tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20682613749074960652024-03-18T02:15:08.657-07:00The Smoking BookThe On-Line Edition of SMOKE, An Anthology of Smoke, Edited by Joy Leftow and Roxanne Hoffman, Published by Poets Wear Prada.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-70264897491379246642012-08-30T16:23:00.002-07:002012-08-30T16:24:28.755-07:00Subs for "The Smoking Book"closed October 31, 2010<embed align="center" autostart="FALSE" height="20" loop="FALSE" src="ENTER URL TO LINK MP3" type="audio/mpeg" volume="100" width="145"></embed>
All subs are closed for "The Smoking Book" as of October 31, 2010 unless you've been specially invited by either Roxanne Hoffman or Joy Leftow.<br />
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<br />Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-32546190232771551672010-11-06T08:29:00.000-07:002010-11-06T08:33:03.300-07:00Ground ZeroA ground of heroes<br />
Trying to save those who could not evade the day<br />
A day that will never fade<br />
Many buried under a trouble of rubble<br />
Graves, unmarked graves<br />
Bodies broken and torn beyond recognition<br />
An unthinkable strike came to fruition<br />
The devastation of man made creation<br />
The situation seems bleak has havoc was wreaked<br />
The Twin Towers was a symbol of power<br />
Took years to build knocked down in less than an hour<br />
These buildings etched our skyline <br />
Most took for granted they’d stand the test of time<br />
Workers inside typing, trading, clicking, mailing, faxing, emailing, talking, telephoning, walking, waiting, goofing off, debating, thinking of tonight, that they’d make love tonight or overcome a marital fight<br />
In an instant their lives were gone, gone, gone<br />
Thrown into terror this should’ve been an error<br />
It’s a nightmare instead<br />
This fear<br />
This smoke<br />
Did commercial planes fly into the World Trade Center?<br />
My mind can’t get around it <br />
can’t understand it.<br />
The smoke rises out of the copy room window<br />
Thick black smoke<br />
Smoke to choke<br />
Smoke to kill<br />
A smoke of death<br />
I stare into the distance expecting to see The Towers materialize before my eyes<br />
The words fall out of peoples mouths and rest on my ears<br />
Did you hear! The World Trade Centers fell! They’re gone!<br />
Trying to process <br />
to compute, how many people worked in those buildings, how many kids will not have a mother, a father, a bother, a sister, a boyfriend a girlfriend, a close friend, an enemy, a loved one a spouse<br />
MISSING is the word that is flashed across the TV screen<br />
M I S S I N G<br />
So many missing<br />
Missing in action,<br />
Lost, disappeared into a cloud of dust - just like that - missing<br />
How they’re missing them<br />
Missing them<br />
Hoping wishing<br />
Praying looking<br />
Countless sleepless nights.<br />
“What floor were they on? It’s a phrase<br />
What floor?<br />
How high?<br />
In our minds we imagine<br />
We do the math<br />
How fast could they get down to get out<br />
Breakdowns shout.<br />
The trauma of the tragedy is woven deep in my mind<br />
The trauma of the traumatized as a nation needs therapy<br />
I saw planes crash into buildings people burned alive<br />
We have witnesses to see thousands die.<br />
80 stories high people jump to their deaths<br />
In my dreams I see it again and again<br />
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by <a href="http://Dubblex.blogspot.com">Dubblex</a>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-15794102920922718112009-10-30T08:55:00.001-07:002010-03-26T17:01:01.618-07:00Bluetry Coming Full Circle I Smell Smoke<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_5DNWmzYRuDtP01HTPdgVo3dYlufBQ-ALZD-ZsZDhSRhw52fDXBIoVhYaPPASr5d8J5ATm7J87ZJqdLp8eQ6iKKYKbwdvcw62lycWDJ_ULhgFdqCiFCTSu8Gumu4SS_7XMtwXu6oVi0/s1600-h/Photo+14_2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398424329438450882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_5DNWmzYRuDtP01HTPdgVo3dYlufBQ-ALZD-ZsZDhSRhw52fDXBIoVhYaPPASr5d8J5ATm7J87ZJqdLp8eQ6iKKYKbwdvcw62lycWDJ_ULhgFdqCiFCTSu8Gumu4SS_7XMtwXu6oVi0/s400/Photo+14_2.jpg" /></a><br />I'm blown away in the smoke of my mind created by the smoke of the eye mind of your mind.<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I'm gonna take a sip of that southern smoked cooking, finger lickin' chickin charcoal broiled smoke embers rising from ashes I'll meet you there after I get me some smoked salmon mr brant, I love me some smoke dreams, with perfect seams, flawless rising in silver swirls<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Frenetic – full of kinetic poetic madness I arise out of smoke slowly rising flowing from discarded disregarded embers of burned words into mad repetitive self perpetuating silver swirls. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My bluetry emerges at that speak-easy softly lit smoky lounge on the left where the mood is set with red and orange burning embers candle lights giving off smoke rising in silver swirls.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The crowd inhales my words and exhales patchouli oil scent silver swirls of smoke rising.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">On a roll – jelly-roll - my bluetry spell has taken its toll, let the good times roll, and forget about sorrows or tomorrow, think about today. I'm too busy, come tomorrow there's a lot more networking to do. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Lost in a series of masquerades, delusions to who I am allusions and illusions - let er rip for old times sake daddy sing me those blues tonight!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Under the magnolia tree I fell skinned my knee, the sky ripped open clouds burst and the street went up in smoke I thought I must’ve toked some real good stuff because next thing I knew whole city was up in smoke and I was with a chartered band going nowhere fast and an open wound read my prayers somewhere those blues those blues were wailing, the trombone feels my blow as my words flow to slow the utterance of my soul, the whole world is up in smoke unless you stop try the tracks we’re on. I’m sorry I gotta move on – all this smoke is getting in the way of my living.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Living aggrieved in poetic frenzy- I give my life away up in smoke going once twice sold, I can’t capitulate capitalize civilize cooperate encapsulate, insulate any more, just let go let the good times roll you can’t always get what you want and if you try sometimes you may just find what you need and so lady smoke had her way with me, she got to me finally in my ever evolution I keep searching for solutions.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I need someone to love, fit me like a glove, turn down that candle now. It’s giving off to much smoke I can’t inhale. I wanna make some love now, play those blues in the background while I put my life on hold, sit here waiting for you to get your shit together and taken aback by constellation of fate I’ll read the emancipation proclamation to see if I understand you. I’m a jew, you know, and they been trying to eliminate jews a long time from the main stream.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Keep us all quiet with our little asses fighting each other to keep our masses down. We stay redundant - reducible to molasses while the conspiracy roars in my ears we keep fighting one other instead of taking their asses down a notch or two. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’m so blue I can’t breathe. All that smoke – the whole world is up in smoke, not a joke.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Up in smoke. <o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:violetwrites@nyc.rr.com">Joy Leftow</a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Leftow says, “Writing is breathing, I need it to survive – it’s my water, my air, my first love.” Leftow’s honesty and openness may astonish you or embarrass you but she promises not to bore you. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">http://joyleftowsblog.blogspot.com <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2068261374907496065" target="new"></a></span>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-37345549590098423902009-10-30T06:56:00.000-07:002009-10-30T08:45:32.864-07:00HomeopathicWhen my son saw me<br />light up on a summer’s eve,<br />he cried, “Dad, you’re going to die!”<br /><br />Now I sit with a cigar<br />in the rain, barely kept dry<br />by the overhang.