Opening Words

 
    The times they are a changin', if I can quote Bob Dylan.  Life is changing at a pace, for some too slowly and for others too quickly.  Nonetheless it is happen.  What is time is the great question of today, is it linear as we would assume, with a starting point and an ending?  Or does it ripple through the cosmos in concentric rings as if it was a stone thrown into a still pond.  Does it branch off in different directions, like some massive train/subway station.  Whatever 'track' you find yourself, you on that for the duration of your ride, which is the time of your life.  Why is 'time of your life' a good thing, when all the time we have is for our life?  Or should I say, life is for time.  This is what I'm wondering about as I start this November issue.
    Time seems to be heavy or light depending on the circumstance. So time is the essence of what we are in a way.  We are defined by the moment of time we call our age and so it continues, our friend, ally or foe.  I leave it with you to think through, and don't worry, you have a lot of time.   
        In this issue we welcome some old friends, new friends and new poets grace the pages enjoy them.  As well, enjoy the words of Jeffrey Mackie, a poet now living in Montreal that I've had the pleasure of reading his works and have corresponded with him a couple of times.
   


Poetry

DRIFTWOOD

The letter came yesterday,
a chatty pen and ink saga
from a long ago, far away beach friend;

memories adrift,

like wet brown wood
floating on a wave,
drifting in and out;

words written in sand,
erased with the tide,
hidden behind pencil-thin snow fences

in grassy dunes; 
sandpipers footprints
telling where we were.

Strong winds blow 
the wood back into the sea,
crashing into the jetty,

breaking in half.


          KINDERTRANSPORT
   THE ANGUISH OF DEPARTURE


The railroad station is full of little people,
hands held tight by mothers, fathers, grandmas,
tiny faces, mirrors of their elders;

little people going on a train trip,
not to the zoo, or to the picture show,
going on a train trip to unknown lands,

to be taken care of  by strangers,
not their mothers, fathers, grandmas;
they will be safe in these homes, they are told;

the children do not know this,
they cry and beg to stay home,
they do not know

their mothers, fathers, grandmas
will go on train trips
in cars that reek of urine, vomit,

never to return.

The little people
who cried at the railroad station
bear witness today

to their train trip to life.



                     AFTERNOON TEA

     Tea leaves rest in my bone china cup,
     glistening like beads of sunshine
     through jalousied windows as I listen
     to cries and chants and prayers and wisdom
     from women who came before me

        like shrunken toothless women on Calcutta streets
        birthing, nursing, starving while
        Mother Theresa's strong hands
        holds, soothes, prays,

          like Shanghai girl babies given away, pushed aside,
          drowned in ponds filled with golden carp
          leaving boy babies to till the soil,
          pick the leaves,

             like ageless Japanese women in heavy silk kimonos,
             delicate hands ceremonially preparing tea
             made of special powder, pouring, whisking,
             hanging scrolls, flowers to greet friends,

                like Russian women, strong, hot
                tea brewed in samovars
                tasting of Gypsy sighs,
                Moscow snows, Georgian chants,

    like my Grandma sitting at her kitchen table,
    glass of Swee-Touch-Nee tea in hand,
    taken from an orange and black box,
    sugar cube between lips to sweeten, warning
    "If you drink dark tea you'll be nervous,"
    not defining caffeine, but knowing all the same.

        Tea leaves swirl, rest in hypnotic paths,
        bitter dry leaves torn from bushes
        bearing fragrant white flowers.



      BLACK, WHITE AND BLUE

Ray Charles plays piano,
Georgia, Georgia, on my mind,
black and white ivories sing the blues,
the blues, birth of the blues.

Red blood flows,
baby cries
in black, starless night;
wiggly, squiggly crack baby,

name her Georgia,
born to be blue.

Oh Ray,  pound your fingers
on that piano;
when you hear Georgia's wail
do your sun-glassed eyes

see pigtails, 
pinafores,
patent leather shoes.

This Georgia is
gaunt, grey,
guiltless.

Yeah, Ray,
play that eighty-eight,

sing,
pray for Georgia.



             MONOGAMY                

I lie with you in fields
under a comforter of sunlight
not to be shared;

no matter the polygamous,
the concubines of old,
the many beds
where they lay;

the green in my eye
twists around you,
an emerald silk scarf
pulled tight

when the ill wind
of other woman
passes by.

