You will find 4 poems that are specifically influenced by my careful navigation of being bi-racial (half Middle Eastern & half Black); “Confessions?,” “Beauty Is Fair,” “Statement Of,” and “Caught.” Additionally, you will find one more poem of interest, “I didn’t say what you wanted.”

I have enclosed all poems in the body of the email (see below signature) as well as pdf attachments. If you are able to view the pdfs, that would be best. I understand that some of my poems ideally have unique space requirements, and if any of them are chosen I would be happy to work with the editor in charge of uploading the content to help ease the burden of laying it out properly or coming to a compromise on how it can be laid out more simply.

Short Bio:
S. Mojdeh Stoakley, is a 4x award winning bi-racial American-born writer, performer & interdisciplinary artist. Her work is about the intersections of race, trauma, and social stigma. She has a BFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her audio and poetic works have been exhibited internationally in Tokyo, Berlin, and New York amongst other places, and is the founder of, The Mojdeh Project, Radiant Devices, and Lethal Poetry Inc.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
Mojdeh




CONFESSIONS?
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley

I should
be quite keen on color coordination
Bold footwear should be on my list of important accessories
But diamond studded bling should be most important

My clothing
worn by a white person should be seen as no less hip hop
Should I stray from the hip hop image
it should only be to wear the threads of tribal Africa

I should bend over
laughing every time Chris Rock tells a joke
My number one roll model should be Oprah Winfrey

My survival as an artist
is dependent upon the Afro-American population

Growing up
in a white community
should have no effect on my black character
Despite my heritage, I should hold black power to be most important

I should own up
to the fact that I am only offered opportunities
because I am a light skinned African-American
I should not
seek an education when there are plenty
of custodial and food service jobs offered as a means of honest work

When I write poetry
I should write in hopes of becoming the next big hip hop queen
I should be most fluent in Ebonics
I should be able to offer
the names of the top artists on the BET

You will become blacker by spending time with me
You should worry that my blackness is contagious

I should be aware
that it is my people that takes advantage of the welfare system
It is perfectly acceptable for me to have two, maybe three children out of wedlock

I should accept the word Nigger
as a term of endearment or empowerment

Gospels should have been my first encounter with music

My poetry read by a white person
should be awkward
because they would lack
the profound genetic tendencies towards rhythm

I should not take offense if someone assumes I know drug dealers
Even I
should be cautious of black men roaming the streets past eight o'clock

It should be most important
that people recognize my skin tone
so that they may properly apply their knowledge
of the black experience to everything that I say



Beauty is fair
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley

I’m tan. No
Caramel, brown

She said, I should protect
my skin.

Because it’s the most beautiful
thing that I stand in

She said it
like a double-edged sword. She said,
I should be proud

I’m mulatto. No
Mixed
Light, sometimes

My pride should swell
As my features would glow
amongst a crowd of dark creatures

She said, I should be proud
of my heritage
But what she was really saying
Is that I should be proud of hers

Fair? No
Neither, both

It wasn’t her ignorance
speaking but I finally heard the hurt
in her voice

And part of me
wants to let her be

And let her believe

that my beauty is
because of her

That beauty is fair


Statement Of
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley

i feel hurt
i feel that now
there's nowhere to escape
judgment and norms
expectations
and
my form so I was born

because i make
my choices

and i let other things dissipate
and i will continue to move
my mind
my form
forward
anticipation
to deviate

i will continue to
take the kink
out of the nappy
out of the curls
because no matter
what i do

what i choose

of comfort
it becomes my
statement of


Caught
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley 2007

I walk right in
to these expectations
But I’m always caught
unprepared, unready

bemused, and

you tell me not to read too much into this
but those words speak so much truth

I always walk right in
to these expectations
But I’m always caught
un prepared, unready
bemused
I’m always caught

flatfooted, unwilling
ill predicted, and you

you tell me not to read too much in
to this

But
when all I hear are judgments I’m confused

I always walk right into these expectations, but

I’m always caught, unprepared
unready, bemused

I’m always caught
flatfooted unwilling, ill predicted
I’m always caught
grudging, resistant, and tired
bone-tired
and weak, weak enough to
almost give up this fight and you
you’ll tell me not to read too much into this, but

when you’re already comparing me
without ever
really looking
me over to make comparisons I feel
weakened
and I shouldn’t feel that way, but
I do. and
I’m caught
I’m caught
walking right in