<br /><br />I don’t inhale but can feel<br />how smoke works its way<br />into the soft meat of my jaw.<br /><br />My dad smoked Lucky Strikes<br />and couldn’t ever quit<br />but died in water, not by fire.<br /><br />Water surrounds me now,<br />falls fast, drips<br />through snarl of branches.<br /><br />I draw in the smoke,<br />watch the rim of embers<br />grin beneath the ash.<br /><br />Are you in this moist air?<br />The woods reply with silence<br />as nicotine surges in my blood.<br /><br />If I move my hand<br />a few inches to the left,<br />drops sizzle on the coals.<br /><br />I will finish this cigar.<br />I will put down these words.<br />I will go to sleep.<br /><br />Still, waiting for the ash<br />to fall, your son sits<br />smoking in the rain.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:rmidgett@yahoo.com">Roger Midgett</a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqrRxzYEqEOVQ5XhZsJuMiDWCligkNye-l8c5U5CV3hum_z3X3AVHaH6Sl2IfyZ0WejACLNIQuYQfTj9sbOvXgye847e-Sd0cEZKtxpzmKVt6MqYpF0eNAyMdzNrewx0fO8ov-gJn1v44/s1600-h/Portrait.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 228px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqrRxzYEqEOVQ5XhZsJuMiDWCligkNye-l8c5U5CV3hum_z3X3AVHaH6Sl2IfyZ0WejACLNIQuYQfTj9sbOvXgye847e-Sd0cEZKtxpzmKVt6MqYpF0eNAyMdzNrewx0fO8ov-gJn1v44/s400/Portrait.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398413020044990738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Roger Midgett has won some awards for his poetry and has been published in journals, antholo</span><span style="font-size:85%;">gies, and store windows. He works as a Mental Health Professional and lives with his family on an island in Puget Sound.</span>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-55954254424622914182009-09-23T09:21:00.000-07:002009-10-05T19:48:51.508-07:00Inhale<p><br />Grandfather picked me up<br />each morning at seven a.m.<br />His car was filled with smoke. I choked.<br />A Marlboro protruded from his lips<br />like a chipped white oar,<br />then more butts soon held<br />between two crooked fingers<br />as he gripped the steering wheel hard<br />and slowly maneuvered<br />the old black Ford Falcon<br />up Anstice Street in Oyster Bay.<br /><br />His smoke mixed with grey exhaust fumes<br />from the car and it wasn't far<br />before I'd have to crack the window<br />as we drove past Saint Dominic's chapel,<br />and further up the hill: still the fumes poked<br />through rusted holes in the car's frame, a toxic inhale,<br />contracting my brain as grandfather spoke<br />of his plans for the day; food shopping at the A&P,<br />TV dinners for the week, a new issue<br />of <span style="font-style: italic;">National Geographic</span> to peruse.<br /><br />He muses still over how he looks forward<br />to a ride to Bayville and a hamburger, well done,<br />with slice of raw onion at the Pig 'n Whistle.<br />Then always more smokes, many more in fresh air,<br />on days at the beach, orange embers blending<br />with the skyline at sunset, or in the rain<br />with humid billows surrounding us. He puffs,<br />then takes swig from his brandy flask,<br />enough to ease pain in his back, to pick up<br />some of life's slack, to begin again where,<br />atmosphere clear, only ashes remain.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:MNAConsult@aol.com">Mary Ryan Garcia</a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><a style="font-weight: bold;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5aIsZSm3adbHK0QwBpm6WpnUUQDLQrw4drH73rHRvHd90hPVC4C9sZA4geISapa-KwgWAErv0a57g9vb07d0FlN95EbF2L5ZFY7nZIaIxClEvy1qEZ0SWUcoXkeIDG8GFmPsgNVrZIfg/s1600-h/IMG223.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 168px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5aIsZSm3adbHK0QwBpm6WpnUUQDLQrw4drH73rHRvHd90hPVC4C9sZA4geISapa-KwgWAErv0a57g9vb07d0FlN95EbF2L5ZFY7nZIaIxClEvy1qEZ0SWUcoXkeIDG8GFmPsgNVrZIfg/s320/IMG223.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384778768839386178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Mary Ryan Garcia </span><span style="font-size:85%;">is a freelance journalist, poet, and adjunct professor of English at Suffolk Community College in Selden, NY, who is currently earning an MSW at Fordham University in Manhattan. She offers thanks to poet George Held, who helped her to revise this poem</span>.</p>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-46085762886613220242009-09-15T13:53:00.000-07:002009-10-05T19:43:55.773-07:00Apocalypse<br><br><br />He smiled a carnivorous smile and stuck a lit cigarette between his teeth. "I'm not going to tell you. You'll have to find them yourself." He was trying to be funny but he was never funny when he was trying.<br /><br />"Just give me a cigarette. You're really pissing me off." She looked away from him. "Really you know, you're not funny."<br /><br />"Guess the brand name and you win one." He could tell she wasn't amused so he threw her a cigarette from his pocket. "You're no fun sweetie, no fun. When we first met, you weren't like this. You're so neurotic now."<br /><br />She picked up the cigarette and lit it. It tasted funny and suddenly she no longer wanted it. She could feel the smoke pass down her throat and enter into her lungs. She had been smoking for years but now it disgusted her. She visualized the smoke eating away at her throat, lungs and could almost feel it invading her legs and arms. She smashed out the cigarette and turned to him. "I'm giving up smoking. You should too."<br /><br />"What's with you? You just begged me for that. If you quit smoking what will we have to talk about? What will we have to do together? We'll have nothing in common – nothing to fight about. You've got to keep smoking or you'll destroy our relationship. You don't want to be a homewrecker, do you?" He was laughing and she, disgusted, walked into the kitchen.<br /><br />From the kitchen she could still vaguely hear him laughing so she turned on the faucet. The water sounded strong so she stood and listened to it for awhile. It calmed her down so she left it on and rummaged through the refrigerator. She pulled out the container of cole slaw and ate it with the plastic fork that had been left in it.<br /><br />"What are you doing in there, drowning yourself?"<br /><br />She turned the water off and her calm melted away as his voice got closer. "Nothing. I'm eating."<br /><br />"Ah, that's what happens when you quit smoking. You start eating more and you get fat. Honey, are you going to get fat?" He started laughing again and she felt trapped. She turned the faucet back on and continued eating the cole slaw. "Are you alright, sweetheart? You seem a little high strung lately. Why are you running the water?"<br /><br />She mumbled as she put the cole slaw away and took out the potato salad. "It calms me but you don't. Please go away." He smoked another cigarette and turned off the faucet. He paced for awhile and watched her eat. She sat at the table with her head down and her legs crossed scooping chunks of potato into her mouth. He kept pacing.<br /><br />The phone rang but neither of them reacted. "Are you going to get that?" She didn't answer. She just stared blankly into the container playing with the potatoes. "What!" he shouted into the phone. "I'll try and get her but I think she might be in a coma." He dropped the phone and as he walked out of the kitchen he looked at her and said, "Your mother."<br /><br />She got up and turned the faucet back on. Turned it as high as it would go and stood over it feeling the drops jump on to her face. She silently picked up the receiver and cautiously hung it up. "Can't talk now mom," she whispered.<br /><br />He rushed into the kitchen with his coat on. "I'm going out. I need some air." He hesitated for a minute but she didn't respond so he slammed the door. A minute later he was back. "Do you need anything?" She didn't answer. "More potato salad?" Nothing. So he left again.<br /><br />The phone rang. She knew it would. The ring sounded desperate so she lifted the receiver.<br /><br />"Mom?"<br /><br />"Honey, are you alright? What just happened? Did you hang up on me?"<br /><br />"Mom, I quit smoking. I decided to this morning. Now I'm trying to get Dan to quit. I don't think he wants to though."