she turns up the music 

as loud as she can.  

Because that girl at the office— 

all weekend long— 

the girl at the office is a naked man.  

She’s a naked man 

when she isn’t wearing clothes.  

She’s a naked man, 

dancing in the house 

with no panty hose.  

She turns up the music 

just as loud as she can 

because he girl at the office 

is a naked man.  

The girl at the office 

is a naked man.  

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Lorraine Hughes-Belkman says poetry is "an ongoing relationship with language which requires the writer to keep a regularly scheduled rendezvous with truth.” 

A lengthy statement she submitted with her poems includes the following:  Among the consistent lessons provided for us by history is the following: poets consistently display  a propensity for speaking the truth. Plain spoken or tactfully masked, poets are far more likely to work from a foundation of integrity and accuracy than are journalists, politicians, lawyers, actors, or any other people on the planet. Even when poets lie, they are honest about their lying—they display truth openly and plainly, or they use falsehood in such a ridiculous way that the falsehoods show the way to truth. Make no mistake—many other members of society attempt to maintain a respectable level of honesty, but fear of reprisal, scorn, or some other kind negative reaction acts as a powerful deterrent. Do politicians keep their promises? Do lawyers maintain professed standards  of honesty? Judges? Optometrists? News reporters? Car salesmen? Produce clerks? As long as the store management requires employees to wax fruit, a certain level of deception is not only expected, it’s required. As long as an attorney is expected to defend an obviously guilty client, the truth is compromised. As long as a candidate swears his or her platform advocates tax cuts or the repeal of existing fees, honesty suffers.   

Hughes-Belkman’s shameless love of language is even more contagious during her live performances, which are marked by an exuberance that includes the audience as a trusted group of traveling companions on a linguistic trek toward Greater Understanding. 

Carla La Rotunda   

Important Items   

You'll need trampolines and breakfast, 

soap and inspiration, 

trees, bowling balls, and steel.  

You'll need toothbrushes  

and plenty of patience, 

ice cubes and comfortable shoes, 

knowledge of the game.  

Prepare yourself with a sense of belonging, 

inexpensive fun, repair manuals, 

metric tools, standard tools, 

decent gloves, paint, music, books, 

pencils, pens, paper, and a flashlight.  

You don't have to fit all these things 

into the trunk because you can pick up 

supplies as you go. 

You'll need a spine, quick feet, and maps. 

You'll need keys, extra batteries, sheets, 

and an appreciation  for the taste of sweetness-- 

a little skin on your teeth, 

compassion, a predator's agility, 

whatever extra lives the cat can spare, 

a few sick days to use as you see fit, 

friends you can trust, foresight, hindsight, 

and a decent pair of fingernail clippers, 

but don't try to take them onto the plane.  

At least once, 

you'll need to get sick at the carnival, 

throw a baseball through a plate glass window, 

drink too much tequila, and on at least one New Year's Eve, 

immediately after midnight, 

you and someone you may have just met 

might consider  leaving that spinner thing in the box, 

emptying the entire contents of a sixteen ounce container  

of Coppertone oil onto the colorful, rubberized surface 

of the game everyone snickers about, 

and then do whatever's necessary 

so (from that point forward), 

you will have internalized the experience 

to such a degree that it bakes into memory, 

forms a permanent, solid foundation, 

an intuitive grasp complimented 

by a deeply personal understanding, 

and justifiable confidence-- 

knowing that you have earned the right 

to snicker because you were there, 

slipping and sliding and making so much noise  

the next door neighbors called the police, 

who joked for years about how you looked  

when you answered the door 

and promised to keep it down. 

Carla La Rotunda is the mother of six children. She has served as the mayor of San Onofre for six consecutive four-year terms. La Rotunda is also owner and publisher of The San Onofre Daily Isotope, the well-known, award-winning community newspaper she has operated since 1975.   

Married to Larry, a deputy with the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department, she has written copiously about the challenges and hardships of daily life, but has always maintained a consistent point-of-view that stresses the importance of hard work and personal responsibility. 

In 1990, through no fault of her own, found herself in the middle of a compelling real-life drama when she was abducted and held for ransom. Her abductors, both of whom had long criminal histories, grossly miscalculated  the degree to which their “victim” would cooperate.  With their ransom demands unmet, kidnappers returned Mrs. La Rotunda to freedom and turned themselves in before authorities were able to track them down. 

According to interviews and statements they provided for investigators, nothing they could do “short of murder” succeeded when it came to “getting that woman to stay quiet.” Both abductors agreed that La Rotunda “wouldn’t stay still, wouldn’t stop yelling, and wouldn’t stop giving orders.” One of the men described his return to prison as “a vacation compared to a few hours with that lady.” 

La Rotunda credits a short story assignment from her eighth grade English teacher for behavior which the kidnappers were unable to tolerate.

Interlude

About Rodney B. Scow, SLF: 

In My Own Words

Former professor of multi-dimensional meta-cognitive physics at the University of San Elijo. I was weary from the intellectual demands (and low pay) of my chosen esoteric specialty—imaginary motion and the effects of negative mass—I retired at the age of 35 and worked for a succession of community newspapers as a crossword puzzle editor.   

My penchant for using puzzle clues to convey social commentary (in the form of satire), resulted in my being fired more times than I care to remember. In a dramatic change of fortune, I was invited to join the staff of a major metropolitan daily newspaper, accepted the position and gained widespread acclaim as one of the world’s most popular and respected crossword puzzle editors.   