I didn’t say what you wanted
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley


She sings to herself when no ones looking
Full conversations while she walks alone
Some would brand her,
but THIS is her way of telling

Healing comes so painfully
And it chills to the bone
Won't anyone get close to me
I'm damaged, as I'm sure you know

She has conversations with you
of course you’re not there or listening
But this is the closest she gets to telling
She practices with you
with everyone she hopes to feel safe with

It’s only for my soul - To undo this fear and…

She was just another child and he was stronger
And she wants to tell you but instead
she’s sabotages her cover stories
So that hopefully
you will know. hopefully
you will wonder

I'm scared and I'm alone
I'm shamed and I need for you to know
I’m here but I’m fading
I’m here but nothing seems real

She is beckoning you to ask – but you don’t

I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say
And you can't take back what you've taken away
Cause I feel you, I feel you near me

She whispers when no ones looking
She even has quiet conversations – with him – he’s not there
But she hopes his ears are burning

I didn’t say what you wanted, but you’ll take it anyway


[Some text in "I didn't say what you wanted" appropriated from “Damaged” by Plumb]

Saturday’s Swagger


It was an early night –

1:00 AM early.

Police passed by,

For the bigger problems,

And the clubs roared

A little louder than usual,

While I danced,

And danced,

The Saturday night stumble –

To the left,

To the right

And twice back

Destination -

Home.

I continued,

To tripped,

Or ripped,

To have a friend,

A little lonely,

But feeling a little famous

All the same

And all the while.

I strode with swagger,

Head held a little higher

Than usual

Made my way home,

Slept,

And started over

Tomorrow,

Or was it the day

After,

Sleep can be such a nimble little

Beast,

When it wants to be.

Good thing a

Cold beer’s

Always

Just around the corner.


Imperialism


I’m drinking their

Beer,

But I don’t feel bad.

I feel –

Patriotic.



I’m greedy,

I’m entitled,

I’m self-indulgent,

I’m an American,

I feel none of the above,

I feel it all,

And I’m numb,

But still

Smiling.



I squeak out some

Laughter,

When I embrace a new

Family

And sweat an

“Ineligible” one

Of sorts

Out.



Oddly enough,

I don’t deserve this –

The beer

And the laughter,

As my countrymen celebrate –

Not with “them,”

But

For the cheap goods they

Provide.



I laugh even harder,

Choking back the tears of

Assumed exploitation,

Correctly assumed

With an added

Inept aggression

Against others.



I cackle to a

Sudden stop

After my eyes spy the

Bride

I go home with.



I take and

Take,

And take her

Home.

I study,

I assimilate

And allow

Assimilation.

“Assimilation,”

Being a Euphemism for

“Conquest.”



Somehow hybrid

And somewhat

Unoriginal,

Where does that leave us

Now?

Torn,

Wholly

Symbiotic,

Or building the world

That deep down

We always dreamt of?



On the other hand,

And there’s always another

“Hand,”

Are we the tyrants that’ll

Strip clothes

And later strip-mine

Souls,

All in the name of

Manifest Destiny

Underneath the flags of

Corporatism,

Fortune

And the Fatherland?

I’m an American after all.



Outside in and Introverted



The bass annoys neighbors,

But occupies

And entertains me,

As I write,

With red wine,

And smoky ink.



My cigarettes,

Now smolder in the carpet.

As the song continues into the

Night

I stop

To spy a pounding,

From my heart,

From the city,

And from my door.



