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8/8/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 19 no 7
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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, July 1998
Yo, Gee, I got to think of me. We all got to go someday.
Your time just ended. Nothing personal, just business.
Murder, He Wrote William Gallego
STREAMS 7
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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 19 Number 7 July, 1998Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher
Thomas Perry, Assistantcontents
Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $20 a year. Sample issues -$2.60 (incl
postage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envel
Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127
1998, Ten Penny Players Inc.
Will Inman 4-6
Ida Fasel 7
Robert Cooperman 8-11
David Michael Nixon 12-13Joan Payne Kincaid 14
H. Edgar Hix 15-16
Kate Gale 17-18
Geoff Stevens 19
Lori Fraind 20-22Sean Brendan-Brown 23-24
Joy Hewitt Mann
Kit Knight
Arthur Winfield Knight
Albert Huffstickler
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http://www.scribd.com/doc/37550458/Streams-78/8/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 19 no 7
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to exhume the unanswered voices in our marrow - will inman
to expose the nakedness of bones
to strip away the secrecy of murdersto follow beetles and maggots into the
arenas of torture and death
to know that perpetrators still hold high places
to know that they use legal power to cover themselves
theyre not as clean as the skeletons of those they tortured
that filth behind their eyes, carrion in their pores --
pollutes us all
we cannot shed our connections with the murders
all of life is present in every birth and death
the newborn and the dead breathe through our nostrils
the missing ones twist and turn in our lungs, in our guts
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they guide our eyes again and again to their bloody footprints
they shape our tongues around terrible words
they speak to us in syllables of scavengers
their wisdom is dust inside our lipsuntil their suffering is engraved in our ribs and skulls,
we cannot speak of healing
revenge is too simple, punishment would be a condom,
execution of perpetrators would not exculpate
their abyss in us
what was done to the disappeared still works in our hands
it is not the luxury of guilt that moves us
it is the deceitfulness of innocence that sucks our marrow
no terrible thing but waits blind in our hands
we who are capable of all good things -- have to see
evil; all the way down us before we can be trusted
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we must remember, we must take it on as fierce
and as dark as death: we
will not do those things ever again to anyone
we will grow respect like hot lava in our bone marrowwe will build trust with eyes that watch us
we will plant joy in the faces of ghosts, they
will not haunt us: they will lead us
out of the distances in ourselves
they will make us beware of nearness
until we find that pathless way
to the center beyond our wanting
19 February 1998, Tucson
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Once More, In Oregon - Ida Fasel
A young man recently
Took it into his headTo test his creativity
On schoolmates he shot dead.
His parents (shot as well)
Poetized his name
He had an aptitude
For a deadlier game.
A game without a heart.
A winner from the start.
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A Tale of the Grateful Dead -- A Second Would-Be-Thief - Robert Cooperman
Im Cuthred the Clumsy,
for, if given the chance,
Ill slip on horse shitwhen I try to sneak up
on pilgrims with suckling purses
to lay at some shrine already
groaning with offerings.
When I sprang from cover
to order that merchant
to hand over his purse
and everything in his saddlebags,
I slipped on some mud
in the shade of that oak.
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But the others roared out
to surround that fat traveler,
prodded him with daggers,
pikes, poles, crossbow bolts,amazed that one so quivering with flesh
could possess so little
in the way of coins and gems.
Hes given it all, he whined,
to see a stranger buried,
all of us laughing the bitter
yap of disappointment
that turns to rage,
whetting our knives
to keep him quiet, forever.
But out of the falling night,
a rider scattered us like ducks;
I ran, smashed my head.When I woke all of my brotherhood
had disappeared. I staggered south,
winter coming on fast as that rider.
Christ help me, if I dont
find a fat, rich merchant soon.
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A Tale of the Grateful Dead -- One of the Would-Be-Thieves - Robert Cooperm
He looked like easy pickings
on his mule, when any pilgrimwith sense would travel with an army
to protect him from the likes of us.