GILDA KREUTER
GILDA KREUTER    BIO

Gilda Kreuter has published four books of poetry, CLOSETS, CRACKED MASKS, THE NATURE OF THINGS and THE ELUSIVE MUSE, all illustrated by her artist-husband, Jack.

She has been the recipient of honors for her workshops at libraries, art guilds and high schools in New Jersey and Florida.  She was a finalist in the 2000 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Competition, and winner of the 2000 and 2001 Chapbook Contests sponsored by the Poets of the Palm Beaches.  She has recently won First Prize for two of her poems sponsored by the Florida State Poetry Society.  She will be a participant in the Author's Showcase to be presented at the Delray Beach Public Library on January 11, 2004

She is a member of the Florida State Poetry Society,  The Poets of the Palm Beaches, The New Jersey Poetry Society, the National Association for Poetry Therapy and the National League of American Pen Women

Her work has recently been published in national magazines: Poetica, The Connecticut River Review, Penumbra, The Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Art Times, Poetry for Peace, the Atlantic Highlands Herald and Poetic Voices.

Gilda is a docent at the Cornell Museum of Art and History , Old School Square, Delray Beach, Fl., and the Ocean County Historical Museum, Toms River,N.J. She is a "snowbird" writing on the beaches of Florida and New Jersey.




BIOGRAPHICAL SENRYU POEMS 

Richard H. Williams 

I

Ginsberg’s lyric Howl
and the narrative Kaddish
influenced poets. 

II

Bunny Berigan
Theme song: “I Can’t Get Started”
Supreme soloist 

III

Archibald MacLeish;
poet, dramatist, public
servant, and teacher.

IV

Hail Ronald Reagan,
the golden tongued orator,
a likable guy!

V

Is Hemingway great?
What about William Faulkner?
Shakespeare is the best!

VI

Is Madonna through?
Great press but decreased talent.
Just one good movie! 

 VII

Laurel and Hardy
were the best comedy team.
Chaplin stands alone! 

 2 

VIII

Short, stout Gertrude Stein
Who can understand her prose?
 Perhaps A. Toklan

IX

F. Scott Fitzgerald
described the roaring twenties.
Wrote very smooth prose.

X

There is John Updike,
displays versatility.
Yet no Nobel Prize! 

 XI

President Harding
liked dogs, revered Roosevelt
and Napoleon. 

XII

Hot pants Bill Clinton,
constantly seeking women.
Will distort the truth. 

 XIII

Mussolini and
Hitler and Hirohito.
Black Triumvirate! 

XIV

President Nixon
knew his politics quite well.
But would you trust him? 

3 

XV

Do you think Norman
Rockwell is an artist or
an illustrator? 

 XVI

Jackson Pollock was
an Abstract Expressionist.
Was killed in car crash. 

 XVII

John L. Sullivan
known as “The Boston Strong Boy.”
Heavyweight champion. 

 XVIII

Jackie Gleason was
“The Great One.” Successful in
TV, stage, and film. 

 XIX

Ty Cobb: some viewed him
as best of baseball players.
Was a nasty guy! 

 XX

Greg Norman is a
colorful golfer; didn’t
win US Majors. 

The End 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD
By Steve Sharpe (October 15. 2003)

 

With the madness only in his eyes
He looked perfectly sane
Standing over a lifeless body who deserved the death
So handily dealt.
Another color, another religion, another race, a foreigner,
a pervert, a cop, a liberal, a communist, different, just… different
Theirs, not Ours, not Mine,
Others’, different, Alien.
Not a tragedy, just another day
Momma and Daddy say it’s The Way of the World

Another cry in the night, a weak futile wimper
Against hunger, against tyranny, against poverty.
The child, the woman, the man, the nameless, faceless someone,
Used, abused, dominated, exploited, enslaved,
Somewhere in this nation, in any nation, in Every nation.
Not a tragedy, just another day
Momma and Daddy say it’s The Way of the World

Come now, the rumble, grumble of machines,
Over flower, over forest, over the living and the dead.
The pound and the jolt of explosions,
The sounds of war and men killing men,
For some lonely ground that leaders want
Or some black gush, or the Right Way to God,
Or a hundred other reasons, excuses, to have the bloodshow.
Not a tragedy, just another day
Momma and Daddy say it’s The Way of the World