I choose to ignore

It all,

But most importantly

The pounding at the door –

My landlord,

Who demands silence

During the wee hours of the

Night,

A joke

And the rent.



I could provide one,

Of the three –

The joke,

Just by answering the knock,

But choose my safety

Within the noise,

My noise,

And solitude of existence,

My existence.



I snore

While awake,

Bored with the premise,

Of company,

More aptly described as

Lechery

And the loss of honesty

Intrinsic to “people.”

I continue in avoidance of the

Pounding.



I guess

I could try to be happy

Within the annoyance of

Camaraderie.

But the butterflies

Would soon float,

From the mouths

Of the others,

Simple promises into the

Flowers

That are my ears,

Pollinating,

Procreating,

And making something

New,

And something unwanted,

At least for the time being.



When my sentence ended,

And finish line seemed even

Further away,

I was

Sorrowed by the thought,

Of another lost poem,

Lost moment,

And new friend –

Another knock at the door,

A robbery more vicious

Than any dealt by the

Unwelcomed thief.



Call me an

Introvert,

Or call me

Lonely.

I’m only seeking my kind of

Quiet,

If only for a moment.

Let me have this one

Night

To myself,

Alone

With my pen and paper.


Leaves, Ash, Snow and Flowers


“It’s”

A sinking feeling,

A drowning touch

And somehow above the

Cold water’s

Surface.



I’m loosing my taste,

But can still smell hell,

While my eyes show the world,

They show “it,”

Or me,

What?

I’m not quite sure

Yet.



Reluctantly,

My heart sees the truth.

I’m losing,

And I’ve lost,

But why does it feel so good

To be the

Loser?



The sunny days laugh,

Few and far between,

Where the clouds cover,

And even the stars seem gone.



When I sleep,

I’m back…way back,

With what I try to forget,

But need to carry on.



Waking,

Walking,

Talking,

Touching,

Loving,

And dying,

This is my winter,

Where my friends have

Already

Fallen as autumn leaves,

And I’m left to carry the ashes

In our snow.



I’ll keep my eyes open

For the –

Flowers.

I’ll welcome you all

Home,

When I see the first colors

And fresh breath of

Spring,

Please..?



I think his name was Random


I arrive to talk,

And make an attempt to explain –

Time travel,

Physics,

And my latest poem,

Somehow catching

And for a moment

Capturing

Who I was prior to

Pain and Prose.



That was him,

And not me “now,”

The “I” –

That can stand before you,

Albeit swaying,

Ten drinks later,

Pad in hand and

Pen in ear.



It’s him

I try so hard to bring back,

But not for you.

It’s for selfish old

Me,

Who sometimes longs for

Sobriety and

Reason

As compared to this

Chaos and drink.



You later laugh,

½ Relieved and

½ Bewildered

When I mention,

That pissing on ice,

Reminds me of love,

Confetti

And corpses left to the

Sun,

Because random’s –

What I am,

And poetry’s the byproduct.



After two years,

And an off-and-on

You,

I’m no longer allowed to

Remember “him” any more.

I heed your wish,

Placing a pillow over his

Face and for good,

A cold-bodied kind of

Good,

Against my better judgment

Perhaps.



Truth be told –

I cried,

To a certain degree,

When I left him behind.

Destroyed,

But not entirely.

Lucky for me,

Figments surfaced like the

Life-preservers of those

Who could hold on

No longer,

Eternal.



And when I blamed you,

For the almost-total loss of “Me,”

Him,

And not "I,"

Goody-goody me,

My good grades,

And wholesome lifestyle,

I was right to,

Though you remained a

Simple accessory.



All intrusions aside,

Reality became –

Wild nights,

Poetry and the girl

I brought home

Once again.

All illusions aside,

It was me

And never you.



