I wrote this piece a couple of years ago. My name is Amanda Conway, I've been writing since I learned how. I hope you are well entertained by my work, and, none the less, understand it. I tried accessing your website, but didn't have luck finding it, so I hope this is some where along the lines of what you want. If not, my sincerest of apologies to you.
Enjoy!

Patrick the Magic Banana
By Amanda Conway

One day there was a magic banana named Patrick. He had a chip on his peel and thought he was really cool. Patrick loved his pet unicorn Amelia and everyday went for a ride on her back. One day, a Leprechaun frightened Amelia so much that Patrick went flying through the air past 20 rainbows and landed in a giant pot of gold. There he met a man who called himself Hanz Olo. He and Patrick got along so well, that Olo decided to take him on an adventure to the world of Hollywood where they were to sell their souls to a magic unidentified building known as "the box office". It took 20 days and 20 nights to get there and when they finally arrived, the place was magical. Stoned hippies and drunk transsexuals lined the streets and greeted the two upon their arrival.
"Welcome to the new world! We're on our way to becoming famous!"
They all exclaimed to the magic banana and the Falcon pilot.
"I'm gonna be a pop star!" a sixteen year old prostitute exclaimed.
"Some day I'll be a famous actor!" a coked up man in a tattered business suit exclaimed.
Patrick and Hanz Olo made their way through the streets, browsing through the poverty stricken markets and tiptoeing along the passed out winos.
"This place is wonderful!" they both exclaimed.
"We can sight see later, let's get going." said Patrick.
After traveling through the littered streets of Hollywood, they finally arrived at The Box Office. It was a huge building made entirely of gold. Once inside they saw the true zombie like appearances of the people running the industry. Blood was dripping down the walls and the only sound to be heard was that of souls being crushed and spirits slowly dying. Immediately all of the executives in the building turned to the two with their giant artificially whitened smiles.
"Amazing!"
"I love it! Love love love it!"
"Mwa sweetie you'll be great in the business."
"Come follow us." One said, so Patrick and Hanz Olo were led into a giant room filled with dead plants and thick dust. The big-headed banana and Mr. Olo were flabbergasted. The room was quite different than what they expected, but they found it was worth getting used to. For hours they were fed wonderful lies of happiness and fame, when all of a sudden a naked hippie bursted into the room with a backwards swastika painted on his belly.
"I'm sick of this fascist run media!!" he screamed and charged fast with a machete in his hand. Left and right he swung the giant weapon chopping the empty-souled executives to tiny little pieces. Before Han Solo and Patrick could decide what to do, the hippie had sliced the banana into oblivion.
"STOP!!" Olo exclaimed, "it's just a bad trip man, it's just a bad trip! Get a hold of yourself, bro, you're coming down hard." The hippie opened his eyes and stopped screaming. He was dripping from head to toe in blood and sweat, his sign of genocide smeared on his belly to the point of unidentification. He ran over to slaughtered Patrick and started eating his banana guts.
"Well God damn I never knew magic tasted this good."
Out of curiousity, Hanz Olo tried a taste.
"MMMmm that's good fascist" he said.
For the next 48 hours while a Beatles record played on repeat, they feasted on the insides of Patrick. Tripping out hard on the banana's magic, they discussed deep issues like their country's fascist government, and the meaning of life. When daylight came, out the bloodstained window they saw the prostitute-littered streets of the magical land called Hollywood and realized how lucky they were to live in a place so beautiful. The naked hippie jumped out the window of the beautiful gold building and flew off to a far peaceful land known as Amsterdam. As for Hanz Olo, he's still in that dusty dead bloody corpse-ridden room, waiting to find his true love.

let me know if i can be a boon such as authoring the entry or other page of your website
or help in whatever capacity that might cater to this fella whose leans left of the political right
based on the following writing style with one who uses his vocabulary with might
airing thoughts and ideas that soar with epiphany as high as a kite
analogous to stream of consciousness thoughts that take flight
yet own a gut level feeling that this flirtatious, garrulous, humorous, et cetera reply
may nary yield one handy dandy blues clues bite!