Today, I am a four-time recipient of The Golden Grid, awarded yearly by the Academy of Professional Crossword Puzzle Producers. I am a three-time winner  of The Ecru Prize, a cash award given to North America’s best crossword puzzle editor (as determined by a vote of peers).   

In 2010, I was graced with another treasure, The Rompecabeza Prize, which has been awarded only three times in its thirty year history.   

I currently live in Pelo Madera Beach, California’s smallest incorporated city.  

A special late addition to New Champions, it is with great pride (and thanks to the Wurlitzer Prize Commission) that I include “Expressions of Abstract Awareness,” 2009 Wurlitzer Prize Winner. 

Expressions of Abstract Awareness

Itself about itself, 

aftershave cologne 

defies the laws of logic 

and speaks into the telephone.  

Ivy polyunsaturated metaphysical cake 

depletes a pencil walking 

atop the groomed uranium lake.  

If you choose to refuse, 

never say that you might— 

do not abandon freewill on Thursday  

and attempt to reclaim it 

on the following Friday night.  

Wait-- flying nightmares 

return to daytime sight  

while imaginary motorboats 

disguise themselves as kites.  

Squeeze a round of golf 

into mysteries of dining. 

Polish chrome accessories. 

Restore them until they’re shining.  

Shine without flinching. 

Shine without remorse. 

Shine to shine the rhyming. 

Apologize with false regret. 

No regrets, of course.  

Ivy polyunsaturated repetitious cake. 

Innuendoes pacify no vegetarian steak.  

Pistachio the rain. 

Commandeer the lawn. 

Abandoned stacks of hula hoops 

mean everybody's gone.  

I promised you I wouldn't 

instead of telling you I might 

candy coat the rubber ducks 

not currently in sight. 

Conventional deception. 

Plausible denial. 

Dense misinformation. 

Misdemeanor trial.  

Pass the metaphysics. 

Shave your face with foam. 

Let the rivers flow to way out west 

where peace combines with happiness, 

evicts depression from the dome.  

You started not to listen-- 

spaghetti in the rain. 

Euphemistic anesthesia. 

Explain, explain, explain.  

Say you refuse 

instead of promising you might.  

Stand inside your shoes. 

Stride into forever. 

Continue to pursue the path 

of your endeavor.  

Poke and claw 

and scratch and soothe 

and reassure. 

Compare, describe, compare, describe. 

Explain, explain, explain 

until they see with you 

as you pistachio the rain. 

Bernadette Lydon

American Man, Japanese Car

American man. Japanese car. 

Mexican food. Spanish guitar.  

Hawaiian shirt. Chinese shoes. 

Italian pants. Delta blues.  

Ragtop down. Sunday cruise.

Radio music. Radio news.  

American man. Japanese car.  

Tones from the phone signal 

sudden complications to intrude 

upon this harmless vision of dreamy adventure.  

He reaches to the passenger's side, 

tries to keep his eyes on the road. 

The phone squirts from his grip 

and bounces into the corner, 

onto the floorboard on the opposite side of the car.  

Eyes leaving the road, 

he reaches to recover the device, 

and leaning to the right a little too much, 

his foot slips from the accelerator. 

Laces from his left shoe 

tangle with the brake, 

and he can't quite reach  the phone.  

He remembers he's driving, 

but it's more than a little too late, 

so  there he goes— 

over a cliff, past the rocks, 

over a man on the beach known to his friends as Cal, 

who pauses for a moment 

as the plunging Nissan disappears 

in the surf and based upon  the angle of descent, 

the velocity of the falling car, 

the force of gravity, the sound of the impact, 

the depth of the water, 

and the failure of anyone 

to surface immediately 

following the crash, 

the driver never had a chance.  

A photograph accompanied the obituary.  

The driver was born in Flagstaff, 

moved to California with his family in 1964.  

He went to school 

and worked in Los Angeles 

as a translator.  

He was 47. 

Bernadette Lyndon was born and raised in the town where she still lives—Laguna Beach, California. She is the owner of CRZ Particle Dynamics in Irvine, where she has assembled a team of noteworthy colleagues  to create practical applications for theoretical models from the field of transformational matter/anti-matter particle alignment and the closely related studies involving new and exciting developments as they involve a new breed of tiny but powerful hyperthreaded carbon fiber/titanium magnets which are smaller than grains of rice.   

Dr. Lyndon, who earned her advanced degrees in semantocatalystic atomic physics from the California Institute of Advanced Classified Studies, has been a key player in modern advances in her field. According to Lyndon, by the year 2025, rubber tires for motor vehicles will be obsolete. Instead, the new hydrogen propelled vehicles we will be driving will take advantage of maglev technology which means the elimination of friction between vehicles and roads because cars will contact the ground only when the engines are turned off. While an in depth discussion of these topics may strike readers as irrelevant to poetry, Lyndon requested the publication of the following explanation as part of her biographical details: 

   Greetings, People of Earth                                                               

 