We knocked him to the ground,
grabbed his mule, for the price
it would fetch at the next fair day
and to ransack his saddlebags.
Nothing! though we stripped him
naked and quivering as a baby.
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But he was damned even blacker
than us: Satans mist descending,
laughter driving us mad
as the swine driven over the cliff,and a horseman thundered at us:
his mount shooting dragon flames.
We took off mad as dead chickens,
but only I escaped, to a monastery,
threw myself on the mercy
of the brothers,
who use me like a hoe,
though they speak of Gods love
until it bubbles in my brains
like a hearth pot of hot gruel.
Ill bide until I can make off
with some of their silver,
though I dont mind the field work,and I find--to my surprise and disma
that I dream less and less
of the wenches, within these walls
Id have no trouble scaling
while the rest of the order
sleeps content in hard beds.
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The Live Oak - David Michael Nixon
We remember the nooses in the garden,
that hung from the live oak, three in a row.
Father was always in a hurry,
so nooses swayed in the garden, ready.
In nightmares, we would see black faces,
too many for the frail trees limbs.
first appeared in Hot Ai
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There Is a Sound - David Michael Nixon
There is a sound I have heard so often
that I no longer listen, or if I do,
it does not make any deep impression,
but troubles my surface only briefly:
it is the cry of the murdered, keening toward death.
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Giving the Most - H . Edgar Hix
Left, but not left, on the field, in the water, splattered across trees:
the smell of the dead, the screams of the wounded, the prayers of the dying.
They say the young men gave the most:
the young men who believed as only the young can,
wrapping their hearts around their flag,
not able to list the 10 Amendments,
only their girlfriends, brides, mothers, fathers, children, sisters, brothers;
the young men who learned they were not immortal
or, luckier didnt get time to learn.
The dead do not hear the dead, the wounded, the dying.
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The old men give the most:
believing as only old men can;
bandaging their hearts with their flags,
able to list each battle, each friend, each enemy;
able to remember firing blindly, being blind from fire;
able to remember coming home ghosts:
living this bright shadow that falls in front of them
as they leave the blood muddy boot prints behind
but wear the boots, the immortal boots
they will never have time enough to untie.
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Dying with Dirty Sheets - Kate Gale
Leon died before laundering his sheets for the second time
that year, July heat, streets full of pigeons and people.
Jet skis were out, snowmobiles parked in garages. He had written a
book once which caused people to notice him as he entered
a restaurant or left a laundromat. For a short while, he could
afford a maid who washed his sheets in a usual manner, and a stereo
so that he lived one musical note after another. But the pigeons
were startled by a new face and hands throwing bread in the park,
a writer with a new story in which a lady who wore gloves even tobed, went mad for lack of a mirror. With this new story, Leon was
fanned back to his laundromat days.
The maid went looking for better employment.
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The day he died began like any other. He planned his writing
schedule, then lost in myriad tasks, he sank to scrubbing
the encrusted floor. Finally, he noticed the smell
of unwashed sheets and remembered the days of the maid whisking the
place with a bounce of breasts, a twinkle in her eye.
He walked out into the street with the sheets in a basket,
plans of a story, a good writing day, failed to see
the approaching produce truck, remembered briefly
that he had forgotten to check his mail since Christmas.
Perhaps his latest story had been accepted.
The pigeons flew up in circles and thenlanded to pick at the fallen fruit.
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Kilroy Wuz Everywhere - Geoff Stevens
We are all in the killing business,
killing time, killing fields, killing feet;
pain killers, kill-joys, kilroys,
boredom, pollution, blisters,
aspirin, wet blankets, graffito artists.
Even biting the bullet causes led poisoning.
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Massacre, Ahmici, 1993 - Lori C. Frainda photograph by Fille Peres
We buried you in translucent plastic.
Or we buried you under a piece of canvasStretched taut across your body
And nailed to a slab of fresh-cut pine.
