Everyday Life: Raise the Bar for the Bench Mid July, I had the opportunity to attend a CLE course that was being held at the Alexandria Courthouse at 520 King Street. Doing almost all of my business for the past five years in Fairfax County, it had been awhile since I paid my local Circuit Court a visit. What I found shocked me.
First, the parking. After circling blocks and blocks for almost half an hour, I landed a freebie three hour space in the vicinity of South Columbus and Wolfe. The hunt left me wondering: why not convert more of the two hour parking, metered or not, to allow for an additional hour? It would make business sense; more time spent could equal more money spent in the quaint shops; in these economic times, vehicle turnover is less important than acknowledging an effort to patronize. Any related lost quarters and dimes would be more than offset by an increase in sales tax revenues and a reduction in the number of officers needed to patrol Old Town, and otherwise, perhaps freeing the police up to address something other than parking infractions in other parts of the city. Just a thought...
The courthouse. After going through security, my obvious first stop was a bathroom. I was appalled to see that the latches on at least one stall door in at least one Ladies' Room were inoperable. Note to City: women prefer do their "business" in private; we aren't anywhere close to the point in gender equality where a quasi urinal situation is in vogue. Being locked in also makes us feel safe, particularly when the other two doors to the lavatory are either open or not of the bolted variety. Just in case your efforts at the main door fail and allow some weirdo in, because there's plenty of room for a nut job to hide in the relatively large space between the handicapped facility and the interior wall...
Up to the 4th floor, Circuit Courtroom #2, where the program was being held. While waiting for the doors to open, I sat on one of those wooden benches that are built into the peripheral wall. Ouch. Ditto for the bulk of the seating in the courtroom. However historic they may be, I've sat in more comfortable church pews, where I get to stand and kneel as well, and am accustomed to the comfy cushions of Fairfax. It wouldn't be spoiling Alexandrians to replace these "seats of justice" with something that doesn't send them to the chiropractor or a massage or physical therapist. Auction them off; because of their lineage, they will bring in some serious bucks and pay for their replacements...and more.
Because from the looks of things, the City needs money. The clock in the courtroom - missing, although the connective wiring was conspicuously hanging out of its former home. Ugly, in a setting known for decorum. Doesn't anyone in the City's employ get those ubiquitous Bed Bath & Beyond coupons? If not, I have some to spare. Use them to purchase a battery powered unit to mount over the gaping hole. Court sessions should be run on synchronized time and not be subject to the whims of a judge's internal tick tocks. I'm sure those sitting on those hard benches are counting the minutes on their watches anyway, as I did for the two hours I spent squirming for an elusive spot of repose.
The microphones - not operational. Yes, the courtroom is relatively small and cozy, and judging from the attendance at the seminar, mostly men with deep, booming voices still inhabit it, but hey, the trend is for more women lawyers, who typically have high pitched, thin voices that don't carry well. It would be nice if in a court of law we could be heard as well. It's time to welcome someone other than "Mike" with open arms.
While I have tried to make this a humorous rendition of my everyday life, the situation I am describing is not. Given the nature of the ongoing and planned projects, Alexandria appears to be focused on externals and facades - revitalizing this neighborhood, widening that road - broad strokes and big splashes. I'm a practical girl; the things I most noticed on my recent trip in from the West End were the missing and mundane details. A courthouse is one of the places where a city makes its first impression. In dire times, it is important to take care to maintain what you already have. And sometimes, yes sometimes, it's what's inside that counts.