<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:cswcasac@aol.com">Regina Walker</a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0bJdjADXQ4zOdMr2uG1IG6cNJwxqaWADQ229Ny9bqftAFBL7YmWR4dsri8d5byIhe9XkDydIxFmmhyw2EtmTCWgfqWxcnNciVGBENrH0_LePIgbu5MX81w6O_A8I6VkbvT_ahlMqwas/s1600-h/Regina_Walker0005_retouched.jpg"><img style="margin: 10pt 10px 10px 10pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0bJdjADXQ4zOdMr2uG1IG6cNJwxqaWADQ229Ny9bqftAFBL7YmWR4dsri8d5byIhe9XkDydIxFmmhyw2EtmTCWgfqWxcnNciVGBENrH0_LePIgbu5MX81w6O_A8I6VkbvT_ahlMqwas/s320/Regina_Walker0005_retouched.jpg" alt="Regina Walker" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381809936960348258" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Regina Walker</span> is a writer and psychotherapist in NYC. Her work has appeared in a number of print and online journals.</span>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-69111276986815643932009-08-27T22:25:00.000-07:002009-08-28T14:30:53.037-07:00Life and the Movies<p><br />Bogie and Belmondo<br />Both known for a butt<br />In their lips, smoke<br />Curling from corner<br />Of mouth making them<br />He-men.<br /><br />How come when I<br />Tried it, the smoke<br />Burned my eyes<br />And made me gag<br />So hard the butt<br />Fell on<br /><br />My peacoat and burned<br />A friggin’ hole<br />In it and my dad<br />Kicked my ass<br />For being for being<br />So dumb?<br /><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:Geoheld7@aol.com">George Held</a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgWbXdBVU_WND_O-wXnLRAoBLMw2paJo1IRTvVzUQKExNG95khYwggVhS_y1HMO6EDJaJ_qMy0qo_1_mAlt-XklAheaADrbOLwexXQwKPPGHElj8G-YIzfRF9oCRIKTRQLp1KwGuFTbE/s1600-h/UnknownMA12597837-0001.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375013720974166162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgWbXdBVU_WND_O-wXnLRAoBLMw2paJo1IRTvVzUQKExNG95khYwggVhS_y1HMO6EDJaJ_qMy0qo_1_mAlt-XklAheaADrbOLwexXQwKPPGHElj8G-YIzfRF9oCRIKTRQLp1KwGuFTbE/s200/UnknownMA12597837-0001.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>George Held</strong> gave up smoking when his doctor said it would inflame his asthma and kill him. P</span><span style="font-size:85%;">reviously, he’d been too stupid to figure that out.</span></p>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-50102843799679458482009-08-26T15:55:00.000-07:002009-08-26T16:33:16.493-07:00Tobacco in Cuba<p><br />Giant Alice-in-Wonderland<br />rabbit-ear-leaves<br />Cuban tobacco plants<br />low and full<br />stand one behind the other<br />orderly and lush<br />praying hands repeating<br />ad infinitum into the horizon<br />neat lines in soft mounds<br />of dirt, my feet sink into clay<br />Alongside plants<br />under a drooping canopy<br />spider webs wrap over inside<br />a 1953 Rambler sunk<br />in silty soil<br />like Dalí’s rainstorm in a taxi<br />a desert inside a Rambler<br />petrified like the people of Pompeii<br />in the relentless Cuban sun.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:MariaLisella@aol.com">Maria Lisella</a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlqFjdLK5pfFd6HZVSzvKgESb6NTfLim4yoHkbpOTFNyLTXbNMUDuL9n5MxiXyJ-7ch9SpsyO_DKjYZIViRTohrWLBQ5P3M3wIGc6fzpRY2CNZxldl0DArKiI6R3zMqR75N7olAXI5yw/s1600-h/MLisella-Seville.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 156px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlqFjdLK5pfFd6HZVSzvKgESb6NTfLim4yoHkbpOTFNyLTXbNMUDuL9n5MxiXyJ-7ch9SpsyO_DKjYZIViRTohrWLBQ5P3M3wIGc6fzpRY2CNZxldl0DArKiI6R3zMqR75N7olAXI5yw/s320/MLisella-Seville.jpg" alt="Maria Lisella [Credit: Stillman Rogers]" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374413688845977570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Maria Lisella</span> is Program Coordinator for the IAWA readings at the Cornelia St. Café, and is co-editing an anthology based on those readings. She lives in Long Island City and was a finalist in the competition for Poet Laureate of Queens in 2007. A longtime travel writer, she currently edits a national travel trade magazine and is a member of the New York Travel Writers Association.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" >[Photo Credit: Stillman Rogers]</span><br /></p>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-91060919835233994762009-08-24T20:27:00.000-07:002009-08-26T16:52:00.639-07:00Death by Sea Bright<p><br />This sunny backyard's a concentration camp for drunks.<br />Free to dress well, live in clean houses,<br />free to come and go.<br />Free to turn themselves into projectiles,<br />meat to shoe the surgeon's feet.<br />Free to bear<br />a 3 lb. boy whose beer-fed brain<br />forever scrambles words,<br />(letters jumble and collide.)<br /><br />Celebrate this boozeless wake.<br />Move enormous finger joints.<br />Do not cry for your weeping liver,<br />say you count your drinks.<br /><br />Two boxes of ash<br />strewn by hand in<br />sand and little Joan<br />comes back a slash<br />of mother ash on her<br />black pants, maybe sister ash,<br />both politely dead of drink.<br /><br />Cigarettes drowned in paper cups<br />outside. Couches strewn with people's mid-day sleep.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:sumaurer@hotmail.com">Susan Maurer</a></p><p><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP4golfZNFjIqsjDPSW-JP2xE5iILDRDAVR48TfHI2PfF8bPBwQkPRovcRrFRk84rpmvXYal9PuINFlfD6_fTnUg0vWX5pYrs-kmATSeA3cwQCgLtGHEymFTtZW2mVneIxOjkod-iv-fo/s1600-h/SusanMaurerbyPatriciaCarragon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 199px; float: right; height: 235px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373742855110214578" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP4golfZNFjIqsjDPSW-JP2xE5iILDRDAVR48TfHI2PfF8bPBwQkPRovcRrFRk84rpmvXYal9PuINFlfD6_fTnUg0vWX5pYrs-kmATSeA3cwQCgLtGHEymFTtZW2mVneIxOjkod-iv-fo/s400/SusanMaurerbyPatriciaCarragon.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Susan Maurer’s</strong> <em>By the Blue Light of the Morning Glory</em> was published by Linear Arts, <em>in2</em>, with Mark Sonnenfeld by Marymark Press, and <em>Dream Addict</em> by Backwood Broadsides. <em>Raptor Rhapsody</em> was published in ’07 by Poets Wear Prada, <em>Maerchen</em> in ’08 by Maverick Duck. <em>Raw Poems</em> was published by Gold Wake Press as e-book in '08. Letterpress broadsides were done by Clamshell Press and The Center for Book Arts. Her poetry has been nominated three times for Pushcart.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Visit her home page:<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/http//poetswearprada.home.att.net/SusanMaurer.html" target="new">poetswearprada.home.att.net/SusanMaurer.html</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Death by Sea Bright" is from her first full-length collection, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">perfect dark</span>, available<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>from<span style="font-weight: bold;"> ungoverable press</span> as a free to read and download e-book: <a href="http://ungovernablepress.weebly.com/uploads/2/1/2/2/2122174/perfect_dark.pdf" target="new">http://ungovernablepress.weebly.com/uploads/2/1/2/2/2122174/perfect_dark.pdf</a></span></p>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-36745336097654776092009-06-28T09:58:00.000-07:002009-08-24T20:38:43.554-07:00A Precarious Blend<p><br />As my father sits smoking his pipe-<br />I watch the tendrils curl upward.<br />I smell the rich tobacco<br />That reminds me of North Carolina-<br />Momma’s home state.<br /><br />He stares into space-<br />And takes a long draw-<br />A question mark-<br />Floats in my direction<br />Like an apparition.<br /><br />What will we do now-<br />Who will take care of us-<br />Now that Momma is gone?<br />Who is this man-<br />That I call Daddy?<br /><br />The vapor dissipates-<br />I stare into space, too-<br />I envision a foggy future-<br />While he remembers-<br />A luminous past.<br /><br />We both have lost something-<br />But will we find each other?<br />Another question mark-<br />Goes up in smoke.<br /><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:HoggPen57@yahoo.com">Beatrice M. Hogg</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtJxhxeJT-rAeeNAXRsYjzTyviLwDvrTKPNb_GKyuFGjSfAG11PUr9ZntWbW7Oty9i_QZBqC35FyBTSfB-pNNCFet6Uzn_2jWWLehiJpQN0XnbY5iV9Ducx56TdAPqgtALKAoCljv8EQ/s1600-h/BeatriceHogg.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 161px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356839523772848418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtJxhxeJT-rAeeNAXRsYjzTyviLwDvrTKPNb_GKyuFGjSfAG11PUr9ZntWbW7Oty9i_QZBqC35FyBTSfB-pNNCFet6Uzn_2jWWLehiJpQN0XnbY5iV9Ducx56TdAPqgtALKAoCljv8EQ/s200/BeatriceHogg.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Beatrice M. Hogg grew up in western Pennsylvania. Her illiterate coal miner father would have considered her MFA in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles to be a major waste of time and money.