A National Gift Card For One and All

The banks got a bailout,
Wall Street did as well,
GM and Chrysler got infusions of cash,
For them, that's really swell.

First timers wanting to buy housing, subsidized,
If you work, there's less withholding,
Cash for Clunkers moved Lots of Cars,
Government money just seems to keep on coming!

But not if your not in a "favored" group,
Retired, unemployed, broke, or paying rent,
For all the taxes paid over all the years,
What exactly do you get?

Nothing much that I can see,
A "Bailout Orphan" in free fall,
The holidays are coming, the next giveaway should be,
A national gift card FOR ONE AND ALL!

To buy basics or to splurge,
Hundreds or thousands to spend as citizens please,
To bridge the divide between the "haves" and "have nots,"
Which has brought this country to its knees.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Bubbles, bubbles,
Everywhere,
Bush and Greenspan,
Led us there.

Tech, housing, and oil,
Are we done?
Six months in, looks like,
We've only just begun.

Cash for Clunkers to clear the lots,
Tax credits for first time home buyers,
Just who will be left to purchase,
When all these programs expire?

Saddled with mortgages and car loans,
More personal and national debt,
We need jobs to jump start the economy,
But I hear Cash for Household Appliances is next.

Bubbles, bubbles,
Everywhere,
Obama and Bernanke,
Are keeping US there.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Dear Mr. Logan,

My name is Rex Sexton and I am submitting the five poems below for your consideration for publication in "(A Brilliant) Record Magazine."

The following is my publishing history and statement about inspiration for my work.

I am an award winning artist exhibiting in Chicago and Philadelphia and my writing has that immediate and visual aspect. My novel “Desert Flower” was called “ … innovative and original …” by Large Print Review and “…so skillfully devious it could have been written by Heinrich von Kleist two centuries ago in Germany.” by Kirkus Discoveries. My short story “Holy Night” received the Critic’s Choice Award in the Eric Hoffer Award competition and was published in Best New Writing 2007. My poems have been published in reviews such as Mobius, Willow Review, Waterways and Edge, and my recent collection “The Time Hotel” was described by another Kirkus review as “… a deeply thought-provoking …compelling reading experience.” I paint and write expressions of humanity with the hope that I capture its dreams in the midst of adversity.

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,
Rex Sexton

NIGHT WITHOUT STARS

Listening to it in the darkness,

the lullaby of hopelessness,

played by staccato rain

across the Chi-town tenements,

gunfire and sirens tossed in

to make the rhythms of the night

even more disturbing,

I dream colors,

paint prayers,

across the blackboard of oblivion,

where all lessons of the street are learned,

without degrees,

and tattooed in the heart and mind

with graffiti signs.


SHADOW WORK

We jumble. The cops turn up.

They bumble. Whosh! Whosh!

I catch the El train – rooftops

interrupted by flashes of lightening.

Cold. Alone. Endless rain.

JUNKYARD DREAMS

all piled in a heap

and rusting amidst

the acid rains and the

tangled weeds of poverty,

where butterflies and sunny

skies and star-lit nights

seldom come to anyone.


PAPER MOON

The world dropped into night

as I flew my kite up and down

the school’s playground.

Lightening flared, thunder rumbled,

but I held on tight, spellbound as it

danced, fluttered with the black winds

in the stormy sky, until the rains came

and it tumbled.


STARCHED NAPKINS

Tea for two on the table,

she stands combing her tangled hair

in the room without a rocking chair.

“I am so glad that you are here.”

She says to the full length mirror.

All the doors are locked.

All the clocks have stopped.

But tea will be served with care

in fine China with silver ware.

Another Bridge to Nowhere

I had always hoped that the "public option" would survive to compete effectively with private health insurance, so that once the general public was eased into it and over time had gotten over their fear, it would eventually dominate the business and become the insurer of overwhelming choice. Apparently I am in the minority and Obama will be caving to the irrational venom of the town hall meetings. So what will we end up with after this "debate?" Looks to me like "same old, same old," or worse, another campaign promise that ended up being a "bridge to nowhere." No "change."