Karen Ann DeLuca

EVERYDAY LIFE
What I Did For Health Care...Or How Much I Love My Doctor
Recently, I made my annual trek to my endocrinologist, whose only regional office that takes my health insurance (BCBS Federal, not an obscure, esoteric plan) is roughly 22 Mapquest miles from my home in Alexandria, VA, with an estimated travel time of approximately 30 minutes. I hit the road at 9:20AM, confident I would easily make my 10:15AM appointment. Rush hour was over. Two accidents and one disabled in the middle lane vehicle later, I arrived, 15 minutes late. This particular medical group charges for tardiness and has a posted policy of refusing to see patients if they show up more than 10 minutes past the appointed time, a thought that raced through my mind as I sped up Route 50 toward the Fair Oaks medical complex at 10:15AM...but not fast enough to get myself in an accident, although I did run a few lights while disobeying the speed limit. It was July 15th (not the 13th), a Wednesday not a Friday, and apparently my lucky day - the doctor saw me and I only had to shell out my copay. So much for making rhymes... But then I apologized profusely, groveled - please, please, don't send me back to Alexandria without being seen after all I've been through already today - and gushed my thanks to every member of the staff I encountered. Nothing for a lawyer like kneeling prostrate at the alter of the medical establishment.
At the conclusion of the visit, which lasted one-third the time it took to get to it, I was informed that the on site lab was not operational, so I would have to go to another facility to have my blood drawn to check my thyroid function. I was given two pamphlets with a list of 49 Metro DC facilities, including 9 in Loudoun, Spotsylvania and Stafford Counties. As if. From the addresses, I recognized one as being close by to my home and affiliated with the same group that normally processes my bloodwork, so from experience I knew it was a preferred provider with my health insurance. Yeah! So after getting back from the doctor's office at noon, one-quarter of a tank of gas lighter, hitting the gym for a half hour to work out, and work off some of the morning's frustrations, and having lunch, I headed out to find the lab. Dialing the listed phone numbers for directions only got me a machine. No live person; no directional message. Google Maps wasn't all that helpful. So I parked at one of my regular haunts which I knew by its address was close, Beatley Central Library, and started to walk along the very busy thoroughfare, on a sultry, hot afternoon. Although the facility had a Duke Street address, it was set back, way back, from the road, and had two buildings in front of it obscuring a direct view.
When I checked in - electronically - the system did not recognize my name as a repeat customer on the first try, but rather tried to matriculate me by tacking on a second surname to mine. Nice to know there is someone else with my maiden name in the DC Metro area, but scary, since had I not caught it, a reporting error could have easily been made with my test results. Door to door, another hour of my time.
This little musing on my everyday life is illustrative of some of what is wrong with our current health care system. Why in the world should I have to drive so many miles to see a doctor whose group has an office much more convenient to me because of insurance? DC isn't the boondocks. Are doctors so undercompensated that late charges and no show fees are needed? What in the world are they going to do when reimbursements are cut further as is currently under debate? And how about all the times a doctor keeps you waiting? What was that rule in college, if a professor didn't show up after a certain period of time, class was canceled? And the bloodwork...why not leave directions to a facility location on the phone message if the staff is so barebones no one can pick up? It might be good for business! That would make sense, common sense. Apparently there's not much room for that in our present medical system. As we reform it, there should be. And while I agree with CBO Chief Douglas Elmendorf that the current plans set forth by the Obama Administration and under consideration by the Congress do not "bend the long term cost curve" downward and instead significantly expand the federal responsibility for and spending on health care costs, it's early in the discourse and nothing is set in stone. And what's that old adage, you have to spend money to make money? Pay now, save later. What is imperative is that the system have a few less twists and turns for the consumer, because waste of patient time is a cost as well, and while it does not show up as debt, it does show up as lost productivity, and the stress of dealing with such a convoluted setup can be counterproductive and impact health as well. No one seems to be talking about that. I needlessly frittered away almost a day...how about you?

Karen Ann DeLuca

Dear Editor,



Here are some poems for consideration for your magazine or journal. Thank you for supporting

poetry in today’s world and age. I as a poet sincerely appreciate your efforts.

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 began writing in his notebooks in his college days. In 1989 to 1991 he had

65 poems published .:

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 is proud to be a poet of two

centuries. In 2009 Mr. Wilson has had poems accepted for publication by:

Westward Quarterly, Cloud Appreciation Society, Nomad’s Choir,

The Poet’s Art, Ceremony, NKF CT Connections,, Star*Line.

(Jim the Ct Poet)



JAMES WEBB WILSON (Jim the CT Poet)


Inner Heat

It is just the heat swelling up in great surges

Of the great coastal tides,

I surf on desire’s rides

I body surf and hang ten deep

I pray the Lord my trunks to keep.

So in my vulnerability

The dream will not surrender

To an ecstasy too real and tender.



It is this rapid pulse of mine,

It flows swift like red wine

Which thirsts for the inner soul

In an obstinate obsession burning.

What tests await our anxious learning.

This tearing of the candle’s flame

Which spews direct with gentle aim,

The dimmer mysteries of midnight.



It is the heat of an honest flame,

Desire’s own special calling

Which in a well ventilated space

Would grant a glow across a cave.

But in the closed up room

It casts a mystery of doom.

So set me free with Love’s direction

And grant me my deserved release.



My Canoe Now

This is my canoe now,

It is my transportation on the river of life

To paddle off into a new direction

Jay stroking as needs be to stay on course,

Whenever the currents will allow

One to go to his island in the stream

And pursue serenity’s undisturbed dream.

It only took one leap of faith

To catch the angel’s wings

To guide my canoe to where my heart sings.



This is my very own canoe now,

I will bypass the shoals

And have lunch on a sand bar.

I will eat a sandwich and drink a soda,

I will suntan on the afternoon beach,

I will lean lazily against my canoe,

All alone, so very much alone.

I will enjoy the peace of the ages,

I will write on the poet’s pages

In the land of no telephones.



This is my own canoe now,

My silent ride down my river

Which once held such dreams

Too dear to hold within my hands

Which now I use for my jay stroke.



Popsicles in the August Snow

To go where the brave dare not go,

The orange popsicles in the August snow,

A September morn with white rabbit luck,

Canadian geese and a star carbon duck.

Love on the subway, wrong way uptown

Colombian coffee, roasted and brown.



We walked with llamas in Peru’s mountains,

We bathed in Greece’s Olympian fountains

We meandered across a newly plowed field,

We sank in ankle deep soils

One proud footprint after another

We were young enough for sure

We moved our busy feet quickly

We raced where others only walked.



We picked up pine cones in the evening

Using the fire flies as our lanterns.

We listened to the owl in the old grey barn,

We smelled the lilacs in the park

We ran diagonally through the cornfield

Looking for the last lost pony.