One life wrong, in an instant,
A reaction, the brief flash of the moment.
A flicker of movement, a bad decision.
Take the hit, drink the drink, inhale once more.
Inject the happy pain, breathe deep, its springtime,
Brief springtime, shortly lasted,
While Misery is the lifetime agony.
A body Temple crumbles, no mind, no muscle, burnt out.
Not a tragedy, just another day
Momma and Daddy say it’s The Way of the World

Who is the everyman who goes to work,
To home, to bath, to bed and over.
Again and again, in a sacred circle, going nowhere quickly.
Hoping for family, for friends, for future
Receiving none, fervently plodding his circle
Watching his children wave goodbye as they move
While he stays in his Circle, plodding his hole,
Deeper each day, six feet under, finally.
No, not a tragedy, just another day
Momma and Daddy say it’s The Way of the World

And above it all, it is He on Golden Throne
Who watches in solemn sadness, His Word falling deafly,
As His people desert Him, mock Him, shun Him
For Humanism, for State, for Mind, for All Greater Things.
He sees the Misery, the Sadness, the Futility, Brutality and Wickedness
And says now, with pity, "Enough",
Now with tears, "Enough"
And now with anger, "Enough"!
He, who wrought Sodom, Gemorrah and the Flood,
Oh Momma, Oh Daddy, He will change it,
O' Yes, He will Change the Way of the World

 

Steve Sharpe



FRIDAY EVENINGS
 
The two of us on the feather sofa.
The old Stromberg-Carlson television
playing our favorite program,
"I Remember Mama."
Our hallowed and special night.
The softness of Mother's skin
as I burrow my body against hers.
Inviting and safe,
with always a place for my head to rest
against her bosom.
Her coffee, my hot chocolate,
steam rising from both cups.
Chocolate mallomars on he table.
Supper's aroma clinging to
her favorite housecoat;
the one I saved for and bought
from my allowance.
Our haven from the world.
 
Years pass.
The young child now a woman
grasping at memories
ethereal, vaporous, intangible.
To never touch her again.
To feel the pain and longing
on Friday evenings when alone,
with television's darkened screen,
 
I remember Mama.
 
 
 
AT LOOSE ENDS
 
At loose ends and grasping air,
searching for meaning where none exists
and never has.
A body hemorrhaging life;
a soul wheedling favor,
preening to be noticed.
A spirit so enlivened 
then deserted
then discarded
by fate’s whimsical dance of chance.
Who goes where and
who gets sanctioned and
who gets trampled then tossed into
rejection’s bin?
Who holds the key and why? 
Speak quickly before it’s over.
Ask the questions that go
unanswered.
Roar furiously before the whimper,
and leave your gentle breath scent on the
W I N D . . .
 
 
 
UNENDING
 
  
The gloom of the years
drenching days in fogged shadows
weeping without tears
 
+++
 
Pain deforms my soul
Winter’s unending grayness
so alone, so lost

Roberta L. Lightfoot
awriter59@earthlink.net


"Ghost Sounds"

 

With all the woes of surprise

A tear came

Like a raindrop falling

From a cloudless sky.

A tear of past,

Present and to come

Brought a shift of feeling

And a subtle sigh.

Sorrow can blunt wisdom

Or make it blind

With memories so charged

They are bound to give forth

Unannounced echoes

In an echoing chamber

Of somber sounds.

Its sound alone

Is the nadir of thought

Where nothing can be heard

Only the voice

Of a ghost I fought.
 

“Famine”

 

Another head on his plate,

Fast served up by spite.

Feeds on a crying eye—

Swiftly consumed,

Like a crumb—

Then attacks the lip

With maddest hunger,

As always,

Deaf to the final plea.
 

 

“Does She?”

 

She knows it now was all a lie –

Loves bonnet on every hill.

A look about shows her truth –

Fallen illusions blowing cold.

She descends with a pained heart

Knowing not

It is her valleys that lie.

 

“New Eyes”

 

To let these worn-out eyes

once peer upon nothing worn.

Just one time a simple sight –

a red rose perhaps

sans its thorns.

It would be only for them,

this vision they could not mourn.

The wind would wave the blushing color

at these eyes

for an instant reborn.

 

“Morning”

 

The dew of the dawn,

An emblem of morning purity.

Crystal works of quiet splendor,

A life within this harvest of rime.

It is a morning of sovereign grace,

Natural harmony, beauty of line.

Until all small tears gone

Trust in destiny shall prevail.

 

“Vain Endeavors”

 

They tangle themselves

into the ever-winding

thread of their deceit

till it scatters out

into this:

They can only bark at me from their chains.