Or we buried you in a bloodied carpet
rolled up like a cigarette.
We buried so many in translucent plastic,Or under pieces of canvas
Stretched taut and hailed to slabs of pine,
Or rolled in bloodied carpets,
like cigarettes.
Im sorry
Im not sure any more
How we buried you.
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Murder in America - Lori C. Fraind
Murders, result from little ol arguments over nothing at all....Ive worked on
cases where the principals had been arguing over a 10-cent record on a juke box, or
over a one-dollar gambling debt from a dice game. - Dallas Homicide Detective
Chances are, that if someone kills you,
Its not because someone wants you dead.
Its more likely that someone thinks you cheat
At chess, or play music too loud, instead.
Perhaps you didnt mow your grass enough,
Or hogged the fan when the weather was hot,
Or played the wrong song on the juke box,
Or took someone elses seat, or maybe not.
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Perhaps you couldnt hold your tongue,
Or perhaps you were simply a wife,
Perhaps you owed somebody money,
And paid in full with your life.
Or perhaps you will be the murderer,
Consider: how true does this ring?
How often do you lose reason over some slight,
Claiming, Its the principle of the thing?
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Diabolism - Sean Brendan-Brown
They sailed North Sea stinking of death,maggoty kip lashed to foredecks,cannon speaking enemy. They carrieda god in a black hide-bound box anddrank its blood and loved nothing.They beat their children & animalsof burden and scorned with hymnalsoothsaying our polyglot world.
Our advantage was their fear of darkness.
They had no passion for war: theyfought cruelly and killed horses.They told us it was holyto keep one wife and deny all others. Wedid not respect their wisdom as they proveddaily to hate and despise their women. Our
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understanding of their god was that it wasa poor father, having abandoned its son in war.I told the priest that a good fatherwould have died side by side his son, hands
bathed in Roman blood. The priest baredhis teeth, stamped his feet but chose hiswords carefully, for I am a Chief:Your heart is hardened otherwiseyou would understand the greatness of God.
I decided he was a devil. I asked my tribes
blessing to kill him and his soldiersthan threw the book-god into Dog River.All I have spoken is the truth.Now you understand we were not cruel,hasty nor unreasonable.
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Blood and Water - Joy Hewitt Mann
Mother wore lipstick to church,
strawberry for the preacher,
and a dress
of starfish and urchins:
the ocean
and a berry patch
all waves and sweetness for Jesus
who visited each Sunday.
Oh, Jesus! Sweet Jesus! and Id quiet
my brother
in the dark beside me
his swollen belly craving her
more than food.
One morning,
No water running from the gash,
only Mother
screaming at the knife my brother he
and brother
lifting the preachers feet and hands
looking
for the wounds.
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Funeral Rites - Joy Hewitt Mann
Because there was war
they handed me a cardboard file --
one hundred pages of my son inside.
And so I lived by selling his body
a page at a time. His last letter
is stuck to the inside cover:
Home soon. Keep both doors locked.
Yesterday his last poem was published;today, I have unlocked both doors.
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Deccas Baby, 1862 - Kit Knight
The devil must be beating
his wife, Mrs. Singleton said
referring to the sun
shining through
the pouring rain as we buried
Decca. Mrs. Singleton held
Deccas baby as she watched
her own baby being lowered
into the mud. The infant slept
in her grandmothers arms.
Thru tears and rain, never
have I seen a more drenched
face. My soul knelt; I cant
imagine a more tragic scene.
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I helped dress Deccafor this. Her motherchose to bury her daughterin her wedding gown.
Its only been a yearsince that day of kisses.Hundreds of kisses.Kisses that raninto each other. Alex kissedDecca like strings of pearls.In the casket, Deccas whitegloved hands were crossedover ever her young breasts andthe last two lettersshed received from Alex- - still unopened - -
were clasped in one stiffhand. Shed been too feverishto read them herself anddidnt want anyone else
to touch them. Somedaythat sleeping infantmight wonderhow daddy faredfacing Yankee gunswhile mom was dying. Somedaythis War will be over. Buttoday, in the sun drenchedugliness, that motherless babyis 13 days old and there arentany tomorrows.