We chased the harvest moon,

We bobbed for apples in a wash tub,

We went on long hay rides

Way past the barn and the old cider mill.


Thank you for considering these poems Have a nice day

and enjoy your family and summer.

Jim the CT Poet

This is from a book of hip hop inspired poetry. These are ment to be submissions. My Name is Kareem Carter

EMPATHY

I see it like the Eyes of a four year old African AIDS Victim
In a refugee camp set up like a U.N. Aid Prison
I can see it like the Eyes of a American soldier on a Grave Mission
Face to face with a fourteen year old Iraqi Babe with a AK
In Prone Position & is his Decision his blowing her Burka Off
I see it like the teenage child of a Murdered Boss
Spoiled her whole life till the good life Herded Off
Homeless and sexy on a corner doing the Purchase Walk
I sees it like the Eyes of that young Corner Hustler
Face to face with the fact he’s a Goner Brother
Faced with the muzzle of his Competitions Metal
I can see it like the sinning atheist faced to face with the Devil
I can see it in the struggle of a single mother with No Job
Late bills few meals and her families futures looking Macabre
I can see like the kid who just got made in the Mob
In a forest about to feel flames getting caught up in the Job
I see your pain I feel your Worth
I see your hearts heavy swelling bound to Burst
I see you seem stuck in stationary without the will to Work
I see you shivering on these cold streets I feel your Hurt
I can see it the sown up eyes of those Murked
Like the eyes of those who witnessed your Birth
And those tears of the same witnesses who carried you off to the Dirt
I can see you-I can feel you-for real dude-I do Empathies
When that temperature rise sooner then later somebody Dies
I see it in the force of will from those who Survived
Through hardship they triumphed together like the Rise of a Tribe
I see it all like a couch potato with a Crystal Ball
I see it like the running man South of Fatal against Missiles letting Off
See it like Old ladies waiting by the bus stop at the Watchtower
Judging me like they She is HE when they are not Powered
I see it like the bully facing the armed nerd now a Coward
I see it in the virgin victimized Deflowered
I see like those mistakes made in prison dropped soap N Showers
Note the Towers I seen topple like London Bridges
I see it like a little girl raised up to hoe trained by Abundant Bitches
I’ve seen niggaz die for coming shorter than a 100 Midget’s
What I see, seen or Saw
Would blow your brain open, spleen & Jaw
Cause I know people. It's like I've seen the dreams of All

This Anthem of Mine Since we at war now (well then)My Country tis-a-vis.
My country men’s misery
Politically I get to speak my Piece freedoms Speech Divisibly
Mention Me a criminal a mad man Menacing
Mentioning Negative over Positive seeing it all as Obvious
Drop a bomb on a Village or drop food for starving Children you Feel It?
I’m not Militant I love my Country
I just hate it when some Represent my people as Monkeys
They play us like dough or were Gumby
Play us like Spades & Gin Rummy
Just cause we grew up on Slim Money around kids with Empty Tummies
With no GED so Slim Dummy
And dumb Slim ran in Ten Men’s crib for 25th of December Money
And it’s so Funny cause Slim don’t see no more Day Sunny
And his kids will have to Stay Bummy
For those stuck in that State this Place is Crummy
Grow up as the Disenfranchised
As a baby raised on the 3rd rate Unsanitized
As girl grown up around grown men that Fantasize
Sold by your own moms for a Can of Lies
Humanity can be Summarized as a cold world no Summer Skies
A 1000 lives lost in a blinks eye
And the kids is Sinking Guys Thinking High willing to Die
For them rims and that brand new Lincoln Ride
For that platinum Link & Pie why the elders Drink & Drive
Shorty on the corner just to sport the Mink & Rise
106th and Park Demonized in “Living Color” Keananized
Freedoms Ringing? Riiiiiight?? Is that Why we still sitting at the Back of the Bus
Why all these rich niggaz keep Stacking it Up
Why these ghetto little kids is Blasting. For What? Jackson screaming “I am somebody” but aint Backing it Up
Like the other Jackson the Governments Jacking us Up
Molesting the Youth got them like animals Left in a Zoo
With sins so many they Confessing to Who? I lost a friend a Smith & Wesson Etched in my Dude
Lonely all he wanted was to be Next to a Crew
Death could only be Blessing a Lesson of Truth
You learned what’s Expectant of You
When you faced with a man with bomb on his Chest
Destined to Move
Truth reveled like pages in the Good Book
This the Horseman’s year the Hoods Shook
I’m from a County of Crooks that Cook up Good Books
The Good died why the Bad Took
Look fools this the Land Where my Father Died
In a dirty alley with a shank in his Hide
Look this the Land Where my Mother Cried
Living single in the Jungle just trying to Survive
From every mountain Side
Them killers roam the streets Ready to Die
This is my
American anthem cause America kidnapped us & held us for Ransom
And the Plan Son
Is for me not live long enough to leave seeds to Plant in my Grandson
I Am Him the resurrection of Huey & Fred Hampton
Dubois & Hugh’s. I Am Them the Panthers Voice & MOVE
But Who are You
I spit for the Down Trodden
Those over seas across Town trying to bring Down Bin Laden
I spit for the Gs in the streets that make sure it’s Been Poppin
I spit for that chick with three Kids
A nice set of Tits Strip club pole Propping
I spits for them Kids at Christmas with no Gifts & no Stockings
For those that think the bullshit is Not Stopping
I’m not Joking this for Those from Homes Broken
Those of Them that lived & died as Known Tokens
Those ungrateful Slaves with there Graves in the Open Ocean
This for Them.The Folks & Brothers Crips & Bloods that live & die over Colors
I Love It. I Am American Maid. In the club getting American Laid
Me the ancestor of those American Slaves
With crack money getting this Afro American Paid
A sinner Jesus Christ Saved
American Me the son of Allah & Yahweh
I am them kids Raised off Americas Government Aid
I am that Convict Constant why must I Misbehave? I am the sick man & I been that Way for Days
Whoever I Be? I be that dealer in them Project Lobbies
I be that baby that caught stray Crying for Mommy
I am a American Patriot
I feel the plight of those kids fallen from them pilots American Patriots
War I wait for it like the fear of God in the foxhole of a Atheist
I stay on C.P. time some may say we the Laziest
But my life was the Zaniest
Crack baby born & raised in 80s kid
The Greatest kid like Ali & Jack Johnson
Around a pack of rats that sell crack Constant
From Brook Lawn to way Back to Compton
I am Americas Lack of Conscience
I’m that angry nigga Stomping with a Million men Marching
And they got the President Barfing
A million men armed & ready for Arson
Imagine it a 1000 nations Pissed ever Blood Crip
The Five & Six get together and get live & Unscripted
Check this Dude a revolution televised on You-Tube
40 acres and reparations Recouped Too
A message manifested I mobily Boost Dudes
We getting Chewed like Ju Ju’s Only if You Knew
They never Cared about Us.
They put on Airs about Us
They want a mouthy nigga to Shut the Fuck Up
Red neck told a Bra “You either love it or Leave It” I replied burning the Confederate flag screaming “Suck It or Eat It” I the one fucking up Iraq or trying to take back Egypt/
We made it all equal when we were your dirty Secret
Popular coulter made America Peak Kid
Popular Coulter made America Free Shit
Why you sold the seeds of deceit we the ones that Reaped It