Their words die the death of a hot coal in water –

all one hiss.

They are like a ship lagging

with limp sails

that cannot catch the wind

to bear them on

with its kiss.

They riot around me

like the stars

that rise up, sparkle,

dart flames and die away

into the abyss.

Keli Stafford

  LENSES

You entered 10th grade ill-prepared,
near-sighted. You couldn't see a ball
to hit across the field, or consonants
lined out across the blackboard.

But then he taught you Shakespeare,
intoning rounded British vowels,
opening out a whole new world
in an old Globe Theatre.

After class it was bedlam
at the lockers, friends whispering
about the prom. You only wanted
to hear him repeat those same

memorized phrases he'd spoken
to dozens of high school girls before
you. Brand new words, teaching you
without glasses to see.


COMPOSITION

On this gray morning
the old dull confidences press
against the windows. Get up,
they say. But in dreams
trolls live under the porch
and who can trust the camellias?
The morning news warns
it isn't safe to walk to school,
even if you know the sound
of fingers scratching against air
is only chalk on a blackboard.
Classroom walls
repeat their formulas;
observing everything,
they've unlearned to smile.
Books are nothing but
recycled words.
Tear out one page,
a syllable in tattered
plumage sings.


OLD DOG ON GUARD

As if awake all night, he keeps
our house between the stairs
and dark, among the dreamers' quiet
turning. I wake to hear his patient
breath, and then I drift away again.
Dark dissolves to dawn as he acquits
his duty. He'll find a time to rest
without regard. For now, all night
he guards our sleep beyond
the count of hours.



RISING

It's the same each morning: darkness
carries its mystery of moonlight
through the stations of quarter, full
and new, each night different
as celestial bodies turn in our sleep.
The dreaming mind is bottomless
while the pines sag under the weight
of that reflected eye.

By five a.m. the sky is dark gray silk
without shining. Coming down the stairs,
I draw it on, charcoal silk cooler
than skin. And yet, I remember
red/orange/saffron fantasies that wove
themselves in the dark last night.
They're sinking into the bottomless mind
I carry down the stairs from bed, oblivious
as the moon below the west horizon.

Daylight changes everything. By dawn
I've waded into Tuesday chores.
Morning reappears like faith, and duty.
I drink it down black, coffee with a taste
of bottomland. A grandmother would have
saved the grounds from yesterday, heaped
another spoonful and let this morning
settle into the rest of the week.

Instead, I keep a saffron fragment
of all the colors dancing just before
dawn. It waits at a door of my brain
for plucking, a flower from that
distant moonscape field I own
but wander through like a stranger.


TWILIGHT

Hush longing
onto one knee.
Light the candle.
A cricket
sings this side of fire
for all its possibilities.
Give it up,
lie down quiet.
Grasp nothing
in unlaced fingers
loosened, palms so wide
they silently
clap empty
air.
In open hands,
everything.

Taylor Graham

         Fall's Gift 

Fall cloaked in earthy glow
Of red, yellow, and burnt orange wear,
Parades in steps of inevitable dare.

  She speaks with warm daytime flair,
While painting portraits on falling leaves
That spin and drift in wingless tease,

 Then gently down they lay with ease
To die beneath the coming snows,
A gift for Spring in death she sows.  

       Night Voyeur

Night's orbiting satellite
drifting from cloud to cloud,
leaves a trail of shimmering water stars,
dancing naked on rippled ponds.

  Teasing with shadowy eyes,
a barely perceptible smile,
periodically shading its face,
and a wink mischievously escapes.

In gentle quietness roams the sky
always looking to see,
who's rambling around this secret world,
voyeuristically enjoying the view.

Sweet Brew

 A sip of heat,
an inhalation of steam,
awake the senses 
to the end of night's domain.

 Morning songs
pour through leafy walls,
and sweeten the taste
of the new day's reign. 

 patpaulk50@msn.com
Pat Paulk

Mirror
 
I don't recall what came first, if
it was the music, or the touching,
but I remember you holding up
your hand to mine,
and my response, in kind,
open palmed;
We were like two mimes in time,
with circling touches,
shared breath,
and choreographed movement
that had never been planned out,
while you dizzied me by reciting my poetry to me
as though they were your own words,
and you reflecting my image back at me.