These are, indeed, exciting times. Based upon several facts from recently declassified studies, I am pleased to be able to share with you some amazing information. First, before I continue, allow me to explain—for me, poetry has always provided bridges that connect certainty with those things which are not so clear. As the imagination wanders within the framework of dreams, the mind invents ways to transform dreams into reality. My parents, for example, were born into a world without television. As children, they believed the idea of transporting images through the air via invisible signals was nonsense—they could not conceive of the possibility of many things which, today, you and I  take for granted.   Vaccines, microwave ovens, color television, wireless phones—for people of my parents’ generations, these were the things of outlandish speculation. Today,  jets travel faster than the speed of sound; we small plastic cards to purchase the things we need; cameras on our highways, in the banks, at home, anyplace where there’s room for one—these create moving pictures, which continually record mundane, day-to-day activities of our lives that will, someday, be studied by people of the future—if they choose to do so.   These things considered, I hope you’re ready to understand what I am about to share with you here. Many will laugh in disbelief just as my parents, as children, would have laughed at the generally inconceivable dreams which we now see as familiar components of everyday reality.   Based upon recent confirmed discoveries, it is my great privilege to share the following numbered list of  new things you need to know. Laugh if you like.  Take a look at your shoes and say good bye. Why?  Because in less than 20 years, humans will no longer need feet. Advances in gravitational physics will, in the next few years, allow us to fly. Walking and running—in fact, most physical contact with the ground—will not be necessary. For now, rather than boring you with the long, detailed explanation, I will leave you with this—you will be able to fly, propelled by thoughts. Bio & Comment by Rodney B. Scow, SLF. How long has it been since you vomited? Okay, I know it’s gross, but estimate. How long ago was it?    Now, if you remember the last time you spewed food (for whatever reason), ask yourself one more question: was it smooth or chunky? Did you barf pure liquid, or did you see some remnants of breakfast, lunch, or dinner in there, too? Some of that stuff didn’t even look as if we chewed it up before we swallowed it, right?  Well, here’s the news for all you crews with the upchucking blues.  In less than ten years, nobody (unless they really want to) will ever barf. Why? I’m not going to give you the whole answer, but I will give you a hint. Here it is. Soon (sooner than you think), we will be living on diets of  perfect liquids, individually prepared for our specific metabolic needs and characteristics. Nutrition will be absorbed so thoroughly, we will not even need toilets in the future. No kidding. I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to the days when my bathroom is for bathing.  Think about the last time you travelled to someplace more than 20 miles from your house. Some of you don’t get out much; I know what that’s like. But it won’t be long before    being a human being on planet Earth includes regular trips   to the moon and Mars and visits to both places won’t cost a dime. Or a nickel. Or a penny. Or anything. I’ve been working for many  years on a project that’s just reached the stage where I can safely say this—it works. Not only does it work, it’s cool, too. You ever seen Star Trek? I’m including “The Next Generation” here—the shows with that bald dude, Picard. You know who I’m talking about. Anyway, check this out—I have a working “transporter” just like the ones they had on the TV show. No kidding. And mine works just like theirs does. Except theirs was fictional, part of the science fiction story. I hope you’ll forgive me for this next part.  I want to share with you some of the weird details about what it was like to create a machine that can disassemble our particles here and reassemble them somewhere else (and the other way around, too). Anyway, initial experiments were full of real problems. I could get things “off the platform,” but they didn’t exactly have it together when they got to where they were going. When  I first tried to send a mouse and a dog to the room next door, both of them disappeared all right, but when they reappeared in the other  room, the dog was wearing the mouse’s head. And the mouse couldn’t stand up straight because one of the dog’s legs ended up attached to him instead of the dog.  Two of my colleagues were looking at the dog, which had one mouse leg, and we  were staring at the mouse, which had one dog leg, and I remember thinking to myself, “How in the hell would Mr. Rogers explain this shit?” Of  course, I didn’t say that out loud at first, but that’s what I was thinking!  Okay, here’s one that’s going to really make you think I’m nuts. But here goes. Remember all that noise about baseball players and football players and everybody else using steroids? Lots of folks got really worked up about that jazz. But guess what? We discovered some better “dietary supplements,” and these are going to make those old steroids look like a Chevy Geo compared to a top fuel dragster at the no-shit Sherlock Winter Nationals. Think of it this way.  A Geo, from zero to sixty miles an hour probably takes between 30 and 40 seconds. A top fuel dragster hauls itself across about a quarter of a mile, over 400 yards, in less than four seconds. So here it is. Go outside and measure off about fifty yards, half of a football field. Run as fast as you can and see how long it takes you to cover fifty yards. Come back inside when you’re done, take out a pencil and a piece of paper. Write down your time. Was it around ten seconds? Seven? Whatever it was, divide the number by 100. That’s right. 100. I can’t talk anymore about this one, so you’ll just have to wait. You’ll see. Trust me. You won’t believe it.  I’m going to be a little more serious here. It’s important, okay? Here goes. Remember all that talk about how important it was for your kids to do  homework? People have been telling you how important it is for you to do well in math and science, right? In fact, I was one of those people who got busy telling kids exactly that. As much as  I hate to admit I was wrong, that’s exactly what I’m going to have to do. Why? Well—and this one’s really hard to believe—forget about math and science. As of yesterday, it’s all outdated. Obsolete. Does not work. No need to know any of that stuff. Not even your times tables. Formulas, theorems, rules? Gone! Over and out! More about this some other time. Stay tuned.

Iris McCutcheon

Everything Moves Fast and Slow  

Everything moves fast and slow— 

fast as a river rushes 

surrounding a boulder bigger than houses 

carrying the rock, atom by atom,  

to the sea.   

Everything moves fast and slow— 

slow as the boulder bigger than houses 

surrenders particles to the rushing river.  

Everything— 

fast as childhood goes,  

fast as taller grows,  

slow as memory lets go of recollections—  

hazy details through  a favorite window 

wiped clean  with part of a sleeve 

or shattered with an errant throw.  

Everything moves fast and slow— 

fast as fog already gone, 

slow as cactus grows, 

fast as a tablecloth yanked from a table,  

slow as a wide leaf falls 

from the highest branch,  

descending like a forgotten thought, 

falling to rushing water,  

where it lands and floats  

past boulders bigger than houses—  

past sudden recollections of a clean window 

and the sight of a friend  

walking up to the porch 

for an afternoon visit.   