Dear Mr. Logan:

I’ve spent an adult lifetime writing and teaching poetry but have attempted publication of my work in a sustained way only within the last decade or so. I’ve managed to see a good number of poems—approximately 180—appear in various literary and other magazines across the country. I realize, however, that each time I send out a manuscript, its poems must stand on their own.

I write both free verse and rhyming poetry, fully aware that the latter kind is currently not in vogue—at least in this country. I respect all forms and styles of genuine poetry including those of the current trends, but I often employ rhyme with other aspects of strict form to “sing” and to test my ability to sound natural, if formal, within confinement.

Below are five of my efforts:

“A Trick to Catch the Old Ones,"
"In the Old Stone Age,"
"Winter Habit,"
"Robert Herrick Considers the Least of His Days," and
'Moving Day",”


None of these is currently out to any other publication, print or electronic. Would any of them be suitable for appearance in your online publication?

Without presumption, I’ve included a brief biography, if needed.

Thank you for taking the time to consider my work.

Sincerely,
(Mr.) Jene Erick Beardsley


A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONES

Time is always running out
And taking all its things away.
If one would turn a thing about
And bring its moment back to stay,
One must attract deep into it
The interest of the god whose wit
Is all its meaning past one day.
But because the gods are children
And they always want to play,
There are games one must be skilled in.
Rhythm’s such a game, and rhyme.
For fifty years in laboring time,
I’ve taught my verse what Dryden taught
And more than once the play of rhyme
Has helped me to a straying thought.
In the innocent atmosphere
That’s after school at close of day,
Across the neighborhood I hear,
As though from very far away
The Father calling the hours home
To honeycomb and catacomb,
And yet my words still want to play.
In the day-care doorway, I’m
Intent to hear them keeping time.


IN THE OLD STONE AGE

I went to the steps where we had shot
Some fireworks off a year ago.
The burn marks still were in the stone.
In the primitive grasses just below,
A single cricket was ringing and ringing
His own number as though a spirit,
Scared and homesick out in space
Where he’d been sent for an afterlife,
Was trying to contact his old place
And only I was there to hear it.
I looked at the void and stonefaced hall
At the top of the steps and saw a cave went
Into its building. Whenever I moved,
The moonlight struck sparks from the pavement.
In the single ray from a posted light,
An unidentified insect swirled.
It mattered nothing to the stars
Which were not on to light this world
That for some independent cheer
From the long tyrannies of the year
Small human fires were lit here once.
In the darkened land that stood around,
A carnivorous tribe on ignorant hunts
Had gone upstairs so they could keep
A fast and paleolithic sleep,
And I who know well what alone is
Saw how hard and staying stone is.

WINTER HABIT

In barely awake March that tries to shut off
the ringing sun,
Outdoors in my shirt, upsetting the whole earth in
My garden, I quit at the call for supper and enter
The house through a windowless hall where a past day’s
Cold and earlier darkness tell on winter
There in hiding. The ghost of an overcoat weighs
On my shoulder. Obviously it is make-believe,
But I check a move to pull my arm from its sleeve.