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Little Joes Nurse, 1864 - Kit Knight
Of his four children,Little Joe was President Davis
favorite. The five year oldwas allowed to interruptmeetings with General Lee.The War, now in itsthird year and trailingthousands of bodies,has to end. The Southcant replacedead men. Boys--barelyin their teens--are marchingoff to fight. Old men--senile and boneless--
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are shouldering rifles.Yankee papers rightlyaccuse us of robbingthe cradle and the grave.
And now the cradle has beenplundered again. Little Joefell off a railingand plunged20 feet to a brickpavement. The child died
as his mother--five monthspregnant--reached his side.The First Lady screamedfor ten hours whilethe President pacedand grieved. His son
was dead and his nationwas dying. All night,I could only hearthe tramp of his boots,
the flapping curtainsand shattering screams.And I, the Irish nursewho should havebut didnt--my God,I didnt, I couldnt,
I didnt--preventthe tragedy, hovered,feeling my soul had beensucked outby the wind.
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Baby Face Nelson: Hit - Arthur Winfield Knight
I can feel the windas I head into it,firing the machine gunin the late light.Everythings dying,even the day,as I cross the field.Its the Tuesday afterThanksgiving. One cop
is dead and anothers dyingwhen I get to the ditchwhere they hid.Im wounded, too:hit in the side.I dont know where else.
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Im numb when I staggerback across the fieldto the car, cornstalkscrunching beneath my feet
on the red earth.Helen runs toward me,crying when she seesall the blood. Damn itI just got this suit. Lookat all the holes. I say,Youll have to drive,
Im hit, but you should seethe other guys.She always laughswhen I say stuff like that,but shes not laughing now.
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Butchery - Albert Huffstickler
Listen to this:
they operated on my father for cancer
in the Veterans Hospital in Washingtonknowing they couldnt get it all
It was in his back and shoulders.
When they finished,
they packed him with gauze and sewed him up.
Then they put him in a room
without a nurse and left him.He had already had his larynx removed
and breathed through a hole in his throat.
So the wound from his shoulder and back
was bleeding into the hole in his throat
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and my mother sat there by him all night
wiping the blood away and pulling
the clots from the hole in his throat
so he wouldnt strangle on his own blood.
When he didnt die as expected,they sent him home.
Back then, they still made house calls
so it was the family doctor who,
cut him open and found the gauze pads.
All this following four years of internmentin a Japanese prison camp in the Philippines.
This was his reward.
And where was I?
Somewhat at a loss about my whole life,
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unable to face my fathers coming death,
I was on my way to Chicago
hitchhiking on $10 my mother had sent me.
I was almost as cold as I was crazy
but convinced that the answer lay in Chicagowhere Im sure a lot of answers lay
but not mine.
Mine was thirty years in the future
and we didnt have time travel back them.
But what that man suffered for his countryand what he received in return!
You think it all started with Vietnam?
Man, its never stopped.
from Heeltap 3 St. Paul MN 1998 This issue dedicated to Albert Huf
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1999 is our 20th year of publication.
Issued 11 times a year (monthly save for August) and co-edited by Richard Spiegel and Barbara F
Our monthly themes are lines excerpted from Muriel Rukeysers poem, Theory of Flight (19
January (deadline December 1, 1998):
Cut with your certain wings; engrave space now
to your ambition : stake off skys dimensions.
from Preamble
February (deadline January 1, 1999):
Centrifugal power, expanding universe
within expanding universe, what stillnesses
lie at your center resting among motion?
from The GyroscoMarch, (deadline February 1, 1999):
O love, how am I surpassed how mocked how
defiled and corroded untouched by your kiss.
from The Tunnel
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