</span><br /></p>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-27986033733531454462009-06-22T16:32:00.000-07:002009-08-24T20:39:44.013-07:00Bong<p><br />Water bong, they called it.<br />Under my breath, I practiced<br />saying bong bong bong<br />until it sounded natural.<br />Mike was too busy getting high<br />to notice that Frankenstein<br />would have felt more at home<br />in Jackie’s basement. Her Mom<br />worked nights. No one would hear us.<br /><br />No matter. I was fitting in.<br />So what if I didn’t know<br />what was in there. Jackie laughed.<br />Not easy when you’re holding<br />your breath. She handed me the slender<br />gurgling goose and I clutched its throat,<br />inhaling the chimney stink, remembering<br />to close my eyes just like she did,<br />sucked yellow air and felt myself<br />slipping under a tidal wave.<br /><br />Buckled by the undertow,<br />seaweed tangling my hair, I made<br />a wish. I wanted to lift my head<br />and find myself in another<br />rumpus room complete with cake,<br />a song and candles.<br /><br />Instead, I held my breath harder,<br />sure this meant lung cancer later<br />if I lived through this night. When my<br />bronchial tubes started crackling,<br />I blew out a smoke signal, opened<br />my eyes. And there was Mike,<br />a volunteer fireman, his mouth<br />covering mine, fingers bugling my back,<br />Jimmy whooping, Jackie eyes wide.<br />I don’t think they knew I could be like that.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:javacho@verizon.net">Helen Cho</a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJBY26EemZ48-gaKdn23z_2NQfJeXu7uFM1yeQcgEgPXbHhJYkRh4Y-wx_3eOnUSYrGb2cP67YsIYz21tvTG4YfJo2ooBFfCOxRHoVzK6Yg1nS-TKLE5WJw0-G22OnRBvlkMrQJLYO_Og/s1600-h/IMG_1709.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 100px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 118px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351294973992119106" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJBY26EemZ48-gaKdn23z_2NQfJeXu7uFM1yeQcgEgPXbHhJYkRh4Y-wx_3eOnUSYrGb2cP67YsIYz21tvTG4YfJo2ooBFfCOxRHoVzK6Yg1nS-TKLE5WJw0-G22OnRBvlkMrQJLYO_Og/s200/IMG_1709.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Helen Cho's poems have been published in <em>Field</em>, <em>Spoon River</em>, <em>Indiana Review</em>, <em>River Styx</em>, <em>ACM</em>, and <em>Southeast Review</em> among others. This poem was originally published in <em>Crab Orchard Review</em>. Helen is a full-time Mom of twin girls, serves on the board of the Feminist Majority and the Advisory Board of <em>Ms. Magazine</em> and occasionally writes tv commercials for progressive nonprofit orgs.</span></p>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-48443998817303874182009-06-05T13:36:00.000-07:002009-08-24T20:40:41.857-07:00Smoke of Radical Aggressiveness<p><br />Struggling against the smoke of myself<br />Suddenly a late afternoon, a spring day<br />I mystically become my other self,<br />Or perhaps dialectically my alter ego<br />Lining my soul and lungs with rebellious smoke,<br />My stomach lined with the smoke of radical soot<br />The history of a love hate dynamic<br />Each time from another illusion of naiveté<br />But reality is a “public toilet” of subliminal games<br />I am skeptical that no one knows the true meaning of life<br />Between the expert compilations and plagiarists<br />Flanked by the misery of faux-academia and molecular art<br />Among the merchants of speculative thought<br />Surrounded by jesters and clowns of popular culture<br />Between organic life and chemical misery<br />Amid forgetful atavism and temporary amnesia<br />Doomed to self-promotion as a style of life<br />Restlessness of a soul in chains and handcuffs<br />Take it from this poet in Absurdistan, New York,<br />Who wants to exchange a poem for a vagina<br />As if there were some kind of logic to it<br />In our decorticated world of possessions<br />I will write my last poem against myself<br />To bring doubt and skeptical cynicism….<br />Living in a post-consumerist culture,<br />Post-dada, post-evolution, Post-everything!<br />It appears that “everything” does not make too much sense<br /><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:zendadanyc@earthlink.net">Valery Oisteanu</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwRbCXLxE0cqEKI8E5o0XQP3787YCbJCRo5mwGZA4QQyZVWVygIXtSsCdrpja8yc3l4Lj3DDe8mNUikgXpkCl7RHJlS4YOB69g5Hau-JDuMjoDU2zHCPTzotSB6HR-a8Y59sB4TmCIRwg/s1600-h/Valery+Oisteanu+by+Eric009.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 181px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343945903606968562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwRbCXLxE0cqEKI8E5o0XQP3787YCbJCRo5mwGZA4QQyZVWVygIXtSsCdrpja8yc3l4Lj3DDe8mNUikgXpkCl7RHJlS4YOB69g5Hau-JDuMjoDU2zHCPTzotSB6HR-a8Y59sB4TmCIRwg/s200/Valery+Oisteanu+by+Eric009.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Valery Oisteanu is a poet-artist based in New York, for the past 37 years. He is the author of 10 books of poetry and a book of short fiction. As a performer his style is known as "Jazzoetry."<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://web.mac.com/digitalfossil/iWeb/native/pass.html">Visit </a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://web.mac.com/digitalfossil/iWeb/native/pass.html">Oisteanu's website</a><br /></span>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-6956649435107280192009-06-04T07:14:00.000-07:002009-08-24T20:41:35.508-07:00Dark plumes<p><br />Dark plumes of smoke spiral upward on the freeway ahead. The smoke sucks in the light as it fans out, and grows larger with each gasp of my breath. It reminds me of a forest mushroom, dark, dank and foul. And yet, its ascent feels majestic for its so obscures the sky, making the blue it once held seem more like a dream.<br /><br />Mistaken beauty does that, it pulls you in where you’re not supposed to be like a wizard, a magician, so bewitching, it knows all the tricks. I can’t stop watching the black columns of smoke in my sky. I feel possessive like a jealous lover turned voyeur. But I’m coughing and that drags me momentarily out of my trance. With wheezing breath I call Cal Trans and Highway Patrol using my cell phone and they give me specifications how if it’s an emergency to dial 911 yada, yada or otherwise dial such and such number as the smoke gets thicker and the traffic slows down to a near parking lot and fire engines blare past me. I gulp and press a finger on the number nine and hesitate over the ones, daring, not daring, but daring to finally press down as more fire trucks pass me and the smoke begins to turn from black to white as the traffic crawls ahead and I see a car on fire, which the firemen are hosing down just two blocks from the nuclear power plant. I breathe; I breathe, I’m alive and wait for my heart to slow its beat down. Like a mirage I imagine its red petals’ unfolding in a soft bow as the turn signal in my car clicks, not left, nor right but to heaven for in the now whitish looking smoke I see a door opening up in the sky.<br /><br />Surely, I’ve died. Maybe the power plant did explode and I only dreamed upon passing to my very own death that the firemen stopped an impending disaster. A reality mistaken…surely it’s possible. But why is the signal in my car still snapping to attention? And what is that floating on heaven’s doors? Angels? No.<br /><br />Marshmallows as big as clouds and I taste them in my mouth and know I’m in trouble as a voice coming from my cell phone says in newscaster smugness, “The smoke is not from a car fire, but is a mask for nuclear gas as the terrorist intended.”<br /><br />I gulp and my throat tightens with a sickening taste of acidic sugar. I pry my esophagus open with the toothbrush I’ve always kept in the car and marvel as it melts in my fingers as the dashboard curls in on itself enveloping the steering wheel. The air bag billows forth and adheres to my arms; burning the hairs and smelling like roasted<br />marshmallows’ on a campfire and suffocating me with its sweetness.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:juliewrite1@yahoo.com">Julie Ann Shapiro </a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2DkvWT3gH1YpCqQXEm6BduaOd7OQG3WbmXCPjJImLoAcT420dTMAV_qVFBkhyW5dzDtk6ZRQ3rmbRO_jDRct7yEpFiEHUnmKpZUJ8zmtDvXgj-V62D15emI391HNinJn2veHXc1e4MC4/s1600-h/DSC_6905.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 133px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343659221174178434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2DkvWT3gH1YpCqQXEm6BduaOd7OQG3WbmXCPjJImLoAcT420dTMAV_qVFBkhyW5dzDtk6ZRQ3rmbRO_jDRct7yEpFiEHUnmKpZUJ8zmtDvXgj-V62D15emI391HNinJn2veHXc1e4MC4/s200/DSC_6905.