“The man with many names.” (My Biography) -

I was born “Christopher Hanson” in Minnesota; Born in the same hospital as Bob Dylan, not that it matters. I remember very little from this snowbound world having actually grown up in California where I picked up the nick-name, “Cloud,” I don’t know why, simply, “Cloud.” While in good old San Fran, I made nice with some fellows and females of Japanese decent. I picked up a sword, I learned to eat sushi and wander in between the realms of Aikido, Iaido and Zen. They dubbed me “Kazuki.” All aside and all names following me into college, I studied for five years at the University of Wisconsin and graduated with degrees in both Criminal Justice (to bust-up a broken system) and Anthropology – I love people, what can I say? During year five of college, I’d acquire my latest addition, “Yang Yun,” my Chinese name. The name basically translates to, “a tree in the cloud.” This was the name given to me by my wife, the love of my life that I met while studying abroad in China. Since my graduation in 2008, I’ve lived in China for nearly two years as a teacher and within this last year, have finally made it back to the states, wife and all. It’s been a wild ride and something tells me that it’s just begun. As for my “writing” and my “art,” it’s a time-honored tradition and way of life – at least for me.



Thank you for your time and consideration. I truly hope you enjoy.



Best Regards,

Christopher Hanson

Walking Down Frat Row
(By Walter Beck)
So all these bros and hipsters were staring
At this weird, long-haired, barefoot thing
Ambling down their street;
With a Dunhill cigarette hanging from his lip
And strange incantations muttered
Of Two-Headed Dogs
And Lazarus Digging himself back in the Cave
That came out of the pocket of his loud gonzo shirt.
A fleshed out legacy of the Doctor’s words;
“Some may never live, but the crazy never die.”


A Fire Poet’s Lament
(By Walter Beck)
Reduced to hashing out
Press releases and promos;
The red flame don’t need no poets
To keep her fire burning.


The Dust of Many Moons
(By Walter Beck)
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and their hands squeeze my chest as dirt hardens and cakes around my pale leather soles.

She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and I speak to them as the ash blows from the reed and clay.

She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and they speak to me as I take a hit and fall in the mud, hearing the words in my head, “à tout le monde, à tous mes amis, je vous aime, je dois partir”.*

*Taken from the chorus of the Megadeth song "A Tout Le Monde"


Neon Sign Blues
(By Walter Beck)
He drinks his Pink Gin
With an Olive garnish;
As I sip an Iron City
And look down
At my dirty natural leather.



Walter Beck is from Avon, IN and is currently enrolled as a graduate student at Indiana State University in Terre Haute. He has become a mainstay in the Terre Haute poetry scene for his intense performances. His work has appeared in the ISU Tonic, the Vincennes University Tecumseh Review, subTerreanean, Camp Chase Gazette, Paradigm Journal and most recently, Burner Magazine.

if he came back today

he'd be on Barbara Walters
but not BET
if he came back today
he'd have to make a commercial
with Jordan
in order to gain credibility
if he came back today
the stock market
wouldn't close
like they do on his birthday
if he came back today
niggers
would still get dragged
behind pickup trucks
would still get shot
22 times
by the police
would still beat each others
brains out
in the name
of his father
if he came back today
he couldn't get an
audience
with the pope or
Bill Clinton
but I bet
Johnnie Cochran
would see him

if he came back today
nobody
would go to church
and nobody
would get out of jail
or the cemetery
if he came back today
hell would not freeze over
the Cubs would not win
the world series
and you still would
not love me
if he came back today
the most
you might do
is call in
sick
if he came back today
motherfuckers would
be arguing about
who he came to see
did he come to see
the jews or the muslims or
the fighting Irish or
the atheists
if he came back today
the Kiowa and the Sioux and the Chippewa
and the Apache and the Seminole and the Ute
and the Cheyenne and the Lakota and the Choctaw
would all say
you 'bout a late motherfucker

if he came back today
and you had descendants
in any kind of concentration camp
the kind for jews
or the kind for japanese americans
if you had descendants in these
kinds of concentration camps
you would still get your money
but
if he came back today
and your descendants'
concentration camp
just happened to double
as a southern plantation
you still wouldn't get shit
as a matter of fact
if he came back today
he'd probably tell you
slave progeny
to quit callin' his
name so much
I mean
shit
it ain't like
he can't hear you
if he came back today
he'd have to get on
line
otherwise there'd be
no tangible evidence
that he ever existed