ROBERT HERRICK CELEBRATES
THE LEAST OF HIS DAYS

Ah, little lost September the second,
I do not think you will be reckoned
Into the Books of Life or Death!
You cost me such a little breath,
I hardly seemed alive at all.
I rose and raked a little fall
From my back yard, then went to buy
A pie tin for an apple pie.
Back home, I plotted with my neighbor
How we’d waste the day called “Labor.”
Then I, suppering at my table,
Read five times the jam-jar label.
I, whose mind is interstellar,
Did my laundry in the cellar
Just before my bed, and, worse,
I fondled out this little verse.
Poor little day, who’ll dithyramb you?
God has neither blessed nor damned you.
Minutes had you so enthralled,
Would you have heard him had he called?
You are the type of all those who
Will never be great. I grieve for you.


MOVING DAY

I stand in a bare room where I have no past.
It’s so much room, no room is left for me.
An entering beam of the sun in the west makes ghast
One wall and burns my sockets till they see
The wall give, letting in without a key
An exalted air fast rising thinner and thinner.
The beam is a long blind glance from eternity
Whose field has fired all of its personnel.
God here has whited out not sin but the sinner.
The yelling bloodhounds fade, having lost blood’s smell.
In that vast glare my presence doesn’t tell.
I am like some unlisted soul who went
Unnoticed at the Judgment and was sent
By his high lord neither to heaven nor to hell.


Jene Beardsley was born and raised in Mount Vernon, New York. He received his MA in English literature at the University of Illinois. He now lives in the suburbs of Philadelphia. His poems have appeared in The Amherst Review, The Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, The Journal of the American Medical Association, Soujourners, The Silt Reader, Fulcrum, New Letters, Ibbetson St. Press, and The Lullwater Review among other magazines.

THE PERIODIC TABLE OF LONGEVITY

In May, my younger brother came from New York for a visit. We had dinner at the Silver Diner in Springfield, VA. While the food and service were excellent, I found the portion sizes startlingly enormous. Not one to dine out, preferring to stick to a close variation of the Mediterranean diet and eat at home, the spaghetti and meatballs I ordered was roughly four times what I normally consume for dinner and took me an hour to ingest. Then came the chocolate cream pie which he had ordered, but which we ended up sharing because when the server brought it to our booth, my brother realized his eyes were bigger than his stomach. I haven't had dessert in years, chocolate in even longer. Needless to say, I slept fitfully full that night, and walked around the next day like I had lead in the tank. Ironic, because while that isotope is the heaviest known as "doubly magic" or extremely stable in the periodic table, with 82 protons and 126 neurons, there was nothing fey about how I was feeling after the meal and I was definitely out of sorts and out of whack. It took me a few days, and extra hours in the gym, to get back to my "normal," giving me new insight into the phrase "you are what you eat," and no longer wondering why there is an obesity epidemic in this country if that was the general population's daily fodder. Studies show that a good way to gain weight is to dine with others, and that on average, those who feast with just one additional person gobble down 35% more, and those in groups of 4 or 7 or more, wolf down an added 75% and 96% respectively. Given my recent experience, I can easily see how and why. Next time my brother visits, we'll order one meal, share and ask for a doggie bag, more closely approximating eating alone.

And while this particular restaurant did not merit a mention in the Center for Science in the Public Interest's "Xtreme Eating Awards" announced June 3rd, I have no doubt that the caloric, saturated fat and sodium content of the meal was on a par with such luminaries as "Chili's Big Mouth Bites." Doesn't the name say it all! I can hardly blame my brother - in New York City, Nashville, Philly, Portland and the states of California and Massachusetts, and coming soon to Connecticut and Oregon, there are menu labeling laws. A just released Trust for America's Health report ranks California 41st and Massachusetts 49th with respect to state by state adult obesity. Apparently a picture isn't worth...and consumers may need A THOUSAND WORDS...and having enclaves mandating menu labeling within a jurisdiction does not have an ameliorative diaspora effect (in that same study, New York State comes in at # 37, Pennsylvania ranks # 22, but Tennessee hovers near the top at # 4), although the citizens of Connecticut (# 49) seem to be doing fairly well at containing their weight without legislation, and Oregon falls mid range at # 28. Surveys done earlier this year in New York City report that posted nutrition information did affect ordering, causing diners to seek out lower calorie options and avoid certain items altogether. And around the time of my brother's visit, a comparable federal bill, the Menu Education and Labeling Act, was introduced by Senator Tom Harkin and Representative Rosa DeLauro. As the debate on reforming our national medical system heats up this summer, this proposal, as well as other dealing with preventative education and care, should be an integral part of the discourse.

Upon his return, my brother apparently commented to my mother on how gray my hair had gotten. Yes, at almost 55 my mop top is less copper brown than it used to be, but I'm fine with it, and there is none of that every which way but styled aluminum on my head that drives so many women to color. I personally think dyes and bleaches are carcinogenic and I don't care what I will look like in the box; my goal is to take as long as possible getting there and make it to my golden years.