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Julie Ann Shapiro is a freelance writer, a prolific short story author with more than seventy stories published and author of the novel, Jen-Zen and the One Shoe Diaries (Synergebooks.com).</span></p>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-27852598772336616782009-06-02T19:19:00.000-07:002009-08-24T20:42:01.454-07:00Upstairs<p><br />After walking dejected across town on such a damp, chilly night, longing for some small pleasure, a smoke seemed in order. As luck would have it, the recessed door beside a darkened storefront appeared just up the street. Ducking into the entryway, Charlie Buc leaned against the door, out of the drizzling rain, to light up.<br /><br />The door immediately swung open revealing only shadows at first, and then as Charlie’s vision adjusted, a woman of large but attractive proportion emerged from the gloom. She approached him, smiling, and as she drew close he noticed her gown was of alligator hide, tanned to a visible softness, and she wore a feathered headdress. Instead of lighting the J, Charlie dropped it into his shirt pocket. “Good evening, Ma’m. I didn’t mean to….”<br /><br />“You’re late,” she murmured, and took his hand, leading him inside. He followed like wavelets following a swan, without volition. The sound of a sitar wafted softly around them. She led him through a hallway so smoky he had to catch his breath, and then through a curtained doorway and up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top of the stairway she paused and made a motion with her hands, as though to gather the smoke-filled air around Charlie, and then opened a door to an alleyway, outside.<br /><br />Without understanding why, Charlie bade her good evening and stepped out smiling, one story higher.<br /><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:thomas@gazoobitales.com">Thomas Hubbard</a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHs-rB1hNHtnmopldaw-dWlMax7XCP3hLLMJ0sEhtpx0ZgddCIUL3qa0g5paFAhiVKA1s_txCpnAmgpxdtxnvaxRBg3vnnajfA0KfUfjGQKt1zCGMBJgdN4kh3JH_zPA4GaFmFv3_GDg/s1600-h/Photo+43.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343255551905409442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHs-rB1hNHtnmopldaw-dWlMax7XCP3hLLMJ0sEhtpx0ZgddCIUL3qa0g5paFAhiVKA1s_txCpnAmgpxdtxnvaxRBg3vnnajfA0KfUfjGQKt1zCGMBJgdN4kh3JH_zPA4GaFmFv3_GDg/s200/Photo+43.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Because long ago she helped to show him a way out of Midwest factories and into his own life as a teller of stories, Thomas Hubbard began work on a book entitled "Twenty Years With </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Proud Mary." The work is still in progress, but the current working title is "Fifty two years with Proud Mary." Meanwhile he has gone ahead writing, telling and living his stories.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.gazoobitales.com/index.html">Thomas Hubbard's website</a></span><br /></p>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-2624771526373253802009-05-28T08:30:00.000-07:002009-08-24T20:42:40.676-07:00She is<p><br />caged<br />a yellow heartbeat<br />pounding<br />seepage flooding her lungs-<br />she reaches for<br />clear blue air but<br />the error of a smoke-full world<br />sticks to her throat<br />corrupt powder-sugar lingers<br />on her tongue<br />forever in that place<br />where you and I are<br />trapped in our own waxen bodies<br />waiting till that heart<br />browns and rots and fills with<br />the silence that<br />comes with no more<br />beating.<br /><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:JRLS@bak.rr.com">Raj Spencer</a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Raj Spencer is a poet's daughter. She has seen the ways of the world, and is graduating high school and Junior College, simultaneously (Summer 2009). Raj likes to string words together when no one is looking.</span><br /></p>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-79769132083087471962009-05-27T10:14:00.000-07:002009-05-27T20:59:42.133-07:00their dissipation<p><br />the wood burning under the saw, sweet smell<br />of dreams outside New York<br />suspending us over Shasta campfires, smoldering<br />burnt fish vapor and red’s dying whine<br />his old man cigarette breath<br />reminding me that this is wrong<br />old men don’t french kiss children<br />and smoke isn’t always sweet cigar<br />cloves of you my love<br />mary jane frolicks<br />or hooka in the back of the pick-up truck<br />sometimes, it is just burnt embers glowing<br />a history, lives ashen<br />each second, ending,<br />desperately holding on<br />till the last coal dissipates to dust<br /><br />by <a href="mailto:lisaann@bak.rr.com">LisaAnn LoBasso</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNmVX4N5tuFxdH2PG2s9T57AuTrM3qrH1dICOtNC9vtOJKIoLdhU2BIL0monX-yoOITD9GXjYUjV6acMQGxnuajlUIp0LuzPw02ZfpittZbRTOlSXFw72llREBnjA_T22EPjQSGlAxtZ8/s1600-h/lisaannpic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNmVX4N5tuFxdH2PG2s9T57AuTrM3qrH1dICOtNC9vtOJKIoLdhU2BIL0monX-yoOITD9GXjYUjV6acMQGxnuajlUIp0LuzPw02ZfpittZbRTOlSXFw72llREBnjA_T22EPjQSGlAxtZ8/s200/lisaannpic.jpg" alt="LisaAnn LoBasso" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340583354961616114" border="0" /></a><span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">You’ll find </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >LisaAnn LoBasso</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> wandering the world, reading poetry in smoky clubs and beyond. LisaAnn has asthma, and prefers, if possible, to avoid all smoke. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Books in print: <span style="font-style: italic;">In the Swollen</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Oleander Milkshake</span>.</span></p>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-11624380352916975742009-05-26T10:42:00.000-07:002009-05-26T10:56:21.883-07:00Marianne<!--embed loop="FALSE" volume="100" autostart="FALSE" type="audio/mpeg" src="ENTER%20URL%20TO%20LINK%20MP3" align="center" height="20" width="145"--><!--/embed--><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FeB5lVLyaZY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FeB5lVLyaZY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:SMead@uamail.albany.edu">Stephen Mead</a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Tribute piece to Marianne Faithfull, part of the series "Swan Songs". </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" >(If you have trouble viewing "Marianne" here please go to: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeB5lVLyaZY">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeB5lVLyaZY</a>)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDjNQ-k-MgGCFAgO06PXGDWiWVtDHB4YeBuzSEJm-Wg7UhGZnanFQFPZoeLQaymCEUhUEhZG1bZxYKfx7RcKC4jDcbA9lBQBUzFQiaahY_bZNcDGrhdDEuF7g4kQFGxQ9u7r9e8QcFsw/s1600-h/StephenMead.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDjNQ-k-MgGCFAgO06PXGDWiWVtDHB4YeBuzSEJm-Wg7UhGZnanFQFPZoeLQaymCEUhUEhZG1bZxYKfx7RcKC4jDcbA9lBQBUzFQiaahY_bZNcDGrhdDEuF7g4kQFGxQ9u7r9e8QcFsw/s200/StephenMead.jpg" alt="Stephen Mead" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329755296131122322" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stephen Mead </span>is a smoking poet and artist living in northeastern NY. Creativity reins in the voices in his head. “Drag,” his homage to women icons, a piece combining poetry and art, can be found in his book <span style="font-style: italic;">Selected Works</span>, available through Amazon & Lulu.com.</span><br /><br /><!--span size="2" --><!--links to authors websites go here--><!--a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2068261374907496065" target="new"--><!--/a--><!--/span-->ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-41064775188913742012009-05-25T11:53:00.000-07:002009-05-25T12:17:43.280-07:00Cigarette Smokin’ Acronyms<!--embed align="center" loop="FALSE" volume="100" autostart="FALSE" type="audio/mpeg" height="20" src="ENTER URL TO LINK MP3" width="145"--><!--/embed--><br /><!--br/--><!--br/--><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >B</span>last<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>stablishment’s<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >N</span>onsensical<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >S</span>upport<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >O</span>f<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >N</span>icotine<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >&</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >H</span>armful<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>uphorics.