Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 19 no 7

8/8/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 19 no 7

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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, July 1998

Yo, Gee, I got to think of me. We all got to go someday.

Your time just ended. Nothing personal, just business.

Murder, He Wrote William Gallego

STREAMS 7


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 19 Number 7 July, 1998Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher

Thomas Perry, Assistantcontents

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $20 a year. Sample issues -$2.60 (incl

postage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envel

Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

1998, Ten Penny Players Inc.

Will Inman 4-6

Ida Fasel 7

Robert Cooperman 8-11

David Michael Nixon 12-13Joan Payne Kincaid 14

H. Edgar Hix 15-16

Kate Gale 17-18

Geoff Stevens 19

Lori Fraind 20-22Sean Brendan-Brown 23-24

Joy Hewitt Mann

Kit Knight

Arthur Winfield Knight

Albert Huffstickler


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http://www.scribd.com/doc/37550458/Streams-7


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to exhume the unanswered voices in our marrow - will inman

to expose the nakedness of bones

to strip away the secrecy of murdersto follow beetles and maggots into the

arenas of torture and death

to know that perpetrators still hold high places

to know that they use legal power to cover themselves

theyre not as clean as the skeletons of those they tortured

that filth behind their eyes, carrion in their pores --

pollutes us all

we cannot shed our connections with the murders

all of life is present in every birth and death

the newborn and the dead breathe through our nostrils

the missing ones twist and turn in our lungs, in our guts

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they guide our eyes again and again to their bloody footprints

they shape our tongues around terrible words

they speak to us in syllables of scavengers

their wisdom is dust inside our lipsuntil their suffering is engraved in our ribs and skulls,

we cannot speak of healing

revenge is too simple, punishment would be a condom,

execution of perpetrators would not exculpate

their abyss in us

what was done to the disappeared still works in our hands

it is not the luxury of guilt that moves us

it is the deceitfulness of innocence that sucks our marrow

no terrible thing but waits blind in our hands

we who are capable of all good things -- have to see

evil; all the way down us before we can be trusted

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we must remember, we must take it on as fierce

and as dark as death: we

will not do those things ever again to anyone

we will grow respect like hot lava in our bone marrowwe will build trust with eyes that watch us

we will plant joy in the faces of ghosts, they

will not haunt us: they will lead us

out of the distances in ourselves

they will make us beware of nearness

until we find that pathless way

to the center beyond our wanting

19 February 1998, Tucson

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Once More, In Oregon - Ida Fasel

A young man recently

Took it into his headTo test his creativity

On schoolmates he shot dead.

His parents (shot as well)

Poetized his name

He had an aptitude

For a deadlier game.

A game without a heart.

A winner from the start.

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A Tale of the Grateful Dead -- A Second Would-Be-Thief - Robert Cooperman

Im Cuthred the Clumsy,

for, if given the chance,

Ill slip on horse shitwhen I try to sneak up

on pilgrims with suckling purses

to lay at some shrine already

groaning with offerings.

When I sprang from cover

to order that merchant

to hand over his purse

and everything in his saddlebags,

I slipped on some mud

in the shade of that oak.

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But the others roared out

to surround that fat traveler,

prodded him with daggers,

pikes, poles, crossbow bolts,amazed that one so quivering with flesh

could possess so little

in the way of coins and gems.

Hes given it all, he whined,

to see a stranger buried,

all of us laughing the bitter

yap of disappointment

that turns to rage,

whetting our knives

to keep him quiet, forever.

But out of the falling night,

a rider scattered us like ducks;

I ran, smashed my head.When I woke all of my brotherhood

had disappeared. I staggered south,

winter coming on fast as that rider.

Christ help me, if I dont

find a fat, rich merchant soon.

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A Tale of the Grateful Dead -- One of the Would-Be-Thieves - Robert Cooperm

He looked like easy pickings

on his mule, when any pilgrimwith sense would travel with an army

to protect him from the likes of us.