Late One Night

 

I fell in love, over poetry,

Not with the man,

But with his words;

 

They made me see days and times

That were not his own,

But he wooed us into thinking

Otherwise,

Just like all good poets do;

 

How I was enamored with

The turn of a phrase,

The perfect pause,

Lines that flowed,

Words that beseeched,

Pulled,

Toyed,

Prodded,

Compelled!

 

I fell hard for the art,

The craft,

The way with verse

That was his poetry,

 

And found that

I, too,

Could chisel a word sculpture

For someone else

To be enthralled,

Captivated,

Spellbound,

In love,

With poetry.


Lazy Afternoon

 

You say,

There is no better way

To spend a Saturday afternoon,

Than having your back rubbed

By artist’s hands.

As I massage and knead

Your already limber muscles,

I notice streaks of raw umber

And cadium red paint

On my busy fingers,

And wonder

If you are grateful,

I was not making pottery

Instead.


Aurora Antonovic

Introducing....Jeffrey Mackie

    A poet who has held my interest for a few years is Jeffrey Mackie.  I got interested in his work through the reading of his chapbook "Junkfood Architecture", and with the release of his latest, "Graffiti Scripture" I thought it was time to find out more about Jeffrey.
    He gave this biography of himself:
Jeffrey Mackie is a poet living and writing in Montreal. Born: November, 30,

He has five chapbooks available the latest being 'Graffiti Scripture' Onanist Press, 2002
His work blends social and political themes with agenerous helping of pop culture and media influences.
Jeffrey has been widely published in Canada and abroad. His work has been featured in such places as Sub-terrain, Vancouver,
 Fish Piss, Montreal and Anything That  Moves , San Francisco, Murderous Signs,Ottawa

He was quoted in 'We Want Some Too' Hal Niedzviecki/ Penguin Cananda His influences range- From Russian
Futurism to The National Post. Mr. Mackie currentlydoes reviews for Broken Pencil and Vallum magazines. 
In addition he does research and news gathering for dfn.org an online human rights site.

He also enjoys having been born on the same day asJohn McCrae (Flanders Fields) and Sir WinstonChurchill and Mark Twain. 
All of whom he imitates daily.


Recent Publications: magazines/galleries
Murderous Signs, Ottawa, Summer 2000
Petite Enveloppe Urbaine, October 28-Nov, 4, 2000 Skol
Gallery, Montreal.
Urban Graffiti, Edmonton, Fall 2000
Rainy City Review, Vancouver, November 2000
100 Poets Against the War: UK Spring 2003
Surface and Symbol, Scarborough, September 2003
Novi Kamov, Croatia, Fall 2003

Le Petit Enveloppe, Drive Slowly, Appear Quickly.
Space 1026
Bookmobile Collective
Philadelphia, PA
January, 5-28, 2001

Online Publications:
Free Williamsburg Review Picks of 2000 / January 2001
Slackerbonding.com January / March 2001 Slackerbonding.com May, 2001 RealPoetik July,2001 nthposition.com 
100 Poets Against the War, January,2003 angelfire.com, Summer, 2003
1) first of all, what got Jeffrey Mackie interested in poetry and writing poetry.

I originally became interested in poetry through some of the musicians that I liked when I was in high school. Such musicians as
 Paul Weller and Joe Strummer were very inspirational. Originally,  think that I had dreams of being a rock star and a lot of my 
poems sounded like their songs. I also became politicized through listening to the music that I liked and searched out the 
influences that my 'heroes' cited. For example on The Jam album 'Sound Affects' there is a quote from Shelley 
(The Mask of Anarchy) and I decided to find out who this Shelley was that my favourite band was quoting. There were other 
poetsto whom I was introduced to in a similar fashion such as Adrian Henri a major Liverpool poet of the 1960s.
   Apart from this seemingly systematic development I also think that I just started writing. Granted of my early writing was for 
personal consumption and locked away. Though I most likely shared some of itwith girlfriends trying to impress with my 
sensitivity. I also remember at the time that one of my Englishteachers liked some of my work and kept a couple of my poems to 
share with other classes. I was encouraged and inspired by this and the fact that the people whom I respected considered 
poetry important.At the time I had no concept that people might consider poetry a marginal art and none of my friends thought it 
that bizarre that I wrote poetry.
	After high school I continued writing and got influenced by others though I can't always rememberhow I discovered them. 
A major influence on me for a long time was Allen Ginsberg though I remember that I read him when I was younger and 
didn't really get it. But later on after having written 'political' poems I became curious about Ginsberg as I had heard he was a 
very political poet. I think for me the importance of Ginsberg is that he wrote about the American reality through the experience 
of an outsider.He was gay, Jewish and leftist how much more of an outsider could one be in 1950s America? This was the 
McCcarthy era where everyone who was different was a communist and subject to persecution. I don't think anyone can 
deny the bravery of anyone who took such a stand during those times.