Sadly, both prongs of this story are related. We are more concerned with what we put on us than what we put in us, although the latter influences the former. Illustrative case in point: Fairfax County, VA, where the Silver Diner is located, in late May filed a lawsuit in Circuit Court against Krispy Kreme for $19 million dollars for the cost of repairing a sewer facility whose iron and mechanical pipes and other components were damaged and destroyed by "...excessive quantities of highly corrosive wastes, doughnut grease and other pollutants..." dumped by the company's Lorton, VA plant, throwing in a prayer for $17 million in penalties for good measure. The case has since been removed to US District Court, with Krispy Kreme requesting a trial by jury and alleging "faulty design and construction." Is Fairfax County considering anything comparable to a menu labeling law? Nope. OK to eat those Krispy Kreme doughnuts, just make them somewhere else. OK to make a federal case over clogged pipes, but not clogged arteries. Prevention, foresight...not in the picture. It is only when we can see the external effects, and there is a hefty price tag attached, that we are moved to even take baby steps to effect change. Hopefully in these dramatic economic times we will be forced to rethink and reprioritize. If we ate better, perhaps we would not "need" such things as plastic surgery and rely quite so much on costly, excessive medical care. If I had a nickel for everytime I said that...and it fell on deaf ears...I would qualify for a platinum (health care) card!

Karen Ann DeLuca

Inspiration

You inspire me to be me.
To be the me that very few see
The talkative, outgoing, silly me
The me that it pleasures me to be

You ignite stimulating conversation
The kind that lingers for days in deep consideration
Making me think about it in every angle imaginable
This way and that, those are the hottest conversations, almost combustible

Man you excite my senses.
You break my rules
You mend the fences
That were broken by that other dude

You graze my inner core
Like you’ve know me forever
Sometimes you make me sore
And most of the time you make my daily bull shit better

You inspire me to think better
To do me better
To be better
To be better for you

You inspire me because you are my inspiration!

By Lisa Bilbro

To The Man (or Woman) in the Mirror: Just Beat It

A few days ago, I the had occasion to refill my Synthroid prescription by transferring it from Rite Aid to CVS to take advantage of a $25 gift card promotion. When I called CVS, the pharmacy personnel did not ask for the Rite Aid prescription number, or any of my identifying information except for my name. I volunteered my phone number for their use in case there was a problem.
And there was, but I received no message to that effect and was informed at the counter, at pick up time, that because the NDC number on their stock bottle did not match the one for the prescribed medication, my insurance had rejected the refill. I asked for a redo, and everything went through fine. Obviously, at least one digit had initially been entered incorrectly to generate the rejection, and had I not had insurance, that most likely would not have been caught and I would have walked out with pills in hand, albeit the wrong ones.
As I checked out I was asked "only one?" Yup, at almost age 55, only one, and in a decreasing dosage at that. Behind the clerk, a full wall was devoted to baskets filled with white bags of pills, sorted alphabetically, with many of the letters taking up more than one. In the quest for better living through chemistry, I was definitely the odd woman out.
This brief scenario, which due to the sheer volume of business reported, most likely repeats itself many times daily throughout the country, is illustrative of some of the problems endemic in our health care system. A dispensing pharmacy with little interest in accuracy associated with a corporate rapaciousness for sales. Without the review of insurance, which in this economy is becoming scarcer, noting that a just released CDC study found private coverage at a 50 year low, and which among the well off was always an optional need to begin with, an ease to get any drug you want, and maybe some you don't, a glaring and gaping gap in quality and quantity control. And if you are among the increasingly "fortunate few," your physician undoubtedly knows that and will prescribe accordingly, primarily "cut and drug." While perhaps not at the reported "Wacko Jacko" or "street junkie" levels, there are many ordinary people, driving around, barely functional, seriously doped up, which is just plain scary and dangerous, for them and for the rest of us as well. Yet we increasingly accept that as the standard, and as the envelope gets pushed further, prescription pill dependence could easily become the new normal. The FDA's recent action with respect to acetaminophen, OTC and RX, is encouraging, but just a baby step, against that direction.
For more than a week, we have publicly mourned Michael Jackson, and begun to engage in the debate over a major overhaul of our medical system at the same time. Perhaps we should pause to connect the two as a teachable moment and look at "The Man (or Woman) in the Mirror" and how closely our seemingly more pedestrian lives parallel the celebrity we have been feasting on in terms of what we consume. As we celebrate July 4th, perhaps it is time for us individually, and as a country, to declare another kind of Independence Day, from incentivizing a continuation of our pill popping ways. If we do, that could be the most enduring legacy of the life of this very troubled, but talented entertainer who appears to have been the "King of Pop" in a very real and nonmusical sense of the term. He did not kick the habit in time; to properly honor him, perhaps we should "Just Beat It."