if he came back today
a whole bunch of motherfuckers
would be real mad
because his return means the
world is coming to an end
and they just got on the
waiting list
for season tickets
if he came back today
and gave another
sermon
on another
mount
news organizations
would argue about
the size of the crowd
if he came back today
and said for us to
love one another
a bunch of lawyers would
get together and say
well, what do you mean by "love"
just how is it you define that term
if he came back today
it wouldn't mean nothing
to nobody except the
meek
'cause they got a lot comin'
them and the
pure of heart

if he came back today
I could get off
the hook
the next time
one of my grandkids
asks me
what happens
when
we
die
I can just
say
ask him

Davis Jerome

Melinda J Nevarez writes poetry and flash fiction mainly to escape, if only for a moment, the chaos in her head. A former drug addict, she is now an addicted to chronicling the plight of the downtrodden and advocating compassionate mental health services.

Duerme con la sangre

it's a quiet kind of danger,
Colder in than out
But/She
wore sadness like an old coat
lint in her pockets (and secrets
they'd put you away for)--

take your medication, darling
please swallow
say thank you
when they dole out your kindnesses
like government cheese...

She
traded up for
cheap whiskey fingers blistered
I'll fuck you for answers,
She
said, almost begging.

Narcissus never procreated.
seduction's free
but she will
catch you behind the curtain and
slit
her wrists
to bleed you out.

Romance the Maudlin

left of the tree,
destruction so obvious it is
Tangible
sits next to him like a moan
against the other side the ground littered with foil--
she is broken, metal.

barefoot, towards him,
Her guilt is palpable Another unoriginal casualty
nothing to hand him, no part of her he hasn't written.

silver scissors
when she licks bleeds smiles.

one time dull eyes
Hatefully needy
cuts the rope, her body curling into itself like old wallpaper.

Eyes cloudy, she turned to ash.


Conception Two

my Mexican grandma had a catholic shrine
With a very large St. Christopher
his hands bound with rosaries
the flickering saints eye level to me
I wanted to shrink into the smell of melting wax

the statue was black;
this was my god.

Though he wasn't allowed in my parents' gauche temple
(the shrouded space between secrets)--
our black neighbor was kind to me...

my god was
down the street
watering His lawn.

when I breached the subject, I'm not sure
the visceral reaction,
how my Stomach Dropped a
Cold Prickle over my arms
when I knew I
had
fucked up Religiously.

and god was an old bearded white man
with Exceptionally Large Hands
it left me unsettled

(old white men
behind oak pulpits they spoke like
Puppeteers)

and a sunday spent on green pews learning
they gave
god
to the white man.

Here are some poems I am submitting for your consideration: "Shelter", "The Great Goodbye", "The Ocean", the "Secret Road", "The Field of Time", and "The Fire."

I am a high school student at Brunswick School and I enjoy playing tennis, and writing poetry. This summer I felt the urge and desire to write poetry. I enjoyed reading and deciphering metaphors and figurative language. And beneath the figurative meaning, lies a deeper, more profound message in poetry. That is why I love poetry.

Benton Turner


Shelter

I know I should be here,
For the winds have been so severe.
But I don’t think it will be safe much longer,
As the rain has become stronger.

The wooden shelter has been my friend,
From the storms that chase me,
Time and time again.
And in the shelter, I can rest, and seek understanding
Of the storms that chase me,
Time and time again.

But the roof is about to heave,
So perhaps I should leave,
And confront the storm,
Before my mind is grinded
And my eyes are blinded.

And before the shelter,
Collapses altogether.

----------

The Great Goodbye

Farewell to many yawns and many ‘sighs’,
And to the hours spent, and time lost,
For waiting too long to say goodbye,
To the things that caused many yawns,
And many sighs.