please consider this older mister mom type chap
with me spongebob square pants peg in the round hole aplumb
a defensive, reliable and safe and prosaic script sure driver who soars over traffic with wings that flap
if that twittering factoid relevant tweet from this virtual beach bum
who would not perform any dare devil stunts lest he become a non-survivor verses a striver using a map.

sorry if my impulsiveness out of sync
with the mainstream formality to establish a link
with this always sane, sensible sober older fellow
no matter you might presume me to take one to many drink
boot in truth, this teetotaler shuns various amber liquids of the dogs
and chooses more holistic methods to rejoice than evoking that clink!

i could moost certainly benefit from a full and/or part time job
hence this rather goofy atypical reply (from craigslist posting) i lob
while gingerly trying to remove kernel32 dll errors
(while gently inhaling ) from this imaginary hand carved corn cob!

anyway,this aspiring writer dejure shoe lee mastered his a, b, c's
'though during test time all my learning seemed to freeze
oh and although the following non-sequitur added comment moost likely irrelevant
back in the day o me early boyhood,
i passed thru the initiation rite of passion sans tickling the ivory keys
in addition to learning about the human species!

in addition, i cobble, dabble with double entendres, nibble and tinker with byte sized words
monosyllabic terms like this or that as my pedigreed intellectual toy
with an intent to affect, invoke and joke with intellectual ploy
opening mine mien whether among jew or goy
ideally to be witness literary employ
and earn an income oh boy
netting gold anchor ahoy!

yeah, i know responding to sundry posting defies conforming to the established formality,
yet nonetheless ask my reply
ideally couched with an affirmative decision with no less than twenty thumbs up well nigh
to be extended an offered a hand for me to join this company as another common joe type noir guy
whose nom de plume ala the bard of belmont hills sometimes used as an alibi!

please no harsh denny grating critiques in reference to the enclosed epistles from this guy noir (who dwells atop the pinnacle of the storied acme building epitomizing an overactive imagination) could attempt to feign being a famous playwright in the throes of that atavistic, beatific, cathartic, democratic, enigmatic, fantastic, galvanic, et cetera glee fill gumption sans making words come to life!

anyway, i hoop whomever screens out an aspiring literary craftsman whose trademark eclectic style as a writer (albeit mainly poetry) finds me composing unique missives, yet feels unsure if the recipient of this reply will accept the enclosed epistles from this guy noir who dwells atop the pinnacle of the storied acme building while dipping his powder milk biscuits into the elixir of life!

this mere mortal frequently feels a. like joost another brick in the wall
or b. feels comfortably numb while alienated in this condemn nation
with the sounds of silence written on the virtual subway hall
and wishes he could escape (like that eponymous spoon running away with the fork)
to the far side of the moon jumping without any fear to fall!

this outlier aka nonestablishmentarian tries to write crystal clear
yet frequently gets entangled in a web of me own creation
and try to convey the thread of the topic at hand with an exuberant flair.

i admit right oof zee figurative bat
nada to be a local hip hop poetic cat
boot thought perhaps to submit dis or dat
for your perusal without instigating a coup d'tat
while browsing craigslist writing gigs from me penna flat
and mebbe a nutter lover o words could be my alter ego voice over
perhaps that infamous doctor zeus creation known as the cat in the hat
or maybe another fellow whose name (by george) might be the same as mine - matt!

from:

matthew harris

postscript:

poetry and prose appeals to this wordsmith
who admits to political righteous tendencies as an affiliate of democratic party to boot
so, i hoop microsoft file attachment methodology a suitable format to send samples
yet, if no way no how ye do not cotton and accept such method
please git back to this deux score and a hoof year old coot
who dabbles for the sheer joy of cobbling together his ideas
than to be inundated with a humungous amount of loot
only accolades and positive comments would suit
and allow me my own horn and hard art to toot!