Karen Ann DeLuca

Dear Mr. Logan:
I am submitting the following five poems for consideration in your interesting on-line journal:

The Bottom Sheet
The Pathological Liar's Support
Belle Litters
Pieta
Inca Trilogy

The inspiration for my poetry is my own experience--travels, relationships, the stuff that happens in a day and over a life. I enjoy word play. I've been writing poetry for many years but have only just recently started sending material off. I have a piece awaiting publication in the September issue of Ojo del Lago. Currently I reside summers in Mexico and winters in Tallahassee, Florida.

Margaret Van Every

THE BOTTOM SHEET

is averse to corners,
rounds three, balks at four.
Each year it resists the more,
strengthens as I decline.
One day I shall lose the match,
lay me down on mattress
ticking, tick time.

THE PATHOLOGICAL LIAR’S SUPPORT

His stories clung
like sprung underpants
afraid to fall,
suspended in part
by our credulity
to spare us
embarrassment and hurt.
But gravity’s no fool
and took its toll.
When he lost his cover
we lost ours.

BELLE LITTERS

The poem is an unstrung sphere,
oh, waiting to be flung.
These are my pearls

and this the litter,
front to runt,
snoot to root.

Don’t pitch to sties?
Who then will eat the words
that were my eyes?

Hark now, I think I hear
the belly-shaking
pleasure grunt:
oinkoink, oink, oink, oink.

PIETA
soulfled
Christ crucified

lifeless lies
in motherlap

limp limbs
draping motherlegs

INCA TRILOGY
I. Sack

This sanguine sack
weavework of Inca
prefall
will never bulge
with amaranth or maize,
its fibers inflated fullform
with remembrance.

II. Nazca Lines

Pictures writ large
baffle ground level,
cater to condors
like our messages
missed eye to eye
(which is not where
it is), apparent only
when we fly.

III. Redrawing the Lines

That spiral-tailed rock ape
ages in the sand
could be
surgically transanimated—
head, limbs lopped—
scorpionwise,
high-riding tail a maze,
arrogant, death doling.
We moderns lust
to lose ourselves
in the coils of
its wicked prick.

Everyday Life: Who's Doing the Thinking?

I recently had a mammogram and DEXA at a medical facility just off Seminary Road and 395 in Alexandria, VA, close to where I live. I have been going there for years. I also have an "August" car, and parking at the "professional building" is difficult, so I decided to "kill two birds with one stone" and get my vehicle inspected at a nearby gas station at the same time.
I dropped my automobile off, and walked across the "plaza" parking lot, which I might add is always close to empty, but routinely patrolled by tow trucks to eradicate the noncommercial infractors and prevent the nonexistent overflow. That inhospitable policy figured greatly in my planning, and also allowed me to get some fresh air and morning exercise while the heat and humidity were relatively low.
As I signed in, I was still multitasking, pulling my prescription and insurance card out of my purse before they were asked for. I quickly filled out the three pages of paperwork I was handed in exchange and was shortly thereafter escorted back to a waiting room. As the BEXA was first, and like a Girl Scout I had come prepared, sans bra and without any metal on my clothing, I didn't bother to put the gown on, and quite frankly, wasn't given the time. Not a complaint. But that thoroughly upset the BEXA technician, who was incredulous that I had no zippers or snaps. She kept asking if I was wearing a sports bra - I just had to be wearing something underneath my T-shirt (gasp)! Sorry, no bra, small doesn't really sag, and most of the time my motto is "what for?," although I will concede to the harness for formal or professional occasions and when my posture (neck and shoulders) needs a lift. When the bone scan was over, I apparently got up off the table a bit too hastily for her liking, and she admonished me for not staying put until the table was completely lowered. As if I would know exactly when that was. "You must wait," she scolded as I was tying my shoelaces and putting my watch back on. I abruptly let her know I was fine and assured her that I wasn't litigious. She must have seen the copy of Richard A. Posner's "What Judges Think" in my hand and correctly surmised I was an attorney. I could not wait to get away from her, far to rigid a personality for me, a "stupid rules are made to be broken" girl.
As I opened the door, the mammogram technician was waiting. Oh, but I still did not have my gown on, so she wanted to send me back to the waiting room to change. I suggested that I just do it in the mammogram room and quickly pulled off my top and donned the pink frock. What for, I don't know, not that it really stays on during "filming." But she was expeditious and personable, and door to door, I was back to my now "passed inspection" car in around half an hour.
Both of these woman were much younger than me; the second technician actually commented that I did not look my age as she confirmed my birthdate with a question mark and asked me how I stayed looking so young ("Thank you. Genes"). To varying degrees, neither could think on their feet or outside of the box. I don't consider my forethought or simple common sense solutions in the short time I was there particularly sagacious, novel, or tantamount to "brain surgery." But I am a Baby Boomer, and apparently a dying breed. I can think. If this is representative of what is "going to rule the world" in the not so distant future, at almost 55, with hopefully many years still ahead of me, I am scared.
The next day I received a computer generated mailing from the medical facility reminding me to make my yearly appointment. The very one that I had kept on the date of its postmark and had scheduled at the beginning of July! Aside from the waste of paper and postage, and a disappointing look at what some of my health care dollars were going for, this is a good example of the folly in the overdependence on technology as a substitute for human critical thinking. Twice bitten in as many days, I am scared. Very scared. You should be as well...
Back to School is just around the corner. WHAT, exactly, are we teaching?