And although the Great Goodbye I have made,
Unsure and suspicious I have stayed,
That I would be resistant,
And stand in the distance,
Away from the very creations,
That made the people submissive and lonesome,
And connected the nations.

And now I am glad to be away,
From the inventors that made people give way,
To their ‘magnificent’ creations,
And to their terrible temptations.

And in parting I have found,
A vision so profound,
And I am still left wondering why,
Only few people make the Great Goodbye.
----------
The Ocean

I greet the ocean politely; I am in deep respect,
Its caves and shadows I have thoroughly checked.
The waves are progressing, and the tide is changing,
The soft sands are forever rearranging.

There are low tides; sometimes there are high tides,
And between both, the creatures once cried.
They begged for the answers, to unknowable questions,
For the fate of their ocean, whom gave them few suggestions.

And in a tremendous dream, the ocean showed them,
People swimming in a Great Race.
Although powerful they swam, they the ocean condemned,
And pushed them farther back, in a marvelous disgrace,
Until they were unconscious,
Wound up on the shores of their own beach.

“And that is their fate,” it declared.
And with that the creatures fled,
For having spent too much time,
Caught in a current so strong,
That perhaps they will never get out.
Perhaps.

--------------

The Road Song

Take me down the secret Road;
Although I carry a heavy load,
Will you take me down the secret Road?

The Road is treacherous, long, and winding,
Through the fields and mountains it is binding.
Will you take me through the secret Road?

The Road is unpaved, and weary,
Its outskirts look quite dreary.
And it’s okay if we get lost,
For so much we have crossed.

We’ll sing words that ought not to be sung,
And think thoughts that best not be thought.

We’ll think about all the places we’ve gone,
And all the pictures we have drawn.

The Road is a symbol and sign,
Its name is clean and fine.
The Road is a secret,
That we best not forget.

Will you take me down the secret Road?

-----

The Fields of Time

In this field of silence,
In this beautiful field,
Ill try to describe it best I could.

There was perfect harmony,
Twas’ an endless field of perfection.
Although, one flaw I found,
And bravely, I came face,
That there was one simple mistake.

So I conversed with the masterminds, of a wise race,
In a secret lair, lost in time.
And with boldness, we came to face,
That we had an uneasy fate.

I walked by the field of progression,
It was a scary sight, such power and suppression.

I sprinted through field of spring,
And I couldn’t help but be skeptical,
Of all the good times, and what would they bring.

I glimpsed at the field of ruin,
Was so intrigued, what went wrong?
Back to the start, I came to face,
The field of silence, and its momentous grace.

So I set a meeting with the elders,
Before the field of rejuvenation,
And until then, I am searching through the fields of time
And until then, I am studying the fields of time

Bethany L. Young has been writing zines and trying to overthrow the government since age 12. She strives to add anthropological flair to her counterculture writings. Ms. young is a lifelong advocate for gay and lesbian rights and gender equality.

Someone's Mother

And when she shouts terms of affection
my way,
it makes me cringe

And almost hide
cause-
she's old enough to be someone's mother
I shouldn't be going down
going down-
on someone's mother.


Truth of Being

My mother said
I wouldn't be catching any husbands
with hair like mine-
which be no hair.

What am I to say-
that the only husband
I be looking for
be the same gender as I

Is a woman
be-in a lady:
with tits and a cunt

someone-
I could go down on
in the dark.


Our Mamas

Our mamas
would blush
if they knew what
their two grown daughters
were doing.


Our mamas
would blush
if they knew
their two grown daughters
were naked.

Our mamas
would blush
if they knew
their two grown daughter's
bodies were inter-twined.

Our mamas
would blush
if they knew
their two grown daughters
were not achieving orgasms
from an erect penis.

Our mamas
would blush
if they knew
their two grown daughters
were queer.