We knocked him to the ground,

grabbed his mule, for the price

it would fetch at the next fair day

and to ransack his saddlebags.

Nothing! though we stripped him

naked and quivering as a baby.

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But he was damned even blacker

than us: Satans mist descending,

laughter driving us mad

as the swine driven over the cliff,and a horseman thundered at us:

his mount shooting dragon flames.

We took off mad as dead chickens,

but only I escaped, to a monastery,

threw myself on the mercy

of the brothers,

who use me like a hoe,

though they speak of Gods love

until it bubbles in my brains

like a hearth pot of hot gruel.

Ill bide until I can make off

with some of their silver,

though I dont mind the field work,and I find--to my surprise and disma

that I dream less and less

of the wenches, within these walls

Id have no trouble scaling

while the rest of the order

sleeps content in hard beds.

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The Live Oak - David Michael Nixon

We remember the nooses in the garden,

that hung from the live oak, three in a row.

Father was always in a hurry,

so nooses swayed in the garden, ready.

In nightmares, we would see black faces,

too many for the frail trees limbs.

first appeared in Hot Ai

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There Is a Sound - David Michael Nixon

There is a sound I have heard so often

that I no longer listen, or if I do,

it does not make any deep impression,

but troubles my surface only briefly:

it is the cry of the murdered, keening toward death.

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Giving the Most - H . Edgar Hix

Left, but not left, on the field, in the water, splattered across trees:

the smell of the dead, the screams of the wounded, the prayers of the dying.

They say the young men gave the most:

the young men who believed as only the young can,

wrapping their hearts around their flag,

not able to list the 10 Amendments,

only their girlfriends, brides, mothers, fathers, children, sisters, brothers;

the young men who learned they were not immortal

or, luckier didnt get time to learn.

The dead do not hear the dead, the wounded, the dying.

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The old men give the most:

believing as only old men can;

bandaging their hearts with their flags,

able to list each battle, each friend, each enemy;

able to remember firing blindly, being blind from fire;

able to remember coming home ghosts:

living this bright shadow that falls in front of them

as they leave the blood muddy boot prints behind

but wear the boots, the immortal boots

they will never have time enough to untie.

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Dying with Dirty Sheets - Kate Gale

Leon died before laundering his sheets for the second time

that year, July heat, streets full of pigeons and people.

Jet skis were out, snowmobiles parked in garages. He had written a

book once which caused people to notice him as he entered

a restaurant or left a laundromat. For a short while, he could

afford a maid who washed his sheets in a usual manner, and a stereo

so that he lived one musical note after another. But the pigeons

were startled by a new face and hands throwing bread in the park,

a writer with a new story in which a lady who wore gloves even tobed, went mad for lack of a mirror. With this new story, Leon was

fanned back to his laundromat days.

The maid went looking for better employment.

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The day he died began like any other. He planned his writing

schedule, then lost in myriad tasks, he sank to scrubbing

the encrusted floor. Finally, he noticed the smell

of unwashed sheets and remembered the days of the maid whisking the

place with a bounce of breasts, a twinkle in her eye.

He walked out into the street with the sheets in a basket,

plans of a story, a good writing day, failed to see

the approaching produce truck, remembered briefly

that he had forgotten to check his mail since Christmas.

Perhaps his latest story had been accepted.

The pigeons flew up in circles and thenlanded to pick at the fallen fruit.

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Kilroy Wuz Everywhere - Geoff Stevens

We are all in the killing business,

killing time, killing fields, killing feet;

pain killers, kill-joys, kilroys,

boredom, pollution, blisters,

aspirin, wet blankets, graffito artists.

Even biting the bullet causes led poisoning.

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Massacre, Ahmici, 1993 - Lori C. Frainda photograph by Fille Peres

We buried you in translucent plastic.

Or we buried you under a piece of canvasStretched taut across your body

And nailed to a slab of fresh-cut pine.