Karen Ann DeLuca

Cash for Non-Clunkers Cafeteria Health Care

My health care plan, a COBRA by default, is one of those Cadillacs that covers all sorts of things I know I will never use, and many I hope to avoid. Maternity care and family planning - I'm almost 55, and so far, childless, by choice...and not a man. Contraceptive drugs and devices - I'm post menopausal. Ditto for infertility services. Smoking cessation - I've gone this far without a puff. A boatload of mental health and substance abuse benefits - I went through a very contentious divorce five years ago and yet the strongest thing I've ever imbibed is a couple of cups of morning joe and I'm probably one of the few Baby Boomers who's never inhaled. The plan is also light to non existent on such services that I actually do use, such as dental care and massage therapy. For almost $500/mo, I get far more than I will ever utilize and am clearly subsidizing other enrollees and the insurance company. With all the talk about health care reform swirling around these days, I've heard virtually nothing in the discourse about a "cafeteria" plan, where one would be required to pay for coverage for "basics" such as hospitalization and office visits, but could opt out of services that were clearly irrelevant to lower the premium. While this might have been difficult back in the day when our current "system" was in its infancy and record keeping was by hand, it could be easily implemented now in the age of computer technology, pricing customized plans...the way auto insurers do! Not only would it lower my premiums, but it would also allow many who only need and can afford a skeleton plan the opportunity for real coverage versus doing without altogether or because of a high deductible, and misusing our emergency rooms for care for free. The insurance companies shouldn't balk; in return for minimal extra effort, they could increase their subscriber base. The policies would be self limiting, cost containing and somewhat behavior modifying by their very nature, keeping access to and abuse of the system in check. You get what you pay for...act responsibly.
All the current proposals seem to be doing is generating class warfare. The ironically pro choice, and largely conservative and working "haves" don't seem to realize that their employer based plans cost them higher salaries and the rest of US jobs. The "have nots" are loaded with time on their hands and heart wrenching stories, loudly vocal, but with little to no agreement as to what "change" to do.
I'm not obese, I have no expensive chronic illnesses, and I watch my diet and exercise daily. I'd like to see some cash in the health care plan as a reward for not being a "clunker" and would gladly downsize to a Chevy and nibble at the "cafeteria." How about you?

Karen Ann DeLuca

JAMES WEBB WILSON

Mr. Wilson was BORN IN 1941 IN Ithaca, New York and was raised in the Finger Lakes Region of upstate New York. He was employed by the Traveler’s Insurance Company for 27
years from 1967 to 1994. He retired in 1994 and became disabled with his diabetes and heart
conditions. He continues to live in Vernon, CT .
In 1989 to 1991 he had 65 poems published in: various publications.
His poems are drawn from his own life’s experiences. He presents rich images through the strong and interesting use of his poetic vocabulary and language. He has continued his poetry to the present and is proud to be a poet of two centuries. He encourages others to keep poetry alive.
In 2009 Mr. Wilson has had poems accepted for publication by:
Westward Quarterly, Cloud Appreciation Society, Nomad’s Choir, The Poet’s Art
Star*Line, Write On. and (A Brilliant) Record.

James Webb Wilson

A Blue Volvo Nearby

When there are no afternoon clouds
And the dream is forever changing,
While the stars are not yet visible
And the lilacs are only remembered

Where can I hand this wisp of my heart
Where tigers cannot chew it apart
With one bite of ferocious passion
As love now seems out of fashion.

