19 September 2009

Susan V. Facknitz

Gary Dubola Memi

Susan V. Facknitz


Rifle fire on afternoon streets
hits buildings, bodies, orange and red,
erupts; arms splay as they fall
or flee. Brown dirt runs red into ocher,
the colors of this season.
The woman was going to work
among the bare trees of Baghdad.
She entered the building as she always had,
headscarf in place, eyes averted.
But the soldier was nervous.
Here only days, still smelling of soap
and the breezes off the bay,
he knew about the things
that had been done, the bodies of soldiers
that had been landed at the base
the morning he’d shipped out. She held her bag
tightly. She could feel the bulky square
it contained. She felt its edges,
thought about the power it held, that soon
it would unleash. He saw her coming,
approached her first. She stiffened,
gripped her bag as he brought the dog
closer, ordered her to stop, stand still.
She couldn’t let this happen. Outside,
the clear air, wind washed, whistled
along the alley, as she refused, as he shouted
and she turned, hands on the sacred package,
holy words echoing in her head,
the pages of the book trembling,
her feet beginning their terror
as the guns rose
and she fell
and the others after.

Susan V. Facknitz lives in Massanetta Springs, Virginia. She teaches literature and creative writing at James Madison University. She has published poems in Poetry East, Louisiana Literature and New Orleans Review.

(author retains copyright)


Gary Dubola Memi

A Treatise on the Nature of Previously Published Electronic Arts

Please take this protest
And consider it a threat
Yes you

Writing to you
Is like writing for war
Or anything else

Your applied rules
Your universal theory
Is keeping me bound

When I break free
I mean really free
I will take a piece of you with me

The part that cares
And the part that wears clothes
The cart that comes before the horse

I have divorced myself
From the ridiculous notion
That your red tape is gracious

I will canvas my own halls
And spin my own wheels
For as long as your greasy rules apply

What you're missing
As a lot
Is probably not much

But maybe tomorrow
A solid gem will burden you

Often in treaty
We bring things to tables
Like bread from hearth

Thanks for being consistent
My protest remains the same
Against you as it is with others

Not to lump
But how does it feel
To fold your arms at a gift

A common problem
A simple fix
Set this poem free

Gary Dubola Memi currently lives on Long Island and commutes into Manhattan five days a week for work. On these mornings, you can find him writing poems, turning your sleepy train car into a veritable café. That is if you ride the Long Island Rail Road. You can also follow his progress at www.railroadpoetry.blogspot.com. Gary lives with his wife and dog and yet to be gender constructed fetus.

(author retains copyright)


05 September 2009

Greg Veitch

Stephen Williams

Greg Veitch

Concerning the Bellboy

The milkmaid in Vermeer’s paintings with the
shabby blue apron, the look of bitter
romance washing her face with a gray simplicity;

perhaps it was the shepherd’s son who had never
returned her simplest fears, or perhaps just the
pyrite complexion of Lord Donahue’s oldest

nephew, her mind elsewhere as tallow clings to
wrinkles in her work. Ground anise, sharp
lavender in quiet haste while the outside

world revives its frenzied pulse; oh what a
pleasure to see the new candles just as
the lady suggested. Perhaps now the

soft smell of emptiness formerly kicked
under the tin wash basin returns up
the sleeve of the coxcomb that evening.

Greg Veitch is an upcoming writer in Guilford, Connecticut. So far he has only been published in a few small literary magazines, one of which belongs to his high school. Do not overlook him though--just because he has not been recognized to a great extent does not mean his writing is anything less than mind-numbingly exciting. (He may simply be a bit shy.)

(author retains copyright)


Stephen Williams

In A Dark Time

In a dark time
within us and here,
we smooth ourselves over
with oil and gossip.

Beating our heels into the floor music,
paying more with less

Whistling old songs
like they'll save us.

Give us that shot,
vaccine against swine
boiled in the underworld.

There's not enough
lighthouses to cast light over the dying sea.

The fires are burning California.

Where's the great Kennedy from yesterday?

Only Dylan still has a spark to share.

We should march for something...

We're in a vacuum of overpopulation,
soulless mass,

in a dark time.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night. He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. His poetry has appeared in Anthology, Avocet, Blue Collar Review, The Broome Review, Byline Magazine, Chronogram Magazine, Eskimo Pie, Fissure Magazine, Freefall, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review, HUNGUR, Liquid Imagination, Nerve Cowboy, Mirror Dance, POEM, Poesia, Posey, protestpoems.org, Purpose, REAL, Tales from the Moonlit Path, and others.

(author retains copyright)