2) I would be interested in learning more about your influences, namely the Russian futurists

Ginsberg exposed me to Vladimir Mayakovsky who was a Russian Futurist and the most important poet of the Russian 
Revolution. The Russian Futurists were very experimental and Mayakovsky's poetry is the best example of this. 
In his poetry which preceded the revolution we find a break with traditional structure, language and content.

3) The poetry in "Graffiti Scripture" is certainly wide ranging, for example you dedicate one poem to a Russian soldier 
who committed suicide during the Chechnya struggle.  What was so interesting about this person that would make you 
write about him.

The poem 'For Oleg Protsenko' in Graffiti Scripture for me operates on a few levels. I originally read about him in a news story
 one morning and was struck by the pathos of the situation. His story for me underlined how desparate the war in Chechnya was.
 This young man saw no other way out of his situation other than to kill himself. The fact that he had to write his suicide note in
 jam because he couldn't find a pen underlined the pathos and also reiterated for me what I had been hearing about Russian
 conscripts being ill equipped for battle. He was not even able to find a pen one of the most common itmes that we use in our
 daily lives. As for the note being to his mother and him referencing Russian literary heroes that was an extrapolation on my part.
 I thought it most likely that a young male soldier would address his mother and I also felt that this would univeralize the poem in
 order that any mother or person reading the poem might would relate on a gut level. For myself I know this happens because
 when I have read it I feel like I am addressing my own mother. It is an anti-war poem but I wanted to make it personal so that
 others would react on an emotional level. I also believe that if  the poem were didactic or full of slogans it would just turn a
 reader away and also would have used Oleg's death just to score political points.

4) What inspired you to publish your work and what would you say to anyone contemplating self-publishing.

Before I launched upon publishing my first chapbook I had published several poems in small but sympathetic magazines.
 I was able to publish my first chapbook 'Big Miracles' because a friend had set up a small press in Ottawa called Pooka Press. 
It was a godsend because at the time I was quite a stranger to the computer. Over time I have become much better acquainted 
with the technology and have been able to produce material by myself and also make numerous contacts throughout the world.
 I think if I was to offer advice to anyone wishing to self publish it would be to just do it. If one is having trouble figuring out the
 technology there are many resources that can be sought out such as  'Broken Pencil' which offers advice on self publishing.
 I also think that most of us have friends or acquaintances who have computer skills.
5) Politics is not far from your thoughts and even something like a love poem  A Modern Love Poem , seems to end with
 somepolitical thoughts, or at least some pop culture ideas- ie resource management for example. Why do you include
 political themes in your works?

I include political themes in my work because I am a political person. I have always been politcally active and as I stated before
 the writers who most influenced me were those who wrote about political issues. Most problems or issues that face in the world 
are for me somehow politically related. That is not to say that I don't write about personal issues or whatever else. Expressing 
myself about things that I feel strongly about also alleviates feelings of impotence or cynicism I am active politically and a believer 
that you can't complain if you are not active. As I stated before when I write about political subjects I try to make them personal 
so the reader can relate rather than as a diatribe. This not to say that I don't use broad subjects or political language if I deem 
that it is warranted. For me as a poet the language of politics and politicians can be the most fun to play with and a great of 
seeing something differently. In the question you cited 'A Modern Love Poem' where I use the language of management to write 
about 'modern love' and it comes across as a satirical piece. On another level I was thinking about how the language of 
economics has permeated many aspects of our lives and what would happen if it also invaded our love relationships. So that 
even our personal relationships were brought down to the level of transactions described in  languag that is emotionally distanced.

6) In Junkfood Architecture, which I thought was fascinating, you pasted pages from the TV Guide, why?