unsure if the enclosed files/endeavors adhere to the credentials
to join the winning information technology or writing team
yet heartily felt that extemporaneous waywardness that flows against common stream
which criteria after perusing thence answering the contents apropos you will thence deem
becoming part of the creme del a creme!

joost as an ass side (wit me only intent to tit till late) let me playfully close
this email by readily admitting that voluptuous women
with plenty of junk in the trunk (or to employ the more outdated term zoftig)
does readily prompt a top notch rating of google times ten
for those gals who possess that buxom build plus also smart and able to understand trig
anyway, for your edification, i wish for nada one snarling growl from joining this gig
which latter mental ability might not in the least matter to moost men
unsure if my poems or prose reply you will find abominable bore or be prompt a barrack to dig
but in a nutshell, mine eyes favor gals whose bosom happens to be outlandishly big!


although the election results now ranks as old news, i still feel that adulation beckons cheers defying odds to win the hearts and minds aside from this one voter who cast his vote for a (as he calls himself "mutt" of mongrel - with no insinuation for denigration) toward a biracial mortal male who epitomizes that je nais sais quois ambition du jour to tackle the multitude of local and/or global challenges with his prized defensive team!

no doubt he probably already composed some rough draft per his inaugural address (or yours - eminent president elect if ye happen to be perusing the contents of this email) will address the outstanding crisis that confront the home turf and international world stage populated with tough rooted quandaries, which hardly allows, enables and provides for mushroom to err!

rather than fritter critical and valuable time to blame or fear for the prior republican administration that could be held accountable for the current morass, i reckon that tis prudent to expend the precious sands of time to ameliorate those most serious issues without resorting to fear, which machiavellian technique this admirer begs to differ!

aside from begging to differ with your philosophy to affect guilt in other (as like an invisible prod), the paradigm presented promulgated (in prestigious media resources) pleases this papa of deux daughters, which principles of the first african american occupant of the white house brings solace within this spirit!

no matter mind boggling and overwhelming lesions seem to witness this two hundred quarter plus democratic experiment to hemorrhage and require emergency action, i feel reassured that resuscitation of this body politick will recover and become restored to vibrant health thru the confident intervention thru diligence, intelligence, ordinance, et cetera of (emma) eminence filled pride without prejudice, sense and sensibility to become like some wunderkind in the oval office!

even now (about one month or less) when that oath taken to heart to uphold the covenant of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness (as attempted to be codified by founding fathers of this country - i.e. these united states of america) stunned disbelief still abounds within my liberal filled conscience, yet excited at the prospect that one young(ish) noble representative of homo sapiens exhibits much esteemed aura, charisma, dogma, and persona so pertinent at this juncture in the history of fifty states who weathered (yet survived) dramas that nearly rent asunder the very fabric of this amazing society!

unbeknownst to anyone such as dumbledorf, estimable magicians with awesome powers of prestidigitation, j.k. rowling, santa claus, seers, soothsayers, the wizard of oz, tooth fairy), la de da to forecast if thine indomitable agility, civility, electricity, gentility, integrity, et cetera will be effective to deliver superhuman feats of accomplishments!

this audacity of hope (telepathically communicated from dreams of my widower father and late mother) blessedly delivered some capacity of genuine faith that seems hinged on the evident decency enunciated (time and again - ever since ye took to the campaign trail and now amazingly finds one gracious honoree to guide the populace at large) to offer deliverance and salvation!