Everything moves fast and slow— 

protected secrets, partial truths, 

the search for knowledge, 

vacations, time for breakfast, 

youth, age, expectations, hope, 

concessions, compromises, confessions, 

requests, demands, deadlines,  

fear, friendship, confidence, 

comfort, compassion, and time. 

We Talked About This  

You will try to believe words bring consolation, 

and you may decide lies become food for hope.  

You will answer, I’m fine. Really. 

We talked about this. 

I’m more relieved  than anything.  

It’s time for closure. 

As long as the spirit lingers, 

nobody’s really gone.  

Apologies over the phone thin. 

Perfunctory.  Insubstantial. Brief.  

I’m sorry, they say.  

You may feel like responding with Why? 

You may tire of references to roads not taken.  

Next time someone asks, 

Is there anything I can do?  

I will whisper:  

Yes. There is.  

I will leave the room. 

You should walk to the chair near the window. 

Fall asleep in the chair. 

I will return to the room after I finish 

washing the car.  

I will try not to interrupt your nap. 

Allow the crossword puzzle to fall 

from you relaxed grasp, and the paper  

will slide down your leg to the floor, 

where it will lean on your foot precariously 

until it slides past your ankle 

and rests flat on the rug.  

You will shift a bit 

and you will snore quietly, 

stopping to brush hair 

from your face 

with the back of your hand. 

Then you will awaken briefly 

and tell me, 

I was just resting my eyes for a moment.  

I will know you are not  completely awake 

when you ask for the remote. 

You want to watch the Flintstones, 

which hasn’t been on television for years.  

You will fall asleep again, 

snuggling comfortably 

into the big chair’s softest corner.  

I will sit here, 

and from this spot on the couch, 

I will watch you sleep 

for as long as I am able to pretend 

you are someone else.  

Momentarily, I allow myself 

to believe staging this scenario 

will untie the knot in my gut 

and repair the hole inside of me 

that grows whenever I miss 

the sight of you 

and the simple sound 

of your breathing. 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

For three decades, Iris McCutcheon has remained one of the best known, most widely read California poets. She has published 17 separate volumes  of poetry. Her latest book, Six Feet of One, One Fathom of the Other, is a less-than somber look into the details of her own life as a successful business woman. Iris has seen her once-small business, McCutcheon Mortuary, grow  into the largest, most profitable enterprise of its kind in the world. With  over 500 franchises operating in 42 of the 50 United States and 5 foreign  locations, her chain of convenient, fast, courteous, and affordable memorial  service providers is now used as a model for teaching in business colleges  and major universities around the world. McCutcheon has also gained  widespread respect throughout her community for her generous charitable contributions and the inspiring leadership she has shared with young men and women who occasionally consult her for advice about the future of the modern mortuary business.  And for a limited time only, mention you saw the ad here and you qualify for an instant 25% discount for cash payments. That’s 25% off the final total bill from McCutcheon Memorial Services. Good at any and all of our 447 locations for first-time customers, including our convenient drive-thru facilities. 

Bartolo Ochoa  

La Tierra de Las Pelucas   

Porque caminamos,  

porque escuchamos,  

porque hablamos con escaleras 

y edificios, porque hablamos 

con las peliculas verdes, 

estamos en la tierra de las pelucas.  

Tenemos dientes,  tenemos jabon, 

tenemos coches rapidos o lentes. 

Tenemos lentes para ojos, ojos para osos, 

osos para huesos, y huesos para la armada.  

Estamos en la tierra de las pelucas. 

 

On a related note it can be a considerable challenge  

to distinguish differences between words employed 

to facilitate as opposed to words employed to obfuscate.   

Estamos en la tierra de las pelucas, 

y cuando hablamos, hablamos con la gente, 

conjuntos, con jugos, con carne, con salsa y limon.  

Estamos en la tierra de las pelucas.  

Policy  

Guilt by affiliation, 

blame by stereotype.  

Snake identified 

by resemblance  to garden hose— 

conviction and imprisonment 

by consensus.  

Tubas will be trout, 

and trout will be tubas 

in the widening rift 

between rational and hysterical.  

Scraping for scapegoats 

will be mistaken for racing with rowboats, 

and when chemical pesos are mistaken  

for magical besos, policy and posse 

could possibly wobble 

until wobble and rubble 

and trouble and double 

or nothing means exactly  

nothing. 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Bartolo Ochoa is the pseudonym  of the poet whose true  identity is a secret. He is currently being protected by a well-known branch of the United States Government.    

Ellis Parsons  

The Magnificent  

Sound asleep at home, 

Leon must have heard the guns— 

213 90221.  

They woke him up  to shoot him— 

65 Watts. 

Fire sparked and crackled— 

live gunshots.  

Radio Magnificent.

Music through the night. 

Burn, baby, burn-- 

baby, clean outta sight.  

Helicopters for the sky, 

troops for blocking streets, 

rifles, hand grenades, and uniforms— 

hang on to your seat.  

Alameda propaganda. 

L. A. Coliseum. 

They hosed away 

the chalk outlines 

so you would never see them.  

Hunger starved by curfew, 

anger ridiculed for fun-- 

one side wore their uniforms,  

everyone had guns.  

If you saw 

what I have seen, 

I wonder if you’d run. 

I wonder if you don’t believe--

213 90221.  

Radio Magnificent, 

deep into the night— 

August sounds of 65, 

burning with the voice of right.  

