Andrei
Codrescu, Editor
Laura
Rosenthal; Contributing Editor
Rex
Rose,
Daniel McNamara, Assistants to the Editor
Andrea
Garland, Webmistress
Rex
Rose, Webmeister
INSIDE
THE CORPSE
THE
CORPSE IN CYBERSPACE!
SUBMISSION
GUIDELINES
LETTERS
POEMS
Dick Gallup
APPLE
SKULLS
Gerald Burns
THE BOOK OF J AND THE GENESIS REVIVAL
Art Hilgart
MOCKING
BIRD
David Morse
RORSCHACHS FROM RAYBURN
Roland Rayburn
FOUR
PHOTOS
Chris Felver
THE
MIASMA, I
Stuart Stefany
A
MAN MISTAKING HIS EGO FOR HIS MOTHER
Mike Finn
A
CARTOON POEM
George Nobl
FIVE
POEMS
Dave Brinks
POEM
Gwendolyn Albert
LIMA
BEAN
Mark Spitzer
THE
MOON IN HIDING
Marione Ingram
NIETZSCHEAN ANARACHY & THE POST-MORTEM
CONDITION
Max Cafard
POEMS
Bill Berkson
DRINKING COCA-COLA ON RED ARMY STREET
Alex Sydorenko
SLEEPWALKING
Curzio Malaparte
THE
HOT AIR MACHINE
James Nolan
MEDIA AS CULTURE: THE STATE OF THE FIASCO
Jim Nisbet
WHY
WRITE ABOUT THE RROMA?
Roger Parham-Brown
SUFFER
THE LITTLE CHILDREN
Art Hilgart
EDISON'S
LAST BREATH
William Palmer
CUSTOMER CONTACT, A Reality Poem
John Schuerman
|
POEMS
BY DICK GALLUP
BETRAYAL 1939 STYLE
In this strange fragmented world blitzed with information
There are few things harder to bear
Than silence, so soon full of mocking voices,
The grating of ideas upon the ruined mind
Like the gnawing of insects deep within a tree
Where words run under cover into phrases
And those phrases become men carrying meaningless baggage
Devouring sense into some mild porridge of rehashed thought.
You came, you saw, you departed
Piteous day clawing at the dawn
Breaking like the last wave on some forgotten stranded beach
Now lost far inland. So silence
Is like a desert, a blank in speech
A hiatus in time, a metronome in Poland
Somewhere that paused, quieted by a hand
As the sound of bombers grew into the whistle
Of bombs falling on the lost future.
BATTY
AS THE DOVES THAT FLY
Reflective images were the darling of another age
Perhaps, as the Century turned
Shapes fluttered out of passing strangers
While neighbors at a cafe emitted and endless series
Of personalities
Quick pulses into the air
That sustained the likes of Ezra Pound
Who saw both before and beyond, it seems, in taste
And, no doubt, drew all his bright images
Out of the fruitful air.
|