There is the lonely jet airport bound
It passes miles up above the ground
But the Blue Volvo is right nearby,
It seems so near, so close,
But it is now just not enough.

The question has no answer
Merely a rhetorical posturing of laser beams
Which crisscross in impossible dreams
Searching the afternoon summer air
To see what is left of honest care.

Blue Velvet Piano Notes

The sea runs wild with the storm
There is so much debris afloat
The restless waves hammer and pound
The endless shores of tropic isles
As we always seek the land of smiles.

But it is a raging catastrophic sea
With hopes dashed of things impossible to be,
Hopes smashed like cartons of Boston tea
By the revolution creeping in my heart,
Because time has teased me from the start.

The knight errant wears no armor now
His head is sore from thinking
His quest once noble and resolute
Fades quickly and is less precise.
Where is the honor that stings too much?.
Where is the heart he wanted to touch?
Still the blue velvet piano notes in flight
Keep echoing in the still of night.

Inside Her Hemisphere

I was inside her hemisphere today,
Inside the essence of her eternal flame
Inside the aura of her Aurora
Inside her circle of hope and trust

She was bubbly and effervescent
My invited toast was intoxicating
She was my own champagne
I was alive without pain.
So I whirled in my grand occasion

It was just a brief little moment of time
Her nickel but my dime
As she doubled my presence with her own
As I was where I wanted to be
Caught up in her hemisphere.

What's Virginia to Do?