From:
matthew harris


Capitol hill

house and senate dutifully ply their craft
then end up with the president filibustering their hen pecking bill
submitting unanimous opinion in their legalese drawn up draft
which veto power from the elected chief of the white house doth send a chill
that sometimes warms his cockles vis a vis by a bit of turn the other cheek graft
which comes as little or no surprise to those in the shadow of the hill
whence upon trying to assert their rights seemed scored and laughed
especially when taking a tumble like nursery rhyme characters jack and jill
feel the sharp dejection analogous to receiving the so called shaft
which demonstrative obliviousness to needs and wants prompts the urge to kill
experiencing that sinking feeling like being submerged in a rickety raft
from feeling caught up in the maws of some human like puppy mill
if history serves me correctly, the blame taken out by assassinating mckinley and taft
whereby those who grovel along the boulevard of broken dreams with nil
nowadays sense of security breached by financially levees springing leaks that waft
thru the continental air inspiring this ditty from a figurative quill!

matthew harris

CHIEFTAINS OF THE LAND

The dim past houses warriors of yesterday
whose lachrymose trail of tears
continue to whet the sympathy of one diehard
dilettante commissar born and bred
upon the soil those indigenous Tribes
(with that ill-fitting misnomer of noble savages)
left their legendary mythic and epic legions of prowess
yet fell prey to a mightier force
whereby treasonous treaties played on innocence and naiveté
interestingly and ironically enough memorializing such mighty peoples
thru place names and sports teams
which patronage ranks as mere condescension
and barely compensates for compensation and vindication
for genocide plus gross mistreatment and sacrilege
of token Native American remnants
corralled on dirt poor reservations
still evoking the tormented ghosts of a forgotten time.

matthew harris

HEAT FROM THE HEAVENS

The mean temperature for January two thousand and six (thus far)
noticeably above the norm for this time of year
prognosticators foretell various forecasts per this third planet from the star
which inhabitants upon Mother Earth burden of responsibility must bear
billions of people wanton pollutants ratchet up barometric millibar
dialing up greenhouse effect, which serious scenario scientists fear
correlation from profligate offal ways traced from freed genie in the jar
no longer stretch of imagination affects mankind did sear
since day of reckoning whence Prometheus set stage for war
pitting mankind against Gaia messages we fail to hear.


New Orleans – French quarter

Hurricanes Rita in conjunction Katrina (and the waves) nearly rent asunder the beloved historical quadrant, which sector got settled by a mélange of various and spunky sundry peoples soon after the Louisiana Purchase took place!
If said monetary transaction evaluated in the denominations of today, this exchange of land would translate into mere coppers during the era when Daniel (a boon day) Lewis and Clark Kent bush whacked their way across the virgin terra firmae using rustic archetypes of chain saws!
Levees fortified (with extra minerals and vitamins) shielded the vulnerable swath of land (practically on a par with sea level) stood the test of time until wetlands became compromised by greater influx of population groundswell that (to some degree) made vulnerable the ramifications of natural disasters!
Back in the day when ratatouille the made staple to feed The Army Corps of Engineers who laid the blueprints and foundations for complex edifices to be erected (no fallacy here) could hardly foresee the future time of reckoning whence mother nature would act like a tempest and wreak havoc leaving no glass of Bourbon standing nor canal up rooted!
An inexorable process of late began to witness a resurgence of occupants attempting to restore (and shore up) this historical tract that (no matter how many sweat equity hours of volunteerism) may only approximate an authentic ambience attributed to this unique Creole accent!

matthew harris

NOTHING REMAINS STATIC NOR CONSTANT

Entropy constitutes modus operandi universal state
writ small and large
upon microscopic and macroscopic Tabula Rasa slate
and purportedly prescribed, designed and bestowed
by some divine entity great
(unless one subscribes to dynamic processes of evolution
and attendant theory of punctuated equilibrium)
as one more favorable to rate
yet…no matter and nonetheless
whether former or latter view that does elate
Homo Sapiens continue to make feeble attempts
to order terrestrial world coincident and in concert
with schema of their own mortal fate.

matthew harris

I would like to offer my submission for publication in the fall issue of Record Magazine. It is a 1,300-word short fiction piece called "Love Story".