Dream Like Nature

and i was screaming like hella loud
and i was falling in love-
with a girl,
California

was that her name?
or where she be from?

i don't know.
maybe i don't remember.

she said we kissed.
she said we did more.

i was drunk
and later on acid.

i wanna say her name was Rachel
and she was from Delaware.

chestnut brown hair
grey eyes like the moon.

we did kiss-
twice,
in one morning,
in one breath.

this is reading like a screenplay
reading like a dream-
it's all fiction.
fiction of the mind.
fiction of the pen.
fiction of the friction.

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.


Our Lady of Mustang


Curiosity drove me here

wondering who would be

worshiping at this temple

on the Lord’s day.



Church lot is full

here at the shrine.

Ranch girls are busy

plying love’s trade

with Sunday morning horn dogs.



I sit parked and scribbling

in the lot between heaven’s gate

and the souvenir shack

which is painted pink

as the sea of flesh

that undulates inside.

Outside, wild mustangs roam.

Inside, wild fillies buck Bronco Billies.



Back at home

mom’s set up

Sunday School.

Here, ten minutes drive east

of all that praying

other prayers are voiced,

“Oh God,

Yes! YES!”

Amen.


Night Owl Special


I came to Vegas

for the ham steak,

Seigfreid und Roy be damned.

Black pyramid, fake Chrysler building,

Eiffel tower, San Marcos plaza,

exploding pirate ships,

these are all fine – all good –

but ham’s what drove me here.



Loose slots, looser women,

they have their Vegas place

but pale next to honey glazed,

Virginia smokehouse ham steak.

Steak for god’s sake!



The joe’s O.K.,

hash brown could be crisper,

sour dough toast...

– toast is hard to get wrong –

and the eggs,

the eggs threaten to edge out the ham.

I will sleep easier (when I finally find a bed)

knowing there is one short order cook

left on planet Vegas

who knows exactly what

Over easy really means.



Ham, the soul of Vegas.

Not dining under Picasso’s Dora,

not scaling the mad Pole’s needle downtown

not getting rubbed the right way

in the shadow of the city limits sign,

Vegas is ham steak... and eggs... four bucks.


New Vada


Sage brushed

ore dusted

neon naked

in full sky paint

torrid landscape

barks to Luna



RISE AND BATHE ME!


Free of day

nocturnal

life forces

spring from her

desert floor

worshipful

remorseless.





Cookbook du Mal


You’re across the table

writing for Elaine

author of dinner

president of pain

founder of time

and she

feeds off

your words

belching them

back at you

without one

“Excuse mois.”


Henry "Hank" Sosnowski, South Chicago born Polish-American followed his gypsy heart across America from Alaska's Aleutian Islands to North Carolina's shore. Following Brecht's edict that an artist must "First feed the face, then talk right and wrong," Sosnowski worked as a newsboy, caddy, fry cook, steel worker, blues musician, pipefitter, pool hustler/card shark, landscaper, railroad brakeman, auto part salesman, actor, warehouse manager, woman's clothing rep, waiter, missionary, writer, Alaskan game warden, book store manager, morning DJ, corporate VP, marketing director, dishwasher, factory worker, car salesman, handyman, customer service rep, janitor, teacher, hot rod show promoter, Internationally published poet.

Sosnowski currently lives and teaches in Reno, Nevada, inspiration for his one-man traveling show: "Write Before Your Eyes! Hank the Revelator - Live on Stage 24/7!" For one week, Sosnowski comes to town to write/perform/live on an outdoor stage replica of a 1930s writer's; garret, melding written, spoken and performance art.

Sosnowski is the winner of the 2006 Sierra Arts Foundation Writer's Grant and voted back to back Reno's best poet by Reno News and Review.