Or we buried you in a bloodied carpet

rolled up like a cigarette.

We buried so many in translucent plastic,Or under pieces of canvas

Stretched taut and hailed to slabs of pine,

Or rolled in bloodied carpets,

like cigarettes.

Im sorry

Im not sure any more

How we buried you.

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Murder in America - Lori C. Fraind

Murders, result from little ol arguments over nothing at all....Ive worked on

cases where the principals had been arguing over a 10-cent record on a juke box, or

over a one-dollar gambling debt from a dice game. - Dallas Homicide Detective

Chances are, that if someone kills you,

Its not because someone wants you dead.

Its more likely that someone thinks you cheat

At chess, or play music too loud, instead.

Perhaps you didnt mow your grass enough,

Or hogged the fan when the weather was hot,

Or played the wrong song on the juke box,

Or took someone elses seat, or maybe not.

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Perhaps you couldnt hold your tongue,

Or perhaps you were simply a wife,

Perhaps you owed somebody money,

And paid in full with your life.

Or perhaps you will be the murderer,

Consider: how true does this ring?

How often do you lose reason over some slight,

Claiming, Its the principle of the thing?

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Diabolism - Sean Brendan-Brown

They sailed North Sea stinking of death,maggoty kip lashed to foredecks,cannon speaking enemy. They carrieda god in a black hide-bound box anddrank its blood and loved nothing.They beat their children & animalsof burden and scorned with hymnalsoothsaying our polyglot world.

Our advantage was their fear of darkness.

They had no passion for war: theyfought cruelly and killed horses.They told us it was holyto keep one wife and deny all others. Wedid not respect their wisdom as they proveddaily to hate and despise their women. Our

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understanding of their god was that it wasa poor father, having abandoned its son in war.I told the priest that a good fatherwould have died side by side his son, hands

bathed in Roman blood. The priest baredhis teeth, stamped his feet but chose hiswords carefully, for I am a Chief:Your heart is hardened otherwiseyou would understand the greatness of God.

I decided he was a devil. I asked my tribes

blessing to kill him and his soldiersthan threw the book-god into Dog River.All I have spoken is the truth.Now you understand we were not cruel,hasty nor unreasonable.

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Blood and Water - Joy Hewitt Mann

Mother wore lipstick to church,

strawberry for the preacher,

and a dress

of starfish and urchins:

the ocean

and a berry patch

all waves and sweetness for Jesus

who visited each Sunday.

Oh, Jesus! Sweet Jesus! and Id quiet

my brother

in the dark beside me

his swollen belly craving her

more than food.

One morning,

No water running from the gash,

only Mother

screaming at the knife my brother he

and brother

lifting the preachers feet and hands

looking

for the wounds.

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Funeral Rites - Joy Hewitt Mann

Because there was war

they handed me a cardboard file --

one hundred pages of my son inside.

And so I lived by selling his body

a page at a time. His last letter

is stuck to the inside cover:

Home soon. Keep both doors locked.

Yesterday his last poem was published;today, I have unlocked both doors.

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Deccas Baby, 1862 - Kit Knight

The devil must be beating

his wife, Mrs. Singleton said

referring to the sun

shining through

the pouring rain as we buried

Decca. Mrs. Singleton held

Deccas baby as she watched

her own baby being lowered

into the mud. The infant slept

in her grandmothers arms.

Thru tears and rain, never

have I seen a more drenched

face. My soul knelt; I cant

imagine a more tragic scene.

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I helped dress Deccafor this. Her motherchose to bury her daughterin her wedding gown.

Its only been a yearsince that day of kisses.Hundreds of kisses.Kisses that raninto each other. Alex kissedDecca like strings of pearls.In the casket, Deccas whitegloved hands were crossedover ever her young breasts andthe last two lettersshed received from Alex- - still unopened - -

were clasped in one stiffhand. Shed been too feverishto read them herself anddidnt want anyone else

to touch them. Somedaythat sleeping infantmight wonderhow daddy faredfacing Yankee gunswhile mom was dying. Somedaythis War will be over. Buttoday, in the sun drenchedugliness, that motherless babyis 13 days old and there arentany tomorrows.