Shawn R. Gaines

1,300 words





“I wish I could sleep forever,” she used to tell him, with a giggle and a yawn, as she’d roll back over in bed, her face hanging off the queen mattress that flowed over the bed frame toward the serrated brown cabinet.
He’d flop closer to her, like a drying perch, and spoon her naked back. Leaning into her freckled cheek, he’d assert, “No, you don’t.”
She would potato bug her way farther into the corner of the bed and nod. “Yes, I do.”
“You’d be dead, Laura,” he would say. “Sleeping forever equals dead.”
She would giggle again and say something about how wonderful sleep is, but by that time he’d usually start thinking about something else: making lists of his day, wondering if the automatic percolator started doing its job, wondering why he can’t do that potato bug thing.
Sometimes he looked at her and he wanted to shape her, mold her like warm Play-Doh into the same ignorant potato bug he was equally amused, charmed and disgusted by. Instead, on one particular day, he laid on his side of the bed, staring at the blank wall beside his window, waiting for her to wake up, throw on her spaghetti strap jersey tee with the pink lining, and suggest something, anything. A run. A shower. More sleep. Whatever guidance she offered. He didn’t care enough to devise his own path for the day, and the solid line he could trace down the edge of her neck didn’t lead anywhere anymore.
It was 9:00 a.m. with daylight savings when he shook her and she didn’t budge. He shook her again, but her hard shell never flinched and she remained stagnant.
“Stop it, Laura,” Alex said, adding a sigh and a yawn. “Stop it. I’m not taking your parents to brunch today by myself.”
Another shake and Alex knew something was wrong.

Laura knew Alex before Alex knew Laura, through a friend mostly: that friend everybody seems to know but nobody seems to mention in normal conversation. They actually went on three dates before their mutual relationship was revealed. He had known the friend from long pot-fueled nights with a towel laid across the apartment door crack and an empty six-pack of Great Lakes Burning River. She had known the friend from her college years, in some school organization where they either built stuff or fed starving children, not that Laura cared; resumes aren’t built which organizations, but how many you’re in.
Laura saw Alex in a photo at the friend’s house. He had beer dripping down his face, as if someone just told a hilarious joke while Alex’s mouth was numb from Novocain. Laura later discovered that was the case—Alex’s poor choice of Heineken after a dental extraction. The photo wasn’t flattering, and Alex was barely visible behind the crowd of loud, open mouths like a trout frat party, but Laura saw sincere laughter in the sea of drunkards and it lured her in.
She slept on his image a few nights, imagining what he might look or sound like, even thinking about him once while she cleaned herself in the shower, gently grazing her breasts. Eventually, the image left and she returned to curling around her down comforter, three hundred thread count lover in her insect nest.
A month later at a lost bar, off the main street where the beer selection is deep, the music selection is anything but sensical and nobody dances, Laura saw Alex and ignored him. She recognized him more from the photo than her recreated fantasy, but her idolization convinced her that he would only disappoint. They left at the same time, however, and as she fell out of the doorway with a throat of Three Floyds, he offered to help her up while she yelled surly things and gave him her number.
She never understood the poster of elephants hanging above his bed in his old green bedroom, even after asking him. There were a series of green and yellow lines, roaming in paths along the sides in the form of a bottle outline and overlapping at five segments that were actual elephant photos—one clearly in an African safari, three in the zoo and one that might’ve been a Looney Tunes character, probably with a lateral lisp.
“Do you like elephants?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow, mostly because he was inside of her, near orgasm. “What? No.”
Her neck was awkwardly titled backwards, as she rested on bottom, staring back at the wall behind her where the poster hung. He tried to start up again, but her concern was only the yellow lines and the Hopper-esque combination of charcoal outlines and realism. “Did you take those photos? Of the elephants?” asked Laura.
“Fuck? What? The elephants?” He nearly raised his voice, exiting her and tossing his limp body onto the bed alongside her.
Laura knew that was it. She had been with men before who responded angrily, once violently, to her attention altercations and twice she never saw them again, without a word or tear indicating a completion. She almost smiled this time, knowing it would be over: another predictable fall line without an opportunity of return.
“I think I found it at a thrift store by work. I just wanted the frame,” Alex said; Laura stopped smiling. “But then I figured it would be a perfect discussion piece mid-fuck.”
Laura unraveled and faced Alex, who smiled, laughed, and shut his eyes.