Burning down the liquor stores, 

burning down injustice. 

Burning with the pent up rage 

of no one there to trust us.  

Feel the fire heat it up— 

65 Watts. 

Hear the sound of revolution— 

live gunshots.  

Radio Magnificent, 

deep into the night. 

Burn, baby, burn— 

baby clean outta sight. 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Ellis Parsons, Pelo Madera native, graduate of San Onofre High She won the prestigious Akimbo Bustamante Award for Poetry in 2004.   Only 17 years old at the time, Parsons is still the youngest recipient in the 45-year history of the ABA. In a number of literary publications, his poetry has been lauded as “work that establishes new standards of excellence in expression.” Other words that accurately describe Ellis Parsons? The list is long, but always near the top is “precocious.”   Reaching consensus about other words for the list would not be difficult. Here is a brief (and incomplete) one.  Intelligent. Polite. Gregarious. Compassionate.  Concerned. Thoughtful. Calm. Talented. Tenacious. Attentive.  

Wiles Plank  

A Dream for Pablo Neruda, Yankee Shortstop: 1923  

Not bad at the plate,  

not bad in the field, 

19 year-old rookie shortstop  

Pablo Neruda hit .296 for the '23 Yanks.  

According to Ruth, 

according to others  

who saw the kid play, 

it could have been .340  or better, 

but Neruda insisted upon taking 

until pitchers threw a strike. 

Mantle talked to the kid, 

but learned that recent discoveries 

about string theory are meaningless 

to those who want to talk to anyone 

about anything in any dimension 

prior to their own actual birth-- 

even if they do exist 

in some parallel universe 

here at the ballpark.  

Neruda sneered  

at the sound of Mantle's  

disembodied voice.  

Pablo fetched a handful of red dirt 

from just outside the batter's box, 

squeezed it into a small clod, 

tossed it into the air, 

observed tiny blades of grass 

as they were swept away gently by a breeze, 

and then slowed into descent 

as gravity imposed its silent,  

reliable summons. 

As the last few blades landed,  

he replied in these exact words  

(but in Spanish, of course):  

Listen, Miguel. 

I don't mess with your punctuation.

Don't tell me how to see 

the graceful but fleeting blur 

of red seams as the spinning sphere 

swiftly streaks from the mound 

and disappears, a dangerous hiss and thwap 

into the supple padded leather 

of an oily mitt.  

Let me tell you something, Miguel. 

That fastball is my own name, 

an autograph sketched in water. 

I stole that line from myself.  

You be number 7. 

I'll be number 29. 

You hit your way. 

I'll hit mine. 

Few, if any Yankees  

cared much for Neruda, 

but in August,  

a surprising move transformed the game.  

The American League  

instituted a designated poet rule. 

George dispatched Yankee brass

 to locate the best DP--price didn't matter-- 

and when they returned, 

the list of prospects was short. 

Garcia Marquez (Chicago White Sox) 

insisted upon sitting alone 

at the end of the dugout, 

where he wouldn't even talk, 

let alone write during the games.  

Thoreau, who struck out too much, 

was AWOL somewhere in Connecticut, 

and Whitman never returned 

from an off-season camping trip 

to Ohio with someone 

named Appleseed or Maple-something.  

Another 19 year-old (triple-A Albuquerque) 

named Joyce was promising, 

but nobody could read his writing, 

and, finally, some guy 

named Cummings could hit the ball,  

but would probably break the major league record for errors.  

Many years later, 

when Neruda accepted the Nobel Prize, 

Mantle attended the ceremony and said to reporters,  

Not bad at the plate,  

not bad in the field, 

Pablo Neruda hit .296  

for the '23 Yanks. 

We were lucky  

to have him on the team.  

Period. 

The Radio Out Here

540 to 1600 

scan the range  

turn the knob 

see the tuner slide slowly  

in radium’s turquoise glow 

past painted numbers 

distant news waffling quips fuzzy logic 

quavering weather reports 

static hisses predicting rain 

or at least the sound of rain 

with snowy noise interrupting 

a few clear notes where you stop 

for more sense before static returns.  

You try again 

more careful this time 

listening for signs of life 

slightly left or right 

because you--persistent optimist-- 

you believe in the goodness of people 

even here, in a place where a hundred miles an hour  

means making good time 

or fear of mechanical failure 

while snakes sun themselves 

on furnace-hot rocks and lizards dart 

between boulders while a tire  

plucks a nail from the soft highway 

or a radiator hose  finally cracks 

or maybe you would pull over 

stop on the shoulder 

but you are not driving 

so maybe you will all make it 

to the next how many miles 

did that last sign say?  

Of course 

who wouldn’t worry about water 

in the 110-degree nowhere between Barstow  

and what was the name of the next town?  

You wonder  

about the unplanned detour 

through downtown Daggett 

and you see bright laundry 

 flap in the shimmering air 

on a taut clothesline 

but in this wind wooden pins 

can't hold clean sheets and shirts 

so the same hot gust that rocks the car 

 rips clothes from the line 

and they tumble like excited ghosts  

disobedient, fluttering sleeves wild shirttails 

flail and roll cartwheel parallel to the road 

stumble flat and stop  

pinned in agony to jumping cholla 

not struggling against the spikes. 

You think you heard someone 

in the front seat say, Nothing here, 

and not too much later you’re all back 

on the Interstate eastbound again. 

Hour after hour  

unimaginable distance  

and suspended wire 

separate and connect remote gas stations  

and abandoned shacks 

bent mileage markers and sandblasted billboards 

a stop sign and part  

of a wood fence.  