As Governor Kaine peregrinates his farewell laps around Virginia in his government limousine, he is, or should be, by the very nature of his current official tenure, to say nothing of the offices he held prior, and the campaigning done to attain them all, familiar with what facilities lie off what exits on our state roads. And most likely given his new position as the Chair of the DNC, he will for the most part still be chauffeured around, never fully experiencing the impact of his swan song decision to close the rest stops. But for the rest of us Commonwealthers, driving to a destination within the 39,598 square miles of Virginia, or long distance travelers just passing through, entering and exiting a roadway is a nothing more than a nuisance that adds nothing but extra time and hassle to a trip. Put simply, we don't know what's off the road, and don't particularly care.
Driving for any length of time on the open highway can be tiring and mesmerizingly hypnotic. Is the plan to encourage more motorists to drive drowsily and poorly, so law enforcement can write more tickets? The rest stop closures will then help the state's budget twofold - by decreasing expenditures and increasing revenues. One problem with that: Accidents. Can. Kill. Do we really want to put the lives of the citizens of the Virginia, and to some extent, the country, at risk over $500,000/year X 18, 19 or whatever the final number barricaded ends up being, noting the now scaled down plan was originally to close 25 of 42?
Remember why these facilities were built in the first place: SAFETY. If the roads aren't "safe," or merely perceived not to be, eventually there will be less traffic on them. The Commonwealth is not so large that you cannot Mapquest your way around it. The road less traveled needs less repair, but it also symbolizes a greater loss of commerce. At best, win-lose; we can do better.
Everyone is familiar with the phrase "are we there yet?" If you have young kids, you know how active they can be when confined to a vehicle, no matter how well equipped it is with babysitting gadgetry. Mr. Kaine's three children are grown; apparently he's forgotten. Strapped in doesn't mean strapped mouth, or strapped arms, or strapped legs. I. Have. To. Go. NOW. Baby Boomers/Seniors have the latter problem as well, as reluctant as some of us are to admit it, ubiquitous sudden urge syndrome commercials notwithstanding, making us squirm just like the youngsters. More problematic, because we are the ones doing the driving and have to pay attention to the road, not our bladders and bowels, giving dual meaning to the phrase "it's not healthy to hold it." And then there's the issue of pets. Diapers for all? Get in on the bottom of the S curve trend; time to buy stock in Pampers and Depends! If not, think of all the damage to car seats. Music to auto detailers ears!
So what's Virginia to do? Utilize the increasingly rare shoulders to stop and stretch? Good chance of personally getting hit or incurring property damage. Nah. Run into the woods - if you can find them - to answer nature's call? Maybe a guy thing, but not for us gals. Yes, some parts of the state are still rural, but life in 2009 isn't the Wild West, notwithstanding the attempt of this policy to send us back there.
Keep an empty jug in the trunk with the spare can of gasoline in case you get stuck, or should I say need to come unstuck? Another nascent industry waiting to be tapped, pardon the pun. I can think of many creative ways to use the receptacles after the fact in protest of this new policy, such as leaving them in line with the orange cones now obstructing the rest stops. Or better yet, deliver them to Richmond; send a symbolic message.
Coin operated port a potties every so many miles? Those quarters will add up and for motorists, it would be better than nothing. Run a Commonweathwide contest to decorate these monuments for contemporary times, Virginia's equivalent to DC's Donkeys and Elephants or New York City's Bulls and Bears. Then they'd be much prettier than mile markers, and with dual drawing power as tourist magnets. Think of it as putting lipstick on a pig, place for safety and with good lighting ... and don't forget to bolt the beauties down.
Federal Law requires that rest stops cannot be commercialized unless they are located on a turnpike or toll road. Duh! Just rename the roads and/or start charging for their use (another revenue raiser; West Virginia did that) if you want to do the Reagan Republican thing and contract them out. It's not like more toll roads aren't coming somewhere down the pike anyway, as a next step in making up the general budget shortfall or just paying for the infrastructure. VDOT just laid off 600 employees, idled more trucks and is committed to seeing only current contracts to completion. Let's call Routes 81, 95, 85, 64 and/or 66 intrastate something scenic or historic. How about Kaine Turnpike, in honor of this turning point in our state's history? Monikers memorializing current Virginia Secretary of Transportation Pierce Homer and VDOT Commissioner David Ekem would also be appropriate. The Governor seems to be banking on a Congressional waiver to allow businesses to run the Commonwealth's rest stops. According to the Federal Highway Commission statistics, that has only occurred in a handful of cases. August is recess time for the Senate and the House of Representatives, and getting anything passed, Obama deadlines notwithstanding, is a slow go. When the legislators come back, they will have gotten an earful from their constituents - the economy, health care - and Virginia's rest stops will not be utmost on their minds.
Far less complicated, and better yet, replace those unsightly blockades with toll taking devices at the entrances to the rest stops. I'd be happy to toss a coin as I go through a booth to get to the facility on the other side.
Lest we forget, the state built and is charged with maintaining these areas. So closing them is a lost investment of taxpayer money and there will still be the cost of minimal upkeep anyway to avoid their becoming roadside eyesores. So why not get creative? Organizations could sponsor part of, one, or more; Adopt a Highway, Adopt a Rest Stop. In return, the group's name would be put on a plaque, or a road sign if one entity alone adopted one area; public good will for the adopters would be generated at the same time. Or convert them to State Police barracks, with ancillary public restrooms monitored by surveillance cameras. Boy, would that make me feel safe, and void the argument claiming rest stop crime. Since revenue is the issue, this will put Virginia's finest closer to those they love to chase. Texas has done this, and added playgrounds and interactive kiosks, converting rest stops into attractions. Iowa has included gift shops featuring local (Norwegian) products. The Commonwealth could do something similar with its unremarkable Plain Janes, highlighting regional foods, wines and artisans, a variation of The Virginia Store and a roadside market. A welcoming Travel Plaza, moving the mall ever closer to the highway....and more potential retail traffic. The sweet smell of apples and sales tax, as we stop, shop and go. All for just a few additional frills! So why has the Governor pointed us in the opposite direction?
This state had the misfortune of not having Maryland's foresight in grandfathering the commercialization of its rest stops before the federal law took effect. OOOPS to Tim Kaine's predecessors. Louisiana has closed 24 of its 34 since 2000; they have a good excuse: Katrina. Maine, Vermont and Colorado have plans to do so; others, including Rhode Island, Indiana and Arizona are "thinking about it." Depending on what happens in the Commonwealth, the movement may be gaining momentum. The slogan of our 2009 Travel Guide says "Live passionately." Before we don't have the need to print as many of them, let's find some enthusiasm for tackling the problem from a human and fiscal standpoint. We in Virginia can be at the forefront of a win-win solution and conceptual redesign. For the state to be "...for lovers," it first needs to show its residents and potential tourists some love.