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >D</span>on’t<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >G</span>et<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>veryone<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >S</span>tarted.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >M</span>alignant<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >A</span>sphyxiate<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >R</span>emoves<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >L</span>ife<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >B</span>efore it’s<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >O</span>kay to<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >R</span>ecover<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >O</span>xygen.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >N</span>eighborhoods<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>ast and<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >W</span>est<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >P</span>refer<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >O</span>xygen<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >R</span>elated<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >T</span>roubles.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >P</span>ulmonary<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >A</span>rrest<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >R</span>esulting in<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >L</span>ung<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >I</span>ncapacitation.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >A</span>ssholes!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >M</span>aster<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>very<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >N</span>icotine-related<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >T</span>rial.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >K</span>uts<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >O</span>ff<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >O</span>xygen to<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >L</span>ungs.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >L</span>ong<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >&</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >M</span>alignant.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >C</span>lassic<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >H</span>edonism.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>veryone<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >S</span>moked<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >T</span>hese,<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>specially<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >R</span>etro<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >F</span>un-lovers.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >I</span>llness<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>ventually<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >L</span>ed to their<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >D</span>eaths.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >C</span>arcinogens<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >A</span>sphyxiate<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >M</span>ost<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>veryone’s<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >L</span>ungs.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >S</span>atan<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >A</span>lways<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >L</span>oves<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>vil<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >M</span>aterial.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >T</span>ruth has been<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >R</span>etarded,<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >U</span>nfortunately.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >E</span>nd now.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:Wydaddy40@aol.com">Jason E. Castro</a><br /><br /><!--copy code after inserting authors image from top of page to here, enter authors name between the quotation marks afer alt tag.--><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jason E. Castro </span>won't sell you furniture, start revolutions or sing for Simon Cowell. He's been previously published in the on-line magazine <span style="font-style: italic;">Danse Macabre</span></span><br /><br /><!--span size="2" --><!--a href="" target=new--><!--/a--><!--/span-->ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-81339753194995624542009-05-25T11:13:00.000-07:002009-05-25T11:28:23.309-07:00Meditation on Three Girls Smoking<!embed loop="FALSE" volume="100" autostart="FALSE" type="audio/mpeg" src="ENTER URL TO LINK MP3" align="center" height="20" width="145"><!--/embed--><br /><br />They are my students,<br />the young, with<br />the young’s trite pack,<br /><br />and because they see<br />themselves, I suppose,<br />as secret<br /><br />and sophisticated,<br />I can watch<br />from my window.<br /><br />They’re sixteen,<br />already puffing too long<br />to stop,<br /><br />but in this context,<br />they tug their elbows<br />and suck.<br /><br />I too,<br />and thought my mother<br />did not know.<br /><br />Then one strange day I quit<br />as if my body said<br />enough.<br /><br />Soon they will return<br />to my classroom<br />to write<br /><br />their stale little stories,<br />the dragging in<br />to draw out.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:lmharrod1@verizon.net">Lois Marie Harrod</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMxfRSSHnA6Krlpd-RGBymXTy5U-bMIR7A48SdIpS6s5fIHGGrP4M2fXsTLUHJN6jt-lAW2pguYmx-z3wb9vq76pnToeMPdrBl1i-MCz-UjjkLdqWlFhMRQNuwpEsQbE7Ztox9ENfmR0/s1600-h/LoisMarieHarrod.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 204px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMxfRSSHnA6Krlpd-RGBymXTy5U-bMIR7A48SdIpS6s5fIHGGrP4M2fXsTLUHJN6jt-lAW2pguYmx-z3wb9vq76pnToeMPdrBl1i-MCz-UjjkLdqWlFhMRQNuwpEsQbE7Ztox9ENfmR0/s320/LoisMarieHarrod.jpg" alt="Lois Marie Harrod" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339829910423151986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lois Marie Harrod</span> used to smoke cigarettes, but upon learning she was pregnant, began to smoke words, four books, two children and five chapbooks of words, the latest of which, <span style="font-style: italic;">Furniture</span>, was easier to burn than <span style="font-style: italic;">Part of the Deeper Sea</span>.</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.loismarieharrod.com/" target="_blank">www.loismarieharrod.com</a></span>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-55205843060832805692009-05-25T10:55:00.000-07:002009-05-25T11:35:07.738-07:00Where There's Smoke . . .<!--embed loop="FALSE" volume="100" autostart="FALSE" type="audio/mpeg" src="ENTER URL TO LINK MP3" align="center" height="20" width="145"--><!--/embed--><br /><br />There's a Starbucks man<br />Lips encircling a cigarette<br />in James Dean demeanor<br />Suckle love chiseling his cheekbones<br /><br />And I inhale simultaneously<br />Sharp and shallow<br />Unlike him and his lazy draw<br />two tables away<br />Unaware of my ill-mannered stare<br />Of his smoke signals that send<br />seductive language to like kind<br /><br />Silent alarms sounding<br />more than secondhand smoke warnings<br />Flashbacks of Salem cigarettes<br />and other stale hungers burn fresh<br />And the saint of safety<br />is supplanted by devil-may-care<br /><br />I wonder whether his hands<br />are as hazardous<br />as the come-hither nicotine<br />Whether the heat rising from my belly<br />is vicarious or lascivious<br /><br />Either way I want to cut and run<br />Coffee half consumed<br />Leave the cravings commingled<br />with caffeine in the cup<br />Instead I stay spellbound<br />Die-hard held by old conflicts<br /><br />Caffeine combining with compulsion<br />And with questions like<br />Will I outlast his next light-up<br />Listen to life in long-term whispers<br />Or will I banish hazards to hell<br />And burn in the fire of gratification<br />Its short fuse a live-out-loud<br />shout of fortitude<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:elockie@comcast.net">Ellaraine Lockie</a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="pw__rte_body"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Times-Roman;">"Where There's Smoke..." was previously published in <span style="font-style: italic;">PRESA</span></span></span></span>.