Orphaned structures stand 

like wasted dreams in the desert 

where they beg 

for paint or shade 

or the next sap who decides survival  

is possible in this place.  

Knowing how these sights 

will give birth to nightmares 

you focus forward where you see  

the long road’s wavy dashes disguised 

by visions of water  

disappearing to show where heat bends 

asphalt and shifts the road  

into unfair halves.  

According to unknown rules 

the eastbound lane widens and pushes  

the westbound lane  

into a narrower band  

and later the westbound lane  

shoves back in the vast middle ground  

of cruel geography.  

The gas gauge leans 

closer to empty and worry 

peeks quickly over a rock 

points a finger toward jagged ridgelines 

or piles of rounded boulders  

where someone spray painted 

black arrows marked The End of Earth 

 in several directions.  

You ride in the back seat  

and in the rear view mirror 

you see the driver at the exact moment 

when his eyes can no longer conceal fear of this place.  

Hot wind 

the engine's steady hum 

and the droning of questions about the tires 

on the longest stretch of asphalt you've ever seen 

do not lend themselves well to a comfortable nap 

so shortly after sunrise you decide every mirage 

is more real  than what it impersonates.  

If you want to know  

what they're talking about  

up there in the front seat and you know 

you’ve heard them say a few things 

about whose idea was this anyway? 

you have to ask  more than once.  

You have a right to know.   

It’s risky but you need to keep asking.  

See whether they'll tell the truth 

whether they'll admit  to not knowing either.  

And if you decide to quit, think about this: 

you will never be the only one  

out here who sees what you see 

who worries about what happens  

if the car breaks down.  

You will never be the only one. 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Intentionally concealing his whereabouts and other personal information, 

Wiles Plank  refers to himself as  “an experienced voluntary camper.”  

His correspondence is consistently cryptic.  

Rex Rye  

California Disappeared  

California disappeared, 

but it left the following discarded objects: 

a Rambler American in the front yard--

broken windows, rust, no tires; 

an incinerator in the back yard-- 

concrete, heavy iron, a chimney; 

and, look at this, 

a bomb shelter. 

I touched the padlock, 

which broke, fell to the concrete.  

We descended a few steps 

into uncomfortable darkness.

  

We stopped, 

agreed on a quick trip 

to the 99 cent store for a flashlight, 

and we returned to explore.  

We found  

survival guides, pamphlets, aspirin, cough syrup, 

antibiotics, iodine, morphine, codeine, atropine, 

red wine, white rum, a record player, nine volt batteries,

a transistor radio.  

We found family photographs 

and a framed newspaper article. 

The headline read: 

KNOW YOUR ENEMY— FIDEL CASTRO.  

The story included warnings.  

We found Spam, dehydrated milk, soap, 

toilet paper, a first aid kit, a wall poster-- 

JFK superimposed on an American flag.  

You sat on the couch, opened a Saturday Evening Post. 

"Look at this," I whispered. 

You caught the jar 

of powdered orange drink 

I tossed to you.  

"Astronauts love this stuff," you said. 

 I remember sitting on the couch, 

next to you.  

I remember holding your hand.  

You snored me awake, 

and before I opened the door 

to check for sunlight or moonlight, 

you said, "Wait," 

and we stayed. 

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Rex Rye was born and raised in an Antarctic research facility. The only child of renowned geologists, Rye spent the first 15 years of his life indoors, rarely venturing into the relentless cold waiting to freeze anyone who dared to challenge the elements for more than a few brief minutes at a time. 

A few days prior to their son’s 16th birthday, Rye’s parents informed him that their funding sources had dwindled to an all-time low, and that the three of them would be heading north. More than a little rebellious at that stage of his life, Rex recalls responding with a sarcastic remark about relative location. Rye goes on to describe his father’s shocking reaction to the comment. The ensuing incident was marked by a quick right jab from his father, a punch which broke the young man’s nose.  

It was the first of many subsequent broken noses which Rex Rye suffered between the ages of 16 and 21, years he now describes as the Mouth Ages.  According to the writer, he still has no idea why it took him so long to learn to keep his mouth shut and his opinions to himself in situations which placed his poorly defended face at risk for further disfigurement.

Randall B. Scow  

I See Television  

I turn the television on. 

I see television. 

I turn the television off.

I see television. 

I unplug the television. 

I see television. 

I cover the screen and the cabinet 

with gray duct tape  

and thick gift-wrapping paper. 

I see television. 

I drag the television  

across the living room carpet, 

slide the television  

across the tiled kitchen floor, 

shove it through the backdoor, 

watch it tumble awkwardly 

down three concrete steps, 

which are consequently littered with broken glass, 

broken metal, broken plastic, and mysterious liquids. 

As the device tumbles, 

wrapping paper flaps like the arms and legs 

of children misbehaving at the edge  

of a spinning merry-go-round.  

The television loses momentum and stops on the lawn. 

I hurry to retrieve more tape. 

I do my best to repair  

the wounded wrapping paper 

which clings to the appliance’s fractured body. 

I cover the television with a large blanket, 

ruined last month by the dogs, 

and I use what’s left of the tape 

to secure the blanket  as tightly as possible.  

I run to the garage for a shovel. 

I dig a deep hole in the backyard. 

I push the television into the hole. 

I bury the television  

with dirt from the hole and several large cinderblocks.

I secure the tomb 

with moist, fertile earth from a nearby flowerbed.  

Carefully, I tamp down the dirt 

with the back of the shovel, 

and I walk on the surface  

to compact the contents.  