Karen Ann DeLuca

Flower By Joe Obrien

Julien Edmund Moss

Biography: Julien has been writing since age 3. He has published various illegitimate sketches in the Jibsheet, a weekly newspaper published at Bellevue Community College. He graduated BCC with an A.A. Degree in Spring 2007. He’s been published in Always Looking, Love’s Chance, Poet’s Espresso, The Stray Branch, Straylight, Languageandculture.net, Poetic Matrix Press (poeticmatrix.com), and Northern Stars magazines, and The Sheltered Poet blog (http://theshelteredpoet.blogspot.com/) under August, December, and January. He also has a chapbook out called 24 Poems.

Exhaustion
By: Julien Edmund Moss

Exhaustion is an age-old face
Cracked with lines of tire
And with it empty hands they sit
Will laugh you in the mire

Exhaustion creeps behind closed doors
But does not mind if seen
Or is it just a royal prince
Adorned, though none too keen

Some Strange Blooze
By: Julien Edmund Moss

Out of a cataract
I see new things
Open streams
The various oils, paints, and inks
Fauns diving down to lay
Stroke by delicate stroke
Amounted all on canvass

Surf’s Up
By: Julien Edmund Moss

The lone rider
Hunched over on top of his horse
Pike in hand
Babel in his ears
The surf’s up, duck into
No tears are spent
None from a shattered heart

H.E. Mantel is an Aquarian male, Poet/Writer/Editor published in Print and Online, including Ascent Aspirations, Shampoo, The Apocalypse, A Hero's Journey Anthology, Poetry By Moonlight Anthology, World Artist Network Magazine, Poetic Spit, Poetry Soup (Award), Retort Magazine, Poetry Of Food Anthology, Wordgathering, Poetry Flyer, Doors Anthology (I & II), The Plebian Rag, Gloom Cupboard; awaiting the publication of his poetry collections, "Bananas' On The Moon...A Collection Of Revisionist Haiku" & "Sophistigates: A New Book Of New Poetry"; musician-vocalist, an avid reader, athlete, and devotee of Holistic Health through Vegan lifestyle, Ecology and his Writing to Help Our Earth to Heal. He resides in Florida.

- CAMBIA DE MUERTE -

Spring plies her eyes
shallow like bleached wheat waves sallow
bye-bye before the Solstice
& so soon Autumn falls

Sleep soon...

Tides tithe Us
over & over...pleioplea, oh
pleioplea S.T.O.P.*
the climate is rife

Sleep soon...

Winter creaks his frigid tongues
in harsh march
to yanked land
b'low melted seas

Sleep soon...

Cracks belie
the white-washed walls
to hustlers an' hucksters
e'en Uncle Tom

Sleep soon...

What harm
a Psalm here, there
assuage despair
& disparity

Sleep soon...

Must we
when clothing soils
& socked feet sodden wet
change the set

B'fore
the shred
the lot
too poor, too poor

Sleep soon...

In lofts
of mutant sympathos
bethrothed
terms of endurement

Sleep soon...

Wile
in veiled
wiley, viral vile
inveigled

Sleep soon...

As the Night deepens
now, what'll we
like dumbed lovers concuplicit
change?

Sleep soon
Sleep soon...

H.e.m.
2.1.MMix.

(*Save The Overburdened Planete`)


- E-CON-O-MEAT -

They won
one of those Deere Johns
(TV quiz-a-M'-Bob, Bet Your Meal)
Ride-'em lawn 'n forest mower-boys
just about time
the house on the lawn 'n forest
foreclosed...

a pretty green, too
the Deere an' the house an' the forest, once
I recall all of It, now
how Life was once
Cole Porter spouting
"You're The Top", 'til
the Gigolos descended, distended
like carrionistas with twinkling teeth

for the Life
of you
recall
Herb Shriner, Herb Sheldon
Herbie, & Herbie (Amos) And Andy
Vonnegut gave the clues
(Dwayne [Herb] Hoover!)
50,000 yr. old Herbs, easy
for Cunnambeillee's DreamTime

A primaltime
for friend & faux, though
Holidays festived
'til the quest for Powdered More
divested Kansas & Kinkade
Currier & Ives
by the visit of Oz & Raid...
We knew ye Rock-so-Well
macaroni 'n cheese never cheesy enough
now too cheesey to be cheesy-enough

The guy's
in the guise of guys, wired
(has anyone not from Trang Bang ever met Dow Jones?)
in a grip
more wringing than the spin cycle
yet
when the the jaws-of-life
extricated from the mangle
even EMT's, "Wow, looka' that shave!"
like the tan on a corpse

Ever consider
the trunks on elephants
not in the rear, &
as beasts of our burdens
trunks-for-trunks?
They'll tell you,
"It's only a reflection!"
Like hitchin' a small trailer
to the Deere for one-shop-stopping!
Neighbors? Nah, we're only
passin' thru (...We can trim your yard?), & thru...& through
(mebbe today, tomorrow following St. Patrick?)
Leave America?
Escapade to better...?
America's better is everywhere!
1,000 Lands of the pox
all the Democratic Rudepublics of Nowhere
Anthropophagismana-nananana...

For the Life
of you
recall
A savory, unmeasured time
every Summers' day a loop...
the Wrensong canonale and robust...

Badinage!
like the reassemble
of a Cuisanarted onion
parroting the realpeal
Haud res
you chafe
small but insignificant
newscrazed for the unnews
& the bandits blurt -
"Anything you need?...Just let someone else know."
Fear is engaging unprotected Love!