Karen Ann DeLuca

The Bus to Nowhere

You've seen them. Those ubiquitous Metro buses marked Not in Service, as far as you're concerned, going nowhere. I feel like I've been on one of them since the Obama Administration took office, speech rhetoric and campaign promises aside.
It all started with the hope of good government jobs. The Feds would be hiring; hundreds of thousands to maybe millions, impressive real numbers. Music to the ears of the vast unemployed; salary and benefits to boot. I joined the happy hoards frequenting USAJOBS.GOV back in January, built my resume, and applied. And applied, and applied, and applied. For months I heard nothing, and then began a slow stream of notices to my e-mail and postal box, predominantly stating that "the announcement had been canceled," followed in almost equal numbers by those declaring that "no selection had been made." For the few positions for which I was found well qualified and referred to the selecting official, the standard rejection noted that hundreds had applied, so basically, tough luck. And I started to wonder if I was the only one observing this decreasingly optimistic pattern, and more importantly, WHY?
Yes, it costs the government nothing to post and delist an announcement; it's just part of a personnel staffer's daily job. But in this economy, why put those desperate for employment through the cost of their time and money for nothing? It's more than a bit cruel on their psyche, could drive the most fragile to drink, or worse, to say nothing of being a budget buster. Not every application, and in some fields, less than more, can be done online for free. All those postage and fax costs add up. I recently got a notice stating that an announcement had been canceled and reopened, and inviting me to apply again! What's the sense in that? It did not take much thought or time for me to take a pass, figuring the odds that the readvertisement would lead down a similar dead end path were high.
Wasn't the mantra of the Obama campaign to clean up government waste and make government work again? Because here's what I see: Evidence of HR offices spinning their wheels with make/busy-work, but few additional hires. Republican holdover Bushies still appear to abound. What's that about? If the goal was to put people back to work and inspire the best and the brightest to public service, the last eight months have been an abysmal failure. If the Feds can't set an example, how can they expect more of the other engines of the economy that look to it for leadership? Deadlines, demands...the President seems to be full of them. Cash for Clunkers, mortgage relief, health care reform...that's all very nice. But if you don't have any money, NONE of those programs matter. It is time to start living the moniker of the USAJOBS.GOV website, "working for America," by making those 33,721 opportunities worldwide (8/6/09) that are listed a reality. To paraphrase that rising Administration star, Bill Clinton, "it's the jobs, stupid." Trickle up. We all remember Sarah Palin's infamous "bridge to nowhere." It's time for Obama to revamp the "service" on its corresponding bus.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Dear Godfrey Logan, editor of (A Brilliant) Record Magazine:

I am submitting five new poems for your next online publication of (A Brilliant) Record Magazine. I am including poetry covering a range of themes that I feel will fit well with your collection. Thank you for your attention.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Swados

Elizabeth Swados is an award winning author and composer; she is a Tony nominated, Obie award winning theater artist, Guggenheim and Ford Foundation recipient, as well as a Pen/Faulkner citation. Her latest book, At Play – Teaching Teenagers Theater was published by Faber and Faber. Her other recent publications include: My Depression (Hyperion), and The Animal Rescue Store (Scholastic). Her theatrical credits span from Broadway, to off-Broadway, to around the world including Runaways, Missionaries, and Jabu. Her poetry has appeared in magazines such as Meridian Anthology, New American Writing, New York Quarterly, Emory's Journal, Confrontation, Paterson Literary Review, Speakeasy, Barrow Street, Runes and Home Planet. Her first book of poetry, The One and Only Human Galaxy, is to be released in April 2009.


The Kite

It feels as if someone’s died
and I don’t know who.
The kite, with its sail of green silk,
resting gently in the sky
on a thin string and tail of yellow yarn
is suddenly yanked down by a sailor’s heavy rope
tied to a rock held in the hand of my enemy.
He never speaks to me directly.
He just robs my triangle
from a particularly lovely blue sky.



Crevice

I ponder this and I ponder that
until I ponder myself away
it would be dishonest to say
that I haven't wasted many
valuable hours
if not years
on already previously claimed
and undecided questions.



Home

I think my body is
the minnow that's
reached the rock in
the river
and can't get any further
Home is a negotiation
between hope and impossibility



News This Week

Shooting judges
is the way the human race
metaphorically
kills God
who cannot die
and must be killed
by proxy



Out of Beats

If rappers wrote Haiku
then Buddhists would play poker
and the crow on the Cyprus tree
hanging upside down
would drop a seed of grass
onto the head of a bright yellow frog
who would pee in the pond
its speeding heartbeats
buzzing like the wings of
a puzzled fly.