Using the rake, 

I quickly gather a large pile 

of fallen leaves, and I scatter the leaves  

to disguise the grave.  

I sprinkle the leaves with a light spray 

from the garden hose. 

I see television.  

Now, I’m talking to you. 

I called you to make an appointment, 

so I could speak with you about this situation.  

Your secretary claimed you left thirty minutes ago 

for the studio where you host a live broadcast 

once each week. 

She told me you were on television. 

In fact, I see you on television right now,

but you pretend not to know me.

Huddled together to defend themselves 

against  uncertainty and ignorance, 

ancients understood the armor of light.  

Burning objects, glowing things— 

these seemed to keep doom at a distance.  

We tell ourselves  

we are no longer primitive, 

but we continue to celebrate with fire and wishes, 

invoking the power of light to protect us 

from the passage of time.  

We teach our children simple rituals 

and we include gifts and frosting 

and cake and burning candles.  

We close our eyes for part of the ritual.  

Later, we say our good-bye’s, 

and we return to our daily routines. 

We stay up a little while longer to stare 

at moving patterns on a colorful, glowing screen 

and sometimes, we convince ourselves  

we are protected by watching certain patterns while people 

read stories to us.  

In the morning, 

I call you again.

I ask you to join me in the yard, 

and shortly after sunrise, 

we sweep away leaves, 

and we take turns with the shovel, 

digging.  

We exhume the television, 

and even though we know it's beyond repair, 

we also know it will be useful 

as fuel for tonight's campfire.  

As it burns, 

we will extend our hands 

to receive light and heat from the flames.  

I see television all the time, 

and so do you.

Randall B. Scow is, arguably, the most disturbed of three children who grew up with foster parents in in Oceanside, California. Enforcing strict totalitarian rules, his foster parents would, today, be arrested, convicted of felonies, and jailed.    

In an ongoing effort to justify brutal and violent disciplinary practices, Scow’s foster parents would extract and cite (out of context, of course) Biblical quotations during frequent, furious physical attacks on Randall and their other 7 foster children.   

According to the author, the cruelty of abusive parents was exacerbated by the unfeeling apathy of cowardly neighbors. Like Randall’s parents, most of the neighbors who lived on the deceptively quaint cul-de-sac near the Pacific Ocean also beat their children, and even though screaming was seldom heard in the neighborhood, the present day use of more cost effective construction materials would have enabled desperate pleas for relief to penetrate the solid lath and plaster walls common to homes built to protect secrecy of that nature.  Yes, the Bible warns parents that “sparing the rod will spoil the child,”  but nowhere does the Bible give parents permission or consent to the  use of wooden spoons, folding yardsticks, tree branches, leather belts,  or souvenir bullwhips from Tijuana to inflict punishment during what amounted to hushed-up torture sessions.  As a young man, Randall Scow was certainly better than some children and worse than others. This fact was true within his own family, too. The same may be said for his older brother and his younger sister.  Not once did his family’s youngsters engage in behavior which could be remotely described as malicious. Randall freely, honestly admits there were accidents, and while some of these accidents turned out to be costly for his parents, the kids never intentionally damaged anyone or anything, including the useless wooden garage Randall and his brother mistakenly torched and burned to the ground one July 4th. Frankly, if their parents would not have been smokers, none of the children would have enjoyed such easy, frequent access to matches. Considering the availability of matches, one might have expected at least some cursory instructions about how to use them safely, especially when used in close proximity to gasoline. 

Ella Marina Tzedrisznyk  

Jealous  

The clenched jaw is not camouflaged, 

does not deceive the gifted fist.                         

--Marva Barnum-Liu  

Winter's wicked winds 

whip wildly westward 

with woeful wishes 

while Wednesday waits, 

wounded.  

Summer's sultry song 

sweeps softly south, 

silently seducing Saturday's  

satisfied secrets.  T

he sun and the moon swoon and croon 

while I quietly run and bare my pale buns 

for the fun of it.  

One of my buns is suddenly stung 

by the unthinking sting 

of a solitary drone whose queen preens 

to the tone of the tunes 

from March until June, 

but never knows 

what life can be like 

when we become unwitting victims 

of my ignorant sister, 

who lives by herself 

and spends most of her time 

sharpening more  

than a few ugly daggers 

and freely confesses 

she sharpens these blades 

because  she is jealous of me.  

Jealous  of me, 

she will never be free 

from the feisty fetters, 

will never feel fulfilled, 

and so she careens 

across lawns, swerves through life 

like a demonic cart 

lost hopelessly among groceries

it lacks the hands 

to collect while shopping.

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Ella Marina Tzedrisznyk is a self-described “capitalist poetess.” Tzedrisznyk is the same Ella Marina who has built a reputation (and a considerable fortune) via her sometimes humorous, sometimes annoying, always relentless campaign to file as many lawsuits as possible. She sues (literally) almost everyone she meets.

Friends and family members are not granted special dispensations. Undeterred by the prospects of crossing the boundaries between fiction and reality, between the real and the surreal, California’s District 19 Court of Appeals overturned several lower court decisions which categorized and dismissed Ella Marina’s numerous claims and filings and motions as frivolous.   