And
For the Life
of you
recall, recall
A savory, unmeasured time
every Summers' day a loop...
when the Wrensong a canonale and robust...

H.e.m.
3.15.MMix.
(Ides)


- MESSAGES? -

Poems spun-out like
dropchocolates at a carney-
fectioners sugarstand,

claiming the least for
the most, as a fool in a
pool, his no-hands Pin-

Nokia, up to
the nose he in green water
awaits the Next-Tel.,

a Sin o' the Times
claiming "the most for the least,"
nay, the Most with the

Least & the Least for
the Most! via Great Y'all of
the East, hey, y'all no

Who they are (but What!?)
We up 'gainst the Wal's SoundByte-
Poets for Schooling

Uniforms & You-
Niform Schools, preambled jump-
drab, suited by Law

for shorter arms &
longer stays, like all distaff
Mariannas force-

fecunded & faux
funded, manacled-nymphs for
sweaty servidudes,

hovered doechildren
for your coup $3.88
in a Smiling Bag.

"More-For-Less!" (lest you
forget): "Well," she, the evolved-
involved disclaimed, "He's

got-to, gotto' I'
for Ed'cation." Sorry!
And as the righteous

Self-Chosen Whom choose
to march their breed parade 'cross
the lot, in 'n out

to "SabbathSales' Door-
Bluster Gains'Galore" (lest they...
forgot!), eh? And in

astride spare lusting
Ethninnities, Whom concern
to tell theirs - austere

of the Least for the
Most - above the palletiosk
trashtroves, the Poet

expressed in canny
florescent art, yelling to
the standard Smileys.

H.e.m.
7.25.MMv.
(Revised)


- MODERNINNYS -

Hey,
sumthin' fishy
'bout this tomato...
tries Jud Foodcourt
to Melody Mallmaiden,
wok'd there in a pause-from-the-cause
Jeanpassion pursuit
Rip-Offs (tm)
wallet shreds of fashion...
all-the-rage, expressed

Melody Maybellean
in The House Of Last Lashes
colognes
like a CoverGirl
coloans, ounce-for-ounce
Pounds-for-pounds &
garmeant something?...
Off to Bulimia!
the Manmade Paradiez
another cruise from Realationship

For whose
Amusement, Park$
(A m u s e m e n t P a r k s?)
Parks!?
ab$orbitant
prix fixe
packaged funnn packages
you a sliced an' diced holiday
of the dicey-clean prurient machine
every body's a tourist, even
R.W. Thoreau in H.D.,
'til the Wild Rabbit, or Black Bear
falters & throttles
onto toddlers tumbling down
into Manmade Paradiez!

(Y'ALL) COME TO THE USPS DESIGNER STORE!
FOR STAMPS (NOT FOOD) GALORE, AND MORE!

Welcomed
(thru Detector Gate "K", please)
to St. AllSporrths Ritual Domoplenti Arenarama
(Tonite battles the NuGodds & the DueGodds)
...Hey-ya, get yer NRG Blastwater, Ton-Ite X, SOMA...

Drive the new Dodge Forager
to a styrofoam powerlunch
of cellophane talks, & straws
on the Planete of the Ants
the rapid transit
of
scurries-for-the-scurrilous,
all ablurrr...

As Baghdads & moms
ferret into depleted piles
- dumpsters would be treats -
for bread & potables
as weaponspeak
to
terror for the terrorleast...

Mean while
back in the States
of confusion
Pharmapsych rules, aye
Dotson was on the beam
Rader to Manmade materialisms!

H.e.m.
5.31.MMix.
(Haud Spes)





- WHIMDICTMENT -

He'd heard the clinking
of the jailers' keys, the drag
of shacklechains' man-

'cled ankles, ahead
like Scrooge, pause, &, &...& the
clamppp like coupling trains

clacketa-clack'ta
the buzzedshutting doors, this was
not the synecdoche\

sinecure, here would
not be the harbingers of
safety for a stripped

aging quitter cut
& pastyfeysted into
the body of an

E-jail, wasted, co-
Commander-&-Cheese of the
Institute For The Study

Of Institutes, shill-
killer for the Kleptokrats,
not long, bablypawn

whore for chewed 'n charred
bones, 'cept... shocked 'n awed in the
perilous Dolt Hall,

here the talk is walked
& no bushes around the beat,
but to take It all,

abided as a
commercial, falls, into jump-
step orange, effete

agent, the evil
in Medieval... It was
the bluest sky at

the trial for, not "Crimes
And Misdemeanors," but War
Crimes And Treason, &

upon Sentencing
& the Gallows, he declaimed,
"But what did I do!?"

He'd heard the clinking
of the jailers' keys, the drag
of shacklechains' man-

'cled ankles, ahead
like Scrooge, pause, unredeemed, the
clamppp like coupling trains!

Before the frozen
beadyglare of terror &
agonied, caught fish

Pause, before the un-
hooded, wagging-blueblack, trapped
snapp!, snapped...inadequate!

H.e.m.
11.25.MMviii.
(Aequus Nos Inservio)
(Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit...)
ST