Now Laura’s eyes were shut, facing away, and Alex shook her again, reliving his smoky memories of the stoner parties with their mutual friend and remembering that he actually found the elephant picture outside the friend’s house and stole it away because he was too fucked up to realize the photos were glued to the glass.
Alex grabbed his cell phone and let his bare feet flop onto the cold carpet around their bed. He started dialing Laura’s parents, but hung up after one ring and called for an ambulance instead. He incomprehensibly screamed something about her not moving and the emergency services assistant said an ambulance was on its way.
He wondered if he should lift her and wished she was curled back up in an easily toted ball and, as he stared, his spittle dripped to his chin, sans beer, and he reached for the dresser where he kept a couple joints and he lit the first one up like spiced incense and toked and sat back along the bed, tapping his frozen feet and waiting and waiting and the siren whirled loud enough to make his heart skip a beat and Laura coughed.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her voice strained, her throat a colander. “Shit. Did I..?”
Alex opened his mouth to finish her sentence and point out that she passed out, probably from dehydration or something and then assure her she’s okay and that the paramedics are on their way just in case, but he didn’t say any of it. Instead he stroked backwards and fell down, aligning their rested heads on the couch, and thought long and hard about cradling her.
The paramedics knocked and screamed for someone to open the door, help was here. “Where do you think your parents want to go?” he asked.
Laura shrugged. “You know how they are.”
Alex and Laura heard their front door slam to the wooden floor as the paramedics rushed in below them, sweeping the hinges off the barriers that stood in their way.

Farrah, Michael and Health Care Reform‏

The untimely deaths of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson underscore what should be a prime consideration in reforming our health care system - balance.
First, we have Farrah, who preferred chiropractors to real MDs for persistent butt pain and experimental treatment to heavy duty chemo in an effort to spare her world famous mane. Underuse, at least at the outset.
Then we have MJ, who if reports are to be believed, died with his personal physician at his side, with a drugstore inside him, after his daily injection of Demerol. Overuse, otherwise know as abuse and addiction in reference to illegal drugs and on the street.
The current discourse seems to be centered on how to herd more people into the system as it is, ladened with procedure happy pill pushers which the post psychedelic Baby Boomers seem for the most part all too willing to accede to, albeit not in "Anna Nicole" proportions. The focus needs to be put on keeping our citizenry healthy unassisted, and out of a doctor's office unless there is a true need, instead of encouraging the making of appointments and the ingesting of pharmaceuticals at hypochondriac levels for what are mostly trumped up and heavily advertised disease du jours. And individuals need to take responsibility for knowing their own bodies and need to develop some common sense and intuition as to when medical assistance is required. Because as is illustrated in the cases of Farrah and Michael, the "too much or too little" approach is disastrous, and in this country, we are no where close to the middle ground.

Karen Ann DeLuca

WHEN LESS CAN BE MORE

The Post Office wants to eliminate Saturday delivery and close and/or consolidate its retail locations. I think USPS should take it a step further and just shut down completely on weekends. Many Post Offices already have APCs which can complete many routine transactions; the rest could be similarly equipped. There are convenient outlets just about everywhere that potential customers frequent, and if you just need to purchase up first class stamps, well, there's always the grocery store. But the most important reason to implement such a change is societal; let me explain.

I grew up in a time when there were Blue Laws, those now seemingly pesky and archaic rules that forbade most forms of commerce on Sundays, a time which was reserved as sacred for God, for family, or for downtime, the proverbial forced day of rest. Over the years, as lives got busier and more complicated, the weekend became increasingly utilized to "catch up," do the shopping, take care of home related business. It spiraled out of control when the pursuit of leisure became indulged in with the precision of a work week schedule. And then the economy tanked.