In ' Junkfood Architecture' I pasted pages of the TV Guide inside because the book was ostensibly about media. I thought 
putting the pages in was inventive and ironic. I also noticed while placing the pages in how   ridiculous some the descriptions 
made the programs seem and how obsessed the magazine was with celebrity culture. This is not to say that I am immune to 
what is surrounding us everyday especially in North America, I know about Bennifer etc, etc, etc. The title
 'Junkfood Architecture' came to me while I was on a road trip and noticed that all the mom and pop restaurants had been 
replaced by these huge buildings containing three or four fast food joints. It was then that the phrase junkfood architecture 
popped into my head.
7) You are also involved in research for the magazine "Broken Pencil", what can you tell us about the state of zines and
 diy publishing in Canada?

I have written for and been reviewed in Broken Pencil. I found out about many interesting chapbooks and other projects by 
reading and also writing for it. It has been a great avenue for so many including myself to connect outside the so called 
mainstream. I think BP's growth is a a testimony to its continuing importance for many in Canada and abroad. Recently in 
Montreal we had Expozine and the fact that there were so many exhibitors is evidence that the 'zine revolution' is alive and well 
in Canada. In addition there were many visitors coming to view and purchase the various creative projects, a large community 
that connects by various means but seems to continuously  go under the radar of the regular media etc:.

8) You were also involved with the 100 Poets against the War movement, could you tell us a bit more about this
 movementand your involvement.

100 Poets Against the War was a project initiated by Todd Swift poetry editor and nthposition.com  As Todd saw the world 
drifting to war he perceived the necessity for poets to speak out on the issue as they had so often in the past. I was asked to 
send a poem which was put into the online chapbook and which ultimately was chosen for inclusion in the book, '100 
Poets Against the War' put out by Salt Publishing in the UK. I also tried to publicize the project as much as I could. Todd 
through his ingenuity and energy was able to capture public and media attention around the world for the project. 
Ultimately anti war collections were published in other languages and people printed the chapbooks and many poems were read
 at demonstrations and readings around the world. It was a most inspirational project to have been involved with uplifting to see 
so many poets around the world responding with their own witness.

A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.
Yevgeny Yevtushenko



Thank you so much for your time.
some Poetry from Jeffrey

MUSEUMS

The bright light shines
And it shows
That nobody's shadow
Is clear

I can see things in the light
'the unambiguous strain of capitulation on your face'

In the flea markets
They are selling the history
Of the twentieth century
Kitsch objects of ironic value

At night the museums are dark.
At night
Everything becomes a museum
I close the computer
And it becomes
A museum of my thought
When it opens
I see my words
Behind a glass screen

My mind is a museum
Of memories
I have a few objects
A few photos
Some words written
To accompany them

I have argued with myself
What is valuable?
What can be thrown away?


WORLD OUTSIDE

A poem,
             Some words
About the place you live
              The hours you keep.
Not like the baker-
Going to work for midnight
All night - with the AM radio
All night/ loaf after loaf
                   Accompanied by the dance hits,
Or maybe some CDs from home.

No one on the late shift
Can agree about the music
Radiohead, Stones,
Beatles or U2?
Moderate argument on the big bands

But,
    Some don’t care,
                             What they hear,
They know the songs from the radio,
                           That satisfies them.

Kid cooking in the corner
   Has his discman: Playing TOOL
Born Again wants to talk about Jesus
                          With someone.
                                                 Anyone?

It comes out that no one goes to church
Not even for Christmas and Easter
They have their own kind of religion
  And they pray
When they feel the need.

Everyone agrees on Zeppelin
          ‘Rock and Roll’  - ‘Black Dog’
Everyone remembers a slow dance
To ‘Stairway To Heaven’
We all know the words
8 minutes in another’s sweat
                  And if you have
  ‘Back in Black’

            (fast machine/motor clean)

Born Again leaves the room for ‘Hells Bells’
Head Baker has the album on Vinyl
               He remembers
When REM was alternative.


There is no TV on the two channels
                     After 1am
Unless you want to cook 15lbs of meat,
                             Doing Pilates,
While selling homes you haven’t paid for.
Everyone laughs and watches the girls workout
Oh, to touch those buns of steel
The jokes get raunchy
The jokes get disgusting
                                         The jokes,
Keep everyone going,

Until the early morning hours.

                A few personalities
In another human experiment.


Closing Words


    Thanks to all who contributed to this issue.  It was a joy to make.  With the Christmas season soon to be upon us the theme for next month will be Christmas.  I am looking for work that reflects the joy and importance of the season. Also it's not limited to Christmas but any work with reflects this season of light, music and joy will be accepted.
    All copyright belongs to the various authors, please respect their work.
    As always, your work can be sent to: pabear_7@yahoo.com.