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6gmQ3loASWUZpmX4wPAWHfxXHYQ32JbVEPB7Ucz8maRbCur3BaC1FYnuTn_mI5ywsFOF6YOdZ19d20AewO8YLG5DLsupptQPNJyxAkyx_XroHuKwcVkX3jsQRbwGSNME9dlHpRcpuQ8/s1600-h/Ellaraine+Lockie+Poet+Picture+Portrait.jpg"><img style="margin: 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6gmQ3loASWUZpmX4wPAWHfxXHYQ32JbVEPB7Ucz8maRbCur3BaC1FYnuTn_mI5ywsFOF6YOdZ19d20AewO8YLG5DLsupptQPNJyxAkyx_XroHuKwcVkX3jsQRbwGSNME9dlHpRcpuQ8/s320/Ellaraine+Lockie+Poet+Picture+Portrait.jpg" alt="Ellaraine Lockie" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339831014941577106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ellaraine Lockie</span> is a poet who prefers poetry printed on sheets of handmade paper made from the inedible parts of fruits and vegetables using a method she invented and published in her book, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Gourmet Paper Maker</span>, now available in six countries.</span><br /></div><br /><!--span size="2" --><!--links to author's websites go here --><!--a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2068261374907496065" target="new"--><!--/a--><!--/span-->ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-5828702943969523752009-05-24T13:11:00.000-07:002009-05-24T13:33:31.292-07:00Haiku<table style="width: auto;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/CWVp-2lkoU-iVol-SjbFMw?authkey=Gv1sRgCOWc8si9sI_JXg&feat=embedwebsite"><img style="width: 396px; height: 492px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSj8QslrPe37zqt4uv-hmf75dH-qRmo8QpxFJov-ZJVXnYSUSi5ocsTi43vtZ3F84pBT8wv1PiPnyoMed2cfYa0z0smQ7H38bJ8GD9s2C9O7h3F2EbN7KQnGFsbDVzU5eszAzma5sjzeQ/s800/Uncomfortable%20Beauty%20(smaller).png" alt="Smoke filled summer sky Oak leaves frame fast fading light Beauty finds its way" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">by<!--a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/pradapoet/TheSmokingBook?authkey=Gv1sRgCOWc8si9sI_JXg&feat=embedwebsite"-->Judi Brannan Armbruster<!--/a--></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><!--a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSj8QslrPe37zqt4uv-hmf75dH-qRmo8QpxFJov-ZJVXnYSUSi5ocsTi43vtZ3F84pBT8wv1PiPnyoMed2cfYa0z0smQ7H38bJ8GD9s2C9O7h3F2EbN7KQnGFsbDVzU5eszAzma5sjzeQ/s1600-h/Uncomfortable+Beauty+%28smaller%29.png"--><!--img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSj8QslrPe37zqt4uv-hmf75dH-qRmo8QpxFJov-ZJVXnYSUSi5ocsTi43vtZ3F84pBT8wv1PiPnyoMed2cfYa0z0smQ7H38bJ8GD9s2C9O7h3F2EbN7KQnGFsbDVzU5eszAzma5sjzeQ/s400/Uncomfortable+Beauty+%28smaller%29.png" alt="Smoke filled summer sky Oak leaves frame fast fading light Beauty finds its way" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339485854874672610" border="0" /--><!--/a--><br /><!--embed loop="FALSE" volume="100" autostart="FALSE" type="audio/mpeg" src="ENTER%20URL%20TO%20LINK%20MP3" align="center" height="20" width="145"--><!--/embed--><br /><pre><br />Smoke filled summer sky<br /> Oak leaves frame fast fading light<br /> Beauty finds its way<br /></pre><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:jarm1948@yahoo.com">Judi Brannan Armbruster</a><br /><br /><!--copy code after inserting authors image from top of page to here, enter authors name between the quotation marks afer alt tag.--><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Judi Brannan Armbruster</span> hopes you vote for medical MJ in your state! She lives north of the infamous Emerald Triangle. Her "girls" are just about ready to go to ground for maximum harvest! If you are not active in what is going on for your state, she asks you to check out <a href="http://www.420magazine.com/" target="new">420magazine.com</a></span>.<br /><br /><!--span size="2" --><!--links to author's websites go here --><!--a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2068261374907496065" target="new"--><!--/a--><!--/span-->ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-40304788956511278832009-05-22T20:59:00.000-07:002009-05-24T09:43:49.929-07:00Karl, Esther, Mark<!--embed loop="FALSE" volume="100" autostart="FALSE" type="audio/mpeg" src="ENTER%20URL%20TO%20LINK%20MP3" align="center" height="20" width="145"--><!--/embed--><br /><br /><br />I smoke. I smoke because it’s all I know.<br />Years ago, ashes began my father—<br />he had no roots to speak of.<br />His foster family cared for him well enough<br />on the farm, the dry summers of central Michigan<br />cracking to brittle leaf.<br /><br />The ashtrays in Karl and Esther’s living room<br />always empty, and emptied;<br />ash-blue walls,<br />shelves filled with tasteful, hateful<br />bric-a-brac.<br /><br />It was wonderful, my first cigarette—<br />at college, gin and tonic in the other hand<br />under the green dorm party light,<br />I felt like myself as never before,<br />a new grace descending<br />as I inhaled the autumnsmoke<br />of those dried leaves.<br />Abroad, I studied the exotic labels<br />on the packs: filigreed lettering,<br />Mongols on horseback.<br /><br />All our relations<br />agree to disagree:<br />we shrink from each other<br />in mutual distaste<br />at the obligatory gatherings,<br />even as we smile and<br />extend a papery hand.<br /><br />Esther does not smoke.<br />(She merely appears as a puff, a cloud,<br />wan face and powdery hair,<br />nervous, thin hands plucking at her<br />apron, hoping aloud that the pork chops are<br />not too dry.)<br />Karl does, with a brandy preferably,<br />but he prefers that I don’t.<br />I have to sneak out of the house to do it,<br />like some shameful act;<br />my friend hides them for me in her<br />glove compartment<br />until I move away.<br /><br />Now I’m the nomad on horseback,<br />scattering Karl and Esther’s ashes over London:<br />they dribble from the end of my<br />neglected cigarette<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:carol.wierzbicki@gmail.com">Carol Wierzbicki</a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">From her forthcoming chapbook </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Top Teen Greatest Hits</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (Poets Wear Prada, 2009).</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclf9JbdvKVQ1hmSFkOjB6Ecrpu2qoxpen0PSuk8TqCCtHKwlNhBEksQ0_iz95AYGO4hZCqZtQVfIQsW5zWymxySNT3vEI1-R2pfmxawvGUzGhwzedvYk14K1O0m336BtT8FSqL_X_I-I/s1600-h/CarolW.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclf9JbdvKVQ1hmSFkOjB6Ecrpu2qoxpen0PSuk8TqCCtHKwlNhBEksQ0_iz95AYGO4hZCqZtQVfIQsW5zWymxySNT3vEI1-R2pfmxawvGUzGhwzedvYk14K1O0m336BtT8FSqL_X_I-I/s400/CarolW.png" alt="Carol Wierzbicki" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339431835673231202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Carol Wierzbicki</span> has run poetry series at ABC No Rio and elsewhere in NYC. Her work has been published in <span style="font-style: italic;">Long Shot</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cafe Review</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Public Illumination</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Evergreen Review</span>, and the Unbearables anthologies <span style="font-style: italic;">Unbearables </span>(1995), <span style="font-style: italic;">Crimes of the Beats</span> (1998), and <span style="font-style: italic;">Help Yourself!</span> (2002), published by Autonomedia. She also is an editor of the Unbearables anthology, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Worst Book I Ever Read</span> (</span><span style="font-size:85%;">Autonomedia</span><span style="font-size:85%;">). She compiled and edited <span style="font-style: italic;">Stories from the Infirmary</span> (Universal Publishers,1999), an anthology of fiction and poetry on chronic illness. Her book reviews have appeared in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Brooklyn Rail</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">American Book Review</span>.<br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><!--span size="2" --><!--a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2068261374907496065" target="new"--><!--/a--><!--/span-->ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-74872687980929240732009-05-22T20:35:00.000-07:002009-05-22T20:56:07.592-07:00a dollar a pack at the rez<!