Coupled with "the Great American Blackout," otherwise known as the digital conversion which has left millions with either no TV reception or more limited programming options than before, my suggestion is a step in the right direction, no matter how backward it might at first glance appear. For years, life 24/7 has been about "the stuff," or how much can be crammed into a day, or what of either can be bragged about to impress and pass, poorly, for conversation. The reverse, prodded by financial malaise, and brought into perspective by more physically limited options for shopping and entertainment, should usher in the onset of a trend of real and meaningful communication and putting the intrinsic value of people first. Despite all the interminable hoopla leading up to June 12th, Best Buy has just posted quarterly profits down 15%, with a 6% decline in same store sales. It appears that despite the hype, there was no stampede to upgrade or purchasing frenzy, but rather a resignation of cash strapped consumers to do without. The Post Office has an opportunity to harness this change in collective mentality to its benefit and to lead by example at the forefront of a national movement, as we necessarily scale back and revamp our lives, one industry and one person at a time. Less can be more. Really...

Karen Ann DeLuca

Learning to Drive: A Father's Day Tribute

I spent my teenage years in a bucolic town in upstate New York in the '60s and '70s. A very small town, asleep in the land of Rip Van Winkle, and in many ways, at least ten years behind the tumult of the times. Fortunately for me, my father had an eye on the pulse of the nation and the foresight to see how different my world and my future would be. But in the summer of '72, these two forces clashed, and ironically, I was on the side of tradition. Let me explain.

I was seventeen years old and about ready to go off to college. I didn't know how to drive a car and wasn't particularly interested in learning. The way I saw it, only "fast" girls had their drivers' licenses, and I didn't want to be labeled as such. And besides, my mother didn't learn how to drive until she was thirty-six years old and pregnant with my younger brother. What was good enough for her was good enough for me. I still had time. Or so I thought. My father, however, had other ideas.

All summer long, I endured the after dinner driving lessons. I'd go without my eyeglasses (I am very nearsighted). I'd go without my learners' permit. We'd both get indigestion. When the time came, I flunked my road test by going through a stop sign (I don't remember seeing it - honest!). I was my high school class valedictorian and I had never failed at anything in my life. This time I had done everything to sabotage the effort and my parents could not understand why. But my father, determined that I would have my drivers' license before I went away to college in the fall, asked. And when I gave him my reasons, which I thought were pretty good at the time, he quickly countered with the fact that my world would be much different than the small town existence that I had lived to date and that I would need to drive a car as part of my independence. It made sense and I passed the road test on the second try.

There have been many times since then that I have been grateful that he cared enough to make sure that I got my drivers' license. That summer, he did much more than teach me how to drive a car. He gave me the first of many lessons to prepare me for my future life.

Karen Ann DeLuca

God and the Ducks

Wind whips

forty-five degree day

down river while

we huddle

asses against

muddy river bank

you folded into me

wrapping yourself

around my happy arm.

When we talk,

your words vibrate against it.

You dance against me

turning to hide from the wind

burrowing into my chest

whispering

purring

laughing

cursing

folding

yourself against me

in tighter

up closer

like you never

want to move again

but you do

we do

off into that other

world where

tedium waits

while here

all I want

is to climb

inside of you

wrap myself

around you

fall asleep

in our sweat

right here

downtown

on the river

in front

of god

and the ducks.


In the Box


Lovers lock

rolling

over covers

thrashing

under the influence

sweating

in the dark

barking

into the late heat

noising out

dreams and curses

echoing

energy only

found here

in this box

built to

house

remorse

and hope.


She Breeze

Throwing open

all the windows

the first time

each spring,

taste fresh air

cool sweet pure

peeling cobwebs

from the walls

sweeping winter

from the room.

First cool rush

brings goose bumps.

You bring that

daily

to my

wintry

world.



Nietzsche Laughing

Oh my
no reply
as the one
who swore she'd be
"your solace
your oasis
the good in your life"
leaves me lying
languished in
yet another
layer of anguish.

Trust no one
and depend on
even fewer.