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Little Joes Nurse, 1864 - Kit Knight

Of his four children,Little Joe was President Davis

favorite. The five year oldwas allowed to interruptmeetings with General Lee.The War, now in itsthird year and trailingthousands of bodies,has to end. The Southcant replacedead men. Boys--barelyin their teens--are marchingoff to fight. Old men--senile and boneless--

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are shouldering rifles.Yankee papers rightlyaccuse us of robbingthe cradle and the grave.

And now the cradle has beenplundered again. Little Joefell off a railingand plunged20 feet to a brickpavement. The child died

as his mother--five monthspregnant--reached his side.The First Lady screamedfor ten hours whilethe President pacedand grieved. His son

was dead and his nationwas dying. All night,I could only hearthe tramp of his boots,

the flapping curtainsand shattering screams.And I, the Irish nursewho should havebut didnt--my God,I didnt, I couldnt,

I didnt--preventthe tragedy, hovered,feeling my soul had beensucked outby the wind.

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Baby Face Nelson: Hit - Arthur Winfield Knight

I can feel the windas I head into it,firing the machine gunin the late light.Everythings dying,even the day,as I cross the field.Its the Tuesday afterThanksgiving. One cop

is dead and anothers dyingwhen I get to the ditchwhere they hid.Im wounded, too:hit in the side.I dont know where else.

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Im numb when I staggerback across the fieldto the car, cornstalkscrunching beneath my feet

on the red earth.Helen runs toward me,crying when she seesall the blood. Damn itI just got this suit. Lookat all the holes. I say,Youll have to drive,

Im hit, but you should seethe other guys.She always laughswhen I say stuff like that,but shes not laughing now.

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Butchery - Albert Huffstickler

Listen to this:

they operated on my father for cancer

in the Veterans Hospital in Washingtonknowing they couldnt get it all

It was in his back and shoulders.

When they finished,

they packed him with gauze and sewed him up.

Then they put him in a room

without a nurse and left him.He had already had his larynx removed

and breathed through a hole in his throat.

So the wound from his shoulder and back

was bleeding into the hole in his throat

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and my mother sat there by him all night

wiping the blood away and pulling

the clots from the hole in his throat

so he wouldnt strangle on his own blood.

When he didnt die as expected,they sent him home.

Back then, they still made house calls

so it was the family doctor who,

cut him open and found the gauze pads.

All this following four years of internmentin a Japanese prison camp in the Philippines.

This was his reward.

And where was I?

Somewhat at a loss about my whole life,

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unable to face my fathers coming death,

I was on my way to Chicago

hitchhiking on $10 my mother had sent me.

I was almost as cold as I was crazy

but convinced that the answer lay in Chicagowhere Im sure a lot of answers lay

but not mine.

Mine was thirty years in the future

and we didnt have time travel back them.

But what that man suffered for his countryand what he received in return!

You think it all started with Vietnam?

Man, its never stopped.

from Heeltap 3 St. Paul MN 1998 This issue dedicated to Albert Huf

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1999 is our 20th year of publication.

Issued 11 times a year (monthly save for August) and co-edited by Richard Spiegel and Barbara F

Our monthly themes are lines excerpted from Muriel Rukeysers poem, Theory of Flight (19

January (deadline December 1, 1998):

Cut with your certain wings; engrave space now

to your ambition : stake off skys dimensions.

from Preamble

February (deadline January 1, 1999):

Centrifugal power, expanding universe

within expanding universe, what stillnesses

lie at your center resting among motion?

from The GyroscoMarch, (deadline February 1, 1999):

O love, how am I surpassed how mocked how

defiled and corroded untouched by your kiss.

from The Tunnel

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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 19 no 7

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