--embed loop="FALSE" volume="100" autostart="FALSE" type="audio/mpeg" src="ENTER%20URL%20TO%20LINK%20MP3" align="center" height="20" width="145"--><!--/embed--><br /><br />in my mother's house<br />even the once lily lampshades<br />are nicotine yellow<br />the delicate lace of doilies past<br />crocheted, now curled, lung-like<br />tumorless but strained<br />smushed under plaster owl lamps<br />the ash collects in thread webs<br /><br />my father is on the floor<br />prone, pillow-propped<br />chainsmoking and watching Jeopardy<br />my mother pops corn in the kitchen<br />I am afghan-wrapped on the<br />hand me down Marlboro-red couch<br />the butter scent drifts through<br />but after eighteen years of<br />breathing second-hand<br />I have lost my sense of smell<br />Heightened due to compensation, I hear<br />rogue kernels slapping the bowl<br />refusing to be Redenbachered, proper<br /><br />mother settles into cushions next to me<br />I finger the pack of generic Indian cigarettes<br />Natives, they read, that she tosses to the table<br />A dollar a pack at the rez, she says<br />Handful of grease and sacrificed maise<br />I watch her gray skin puff and exhale<br />I weighed five pounds when I was born<br />Cord around my neck, blue but feisty<br />But it was the seventies, she'd say<br />And at least she didn't drink.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:jlbrabaw@gmail.com">Janice Brabaw</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLSem1ZGNtxKbjJLPMsn5l_U5AludVDk9PVSWFbtU2JNEYhSL4AM-HdfrGPZ_QDvRLpoh27lsG2Ztqi8GDpLG9ejg_OQvK35ClYjRbcgjnNnGTG8taXg3TayyximQ5_uyZSMnTWmZJwE/s1600-h/JaniceBrabaw.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLSem1ZGNtxKbjJLPMsn5l_U5AludVDk9PVSWFbtU2JNEYhSL4AM-HdfrGPZ_QDvRLpoh27lsG2Ztqi8GDpLG9ejg_OQvK35ClYjRbcgjnNnGTG8taXg3TayyximQ5_uyZSMnTWmZJwE/s200/JaniceBrabaw.jpg" alt="Janice Brabaw" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338861467245657666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><a style="font-weight: bold;">Janice Brabaw</a> is author of two books that detail her struggle with depression, borderline personality disorder, and binge eating disorder - <span style="font-style: italic;">And Again: A Memoir of a Life Disordered</span> and a collection of poetry called <span style="font-style: italic;">Universe, Disturbed</span>. She is the editor of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Best of Stain</span> - an anthology of performers from the two series she founded and curates in Brooklyn - Stained Glass Confessional and An Echo, A Stain. Her work has been featured in several lit magazines including Poesis, <span style="font-style: italic;">Violent Femininity - A Journal of Female Poets</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Toronto Quarterly</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">A Brilliant Record</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cartier Review</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Ophelia Street</span>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She is launching a new quarterly literary publication </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Persephonous Blue</span><span style="font-size:85%;">. For submission guidelines and to find out more about Janice please visit her website at:</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.janicebrabaw.com/" target="new">www.janicebrabaw.com</a></span>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-10394592301731161022009-05-21T09:45:00.000-07:002009-05-24T09:49:56.091-07:00IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO SMOKE (for acapnotics everywhere) please go out into the hall.<br />If you do not want to smoke,<br />please go out into the<br />dirty, filthy, smelly, humid<br />backstairs hall.<br />If you do not want to smoke<br />while you work,<br />please work outside.<br />Please take 15 minutes<br />of your 15-minute break<br />to run down the 15 flights of stairs<br />to get downstairs<br />to the dirty, filthy, foul,<br />smelly, putrid,<br />air outside.<br />Please do not stand in front<br />of the building.<br />Please stand in the middle<br />of the oncoming traffic<br />to better inhale the dirty,<br />filthy, foul, smelly, putrid,<br />noxious, wretched, stinking<br />air outside.<br />If you do not want to smoke<br />while you eat,<br />please eat outside.<br />Please leave your table and<br />your wine and your dinner and<br />your dinner guests and stand<br />on the sidewalk outside.<br />Please take your dirty,<br />filthy, smelly, stinking<br />dinner guests outside.<br /><br />If you do not want to smoke,<br />you can remain locked inside,<br />hermetically sealed,<br />happily, legally,<br />breathing in the odor<br />of the dirty, filthy, smelly,<br />putrid, foul, noxious,<br />wretched, stinking<br />burning<br />American<br />flag.<br /><br /><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:%20choc49@yahoo.com">Chocolate Waters</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6m0aKC9ZcBAR95-NsUN5yrvo86dnVwV6iXrnQV1f1UJAski3dIo6nkjbU_w6IsdU9nTRtFGKWNvj_Ou8ovvCqxdsQ4g0im2MuRGeJ_6M3e5VwFhx9r1VhZVsbjBh1h51UTNorADdXKRg/s1600-h/choc+may+09.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6m0aKC9ZcBAR95-NsUN5yrvo86dnVwV6iXrnQV1f1UJAski3dIo6nkjbU_w6IsdU9nTRtFGKWNvj_Ou8ovvCqxdsQ4g0im2MuRGeJ_6M3e5VwFhx9r1VhZVsbjBh1h51UTNorADdXKRg/s200/choc+may+09.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338470218926472962" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chocolate Waters</span> now eschews the evil weed, but still thinks smokers are treated much worse than the tobacco companies themselves.<br /><br />Visit her on the web at <a href="http://www.chocolatewaters.com/" target=new>www.chocolatewaters.com</a>!Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2068261374907496065.post-65514798248908030852009-05-21T09:39:00.000-07:002009-05-24T09:55:01.600-07:00Home Is Where . . .<pre><br /><br />. . . ever I have felt at home--<br />in each bedroom, for example,<br />a slice of time has called my own.<br /><br />Or else on mountains molded<br />from molten rock, old<br />volcanic ash, pumice-stone rains.<br /><br /> Or strolling a beach, wondering<br /> (as the waves weave<br /> their staggered path across<br /> quivering sands): how much<br /> difference there is, really<br /> between this daily<br /> drum-beat of surf and<br /> a tsunami?<br /><br />Or perhaps in Brooklyn's backyard--<br />shielded by the shade breeze<br />that caresses my flesh<br />on a summer afternoon.<br /><br />This poem is none of<br />these places, however.<br />it is, instead., an unfolded bed--<br />which is not my bed.<br /><br />In a room which is not my bedroom--<br />or hers, even, since the only<br />bedroom in this apartment<br />is occupied by sleeping children.<br /><br />Who did not wake as the volcano<br />spewed out its molten core<br />and the tsunami crashed, then<br />receded, leaving behind only<br />the rhythm of two drum-beat hearts.<br /><br />Which recline here, now,<br />caressed by the late evening<br />breeze, interlacing with<br />human fingers that will linger<br />forever over each other's flesh.<br /><br /> Unable<br /> to remember<br /> the last time<br /> any place<br /> in the universe<br /> felt as home<br /> as this.<br /></pre><br /><br />by <a href="mailto:stblm@optonline.net">Steve Bloom</a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYgq9l2VdXYLJSk6EF7PhEOfihBwI9ml7F25Cq-JsizvZNyF65XrYhP8GXiYl7xtl0Ka3XWbV5DCMthCBEx4eGueWgoVZnmappWRd0h5niBEUff23sOQGmvVBZoC4eqyJ1meNlCkyGlys/s1600-h/steve+bloom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYgq9l2VdXYLJSk6EF7PhEOfihBwI9ml7F25Cq-JsizvZNyF65XrYhP8GXiYl7xtl0Ka3XWbV5DCMthCBEx4eGueWgoVZnmappWRd0h5niBEUff23sOQGmvVBZoC4eqyJ1meNlCkyGlys/s200/steve+bloom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338470709986251634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Steve Bloom</span> lives in Brooklyn, NY, and works as a decorative painter and faux finisher. He has been published by <span style="font-style: italic;">Caprice</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Poet’s Pen</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Medicinal Purposes</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Flutter</span>. Performance venues include the Saturn Series and Bar 13 in NYC and the Traveling Poets Reading Series, Bakersfield, CA.<br /><br />Visit Bloom on the web at <a href="http://www.stevebloompoetry.net/" target="new">www.stevebloompoetry.net</a>Joy Leftowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03700619411586350136noreply@blogger.com0