Reno Rain


Burrowing into bliss
two lovers
God’s children
aboard a downy raft
of pillows, comforter
soft flannel sheets
hearing only
hearts pulsing
in time
with rooftop
raindrops
two lovers
praying this
never stops
knowing this
fleeting moment
this heat
these tandem
heartbeats are
as precious
as rare
as Reno rain.

Ivyla Antonowitsch

Dear editor,

Hello, my name is A.J. Chilson. A few of my poems and haiku were printed in this year's summer edition of Record Magazine. I'm writing because I thought you might want to enjoy some more of my works. I hope you appreciate what I have to offer. Thanks for reading.

Best of luck,

A.J. Chilson



KISS ME

Kiss me.
Kiss me like I've never been kissed before.
Kiss me like it's the last time I'll ever be kissed.
Kiss me like you really mean it.
Kiss me as if it will last forever.
Kiss me.


I WISH I COULD OWN A SUIT

I wish I could own a suit,
but I'm not talking about any suit.
I wish I could own a suit
that could bare the colors of the tree
I so deeply admire, with flowers
on the top making my mind swirl
with imagination, creating
all kinds of dreams I never had before.

I wish I could own a suit
so I could show off my true colors
every place I go whenever I want.
And if I could, I'd like to wear it
with me one day when I go to sleep
and wake up over my favorite tree.



FORTUNE

At first glance,
I figured it was a dream.
What I was seeing
could only have been
seen in the movies.

I was falling
head over heels
for the most wonderful
soul on Earth.

But then, it suddenly
dawned upon me
that this was real.
This was not a dream,
this was not a movie,
and there was no script.

I have met the man
who will bring fortune
into my eyes for eternity.



HAIKU

you make me feel warm
every smile you give me
is like a present



beautiful blue eyes,
you snatch me out from my world
and into your own

The Latest DISEASE - VARICOSE VEINS

Recently, a local TV station in the DC metro area began frequently running an ad with the tag line "...varicose veins...more than unsightly, a progressive DISEASE..." This same station routinely runs "Living Smart" and "Living Well" segments adding to the offensive contradiction. Most people normally get some variation of varicose veins as they age and their skin gets thinner. Except for the long term obese and those frequently pregnant or on their feet, it is not a DISEASE. In these dire economic times, it is disgraceful to prey on a public that could put their precious funds to much better use, yet is searching for any way to "feel good," and invent an unnecessary medical condition to make money off what is for the most part a cosmetic "want." Shame on the purveyors of this "product," and shame on the media that programs such advertising in their quest to make a quick buck. Both could do a much more valuable public health service by devoting their efforts to eradicating recognized and threatening DISEASES, rather than spending their time making new and questionable ones up.

Karen Ann DeLuca

Yesterday, the company which was once the world's dominant automaker went bankrupt. While we digest the changes at GM, and for all intents and purposes, the onset of a new form of capitalism in this country, it would be wise to combine that analysis with a reflection on the United States' inability to single-handedly prevail in Iraq despite all our military might and the supposition that we are the only "superpower" remaining since the end of the Cold War. Whether we like it or not, both scenarios are signaling a new chapter in this country's history, where we will no longer be the world's dominant player, but one of a multitude of major ones on the global economic and political stage. Hopefully America will always be great, but as history shows, top dog status never lasts ad infinitum. As goes GM, so goes America...to stay near the head of the pack, we need to use this watershed moment as an opportunity for attitude adjustment going forward.

Karen Ann DeLuca

IN DEFENSE OF "WISE LATINA WOMAN"

I am not of Hispanic origin, but I am a second generation Italian American, so I understand that "wise Latina woman" is just a figure of speech and an expression of ethnic pride. All the venom being injected into the discourse claiming that Judge Sotomayor's phrasing is "bigoted" or "racist" is primarily coming from - no surprise - white, WASPy males. By loudly vocalizing their ignorance, they are aptly proving what they purport is her original point.


Karen Ann DeLuca