In addition to sending several back to the lower courts for re-trial, several Appeals Court Justices filed preliminary paperwork which could result in the filing of felony charges against the lower court judges who ruled against Tzedrisznyk. Primarily because all related actions are matters of public record, no further discussion of these issues will be pursued here.  However, one noteworthy example does deserve brief mention. State lawmakers and other legislative insiders refer to the relevant proceedings by its ironic (and proper) title—Whateveryousay vs. The State of California.  Originally filed as a motion to change her legal name from Tzedrisznyk to “Whateveryousay,” the case veered from the generally predictable and executed some wild jumps and starts when Ella Marina, citing her Sixth Amendment Right  to due process, protested a judge’s use of the term, frivolous. The judge not only refused to grant the name change, he  refused to hear the motion.  In response to the judge’s decision, Tzedrisznyk filed a complaint with the  San Diego County Department of Mental Health, which was compelled by law  to investigate the woman’s claim that the judge was not only incompetent, but  insane.   Officials from the SDCDMH agreed with Ella Marina on the grounds that she,  herself, would have been insane had she not tried to change her name. Contrary  to the ruling by the judge in question, “Whateveryousay” is, as a surname, just as legitimate as many other unusual monikers.   

In keeping with many other rulings, decisions, and verdicts she has obtained, the plaintiff “changed her mind” after another judge granted the name change request. She then re-submitted paperwork and requested that her name be changed to “Whatthehell.” For the balance of that story, please visit www.californialegaleaglenews.com/EMT. 

Stewart Williams

The Last Friday Night Train

North of San Diego

south of Santa Ana

on the way through Oceanside

my friend Billy inadvertently invented 

a ridiculous contest. 

on the last Friday night train.

Fueled by

a half pint bottle

of plain wrap tequila

added to his extensive vocabulary

the peaceful war of words

began when a man 

across the center aisle

looked over the top

a crossword puzzle

and asked the following question:

What's another word for "thesaurus?"

Billy smirked at the old joke

and said

"Synonym compendium."

The exchange careened 

into contagion--

a slowish start gained momentum

until many passengers 

found themselves trading crazy phrases 

for reasons I cannot explain.

Urgent regurgitation inspired

emergency mastication.

Feckless pedestrian 

led to reckless defenestration.

Recursive defoliant 

brought out intrusive refrigerant.

A man named Ulysses

lifted his shirt

pointed to assorted scars.

Billy removed his hat

showed where he'd been partially scalped--

told the story.

A porter asked if he could take a look

and broke an armrest on his way down

to the floor in the first and only time 

he ever fainted 

but forget about the paramedics

because the sinus excavating

smelling salts a nurse waved in his face

hauled his wherewithal back into business

like a hook around the neck.

We disembarked

in Solana Beach

and hoofed it to the Kraken.

Billy found an empty wooden chair

carried it carefully through the crowd

on the way back to the patio

where longtime friends

shot pool for quiet money

and pooled money for noisy shots.

I fetched a handful of pistachios

from a bag I'd brought along

and as I tossed some empty shells

into a can against the wall

the red-haired clerk from Rite-Aid

wandered over so I introduced her

to Billy and she introduced herself

to him as Havoc

and with no success

tried to project a dangerous first impression.

Billy laughed

said he liked the fishnet stockings

told her he knew a girl in Texas by that name

then proceeded to explain

the game of crazy phrases.

She responded with descending sensible values.

He replied with transcendent promiscuous intentions.

Billy grinned when she spoke of comical beatnik logic.

He followed with irrelevant ethical paradox.

Irreverent lecherous aspirations.

Rapid deployment objectives.

Guiltless carnal delusions.

Involuntary frenzied acceleration.

Adamant lascivious entanglement.

Enervated consequential catatonia.

When I left for home

whatever she wants to call herself

was still going back and forth 

with the Billy who he's always been

and I know him well enough to know

he will exchange crazy phrases with Havoc

until she gets tired of hearing them,

which doesn't look like anytime soon.

North of San Diego

south of Santa Ana

on the way through Oceanside

my friend Billy invented 

a ridiculous contest. 

on the last Friday night train.

Bio and Commentary

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Stewart Williams has written and published poetry, fiction, and non-fiction for over 30 years. His exhaustive history of California drive-in movie theaters, Snack Bar Child, sold over six million copies.   

His interest in and personal experience living in mobile home parks provided the impetus for Revisiting Rancho Pantalones, a history of the well-known mobile home park in Pelo Madera Beach, twenty miles north of San Diego, California. 

Molando Zack

Leucadia

Something

inside me shakes loose

when I continue south

past the concrete domes 

of old, off-line nuclear power plant.

Migraine haze Los Angeles

fades close to the Las Pulgas sign.

Fleeing past the fleas off-ramp,

I am closer to home,

home where I can breathe

on the beach

in Leucadia.

Bio and Comment

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Molando Zack spearheads the Fix Me Now Foundation from his home in Leucadia.  His fund raising campaigns on behalf of his philanthropic company focus on a single goal—finding a cure for an affliction that has tormented victims like a persistent, invisible bully on a playground that appears and disappears with no warning and no discernible cause.   

His commitment to working for a cure is rooted in his own experience. Zack, himself, suffers from the disorder—Intermittent Dysmorphic Amnesia.   

No accurate statistics have yet been compiled to inform us just how many people  suffer from this insidious scourge. There are no apparent physical symptoms. And  because most victims are reluctant to talk about their IDA episodes, diagnosis is even more difficult. Experimental treatments show little promise leaving IDA victims to stand alone on a frayed tightrope between groundless hope and pure ignorance. 

NOTE

The "Editor's Special Supplement" originally intended to be included here has been redirected. As part of a negotiated settlement with Mr. Scow, the redirected  elements will appear elsewhere in an (as yet) undetermined arena. 

By mutual agreement, one component of the Supplement will be included.

    

By Rodney B. Scow, SLF

Recursive Multimedia

Encinitas, California