Hair and Outrage

Hidden by trees and questions of silhouette, the beauty remaining flaxen and fascinating in silky vision, sinned, raging by the repute of an outcry, by the wonder of a passport in remedy for all the ails of rage. She forced his appetite for perfect ceremony. She reached, finished and combed the corn silk before her expectant smile, the grin of a makeshift wish.
She gently lulled the seemly endurance of truth for the angel of supposed caste, in bond without the fallen shine of success, of excellent division, between day and night, love and anger, she thoroughly constrained and sensed the renown of a deceitful rage, careless, reflected by the demon in her view. She traced the shape of her need and prayers. He hovered and dribbled in black seas of lichen and moss, in the dark alleys of woe and desire beyond the wont of mortal men, and the hate he tended in great gardens of blossoming tears was full in bloom and nurtured angry rebuke. The whispers of a conquering demon and the lies of a thousand nightmares unbidden. She found faith in the reason for her existence in the houses sent forth by the undoing of his fear.


Breathing Fire

Enlivened by the promise of payment in flames of favor, welcomed by magic’s untold and dreams of ecstasy, he ruled the perch, the straw and the sordid grip upon the secret of fire. Boss Mean approached the eternal source of warfare, of battle and fighting bond with an easy awareness. Pepper and tickets permitted he thought, to hold the balance of forever in spiced embers of time, in enemy eyes and war, scarlet battles for the red flames of perdition.
The tiny flame guttered and ebbed, flowed and elongated in rhythm to the desire of its master. “ By the Gods I’ll have my turn at chance, by the fires of hell itself.” he exclaimed to the flittering shadows and the small blaze of candent existence. A small ember, a spark of fire lit the air above the flame and in its place a tiny ebony moth appeared, flittering, evanescent and erratically circling. Boss reached out and touched the space where the moth revolved. Opening his hand he grabbed the tiny shadow. It was a warm flame in his palm and it beat its wings furiously, tickling his hand. “ Sweet lords of soul shine, by the wayfarer winds of swords and precious battle lines, give me your victorious bond, your will unto the possessor of fire and victory.” he yelled to the ceiling. Smokey disarrays of mist collected near the ceiling as the room filled with smoke, the smoke of ceaseless wars and conquests unbidden. Boss whispered, “ By the Gods of reception and the revolution in tongues of rapture, by the flames of province, by the gods.” His breath disturbed the flame and the tiny brilliance of a hundred year war.
Boss counted the blessings of fire, of war, of remitted peace. Engraved in the lines between youth and ancient rest, lay the face of a consuming treaty, in want of fervid passion, in his countenance the fond flow of anger and desire, desire for the shade of conquest dealt by the fires of what owns majestic histories in won wrath and promised rule. He relished the flame, his lips parched and cracked as the sooty smoke drifted if wave of ambient gray. The tiding of conflict, “ Moth, betray not my need for victory.” he chanted in singsong rhythm to the wavering flame, the small mirage of searing advance.
Later, he would sing to the silhouette of fire and war, in unswerving passions of commanded power; in the end, in all and all he would covet the seed and feed the raven with a single rose as the advent of war sought its possessor and charge.

Orphan Picnics and the Bandit

The sign wasn’t altered in it’s exclamation, nevertheless it was an indicator of past terrors, the harbinger of wild rumors and bloody exaltation, it read,
“Do not feed

The bears!!!”

The sign was a chipped gray and scarlet, the lettering a bold exclamation of warning. Handy Bandit sighed and touched the roughly speckled surface of the sign. The surface was covered in spatters of crimson, blood perhaps he thought. Wrinkling his brow he surveyed the pine straw littering the ground, the piles of freshly scattered dirt, in telltale mounds, half buried in moldering leaves and torn dirty soils, a row of graves.
“Do not feed the Bears.”

He read again as his sneakers left impressions in sporting claim against the blood sodden dirt.
“Do not feed the Bears.”

The graves were haphazard constructions, built in grizzly instinct and scarlet paw. A crow sang, yelled from atop the pine bows, “caw caw.”
Handy sat the picnic basket on the dry patch of earth and opened the burnished lattice lid. The scented desires of starving campers and hiking hunger poured from the basket. Fried chicken, Potato salad, and neat containers of potato chips.
“Do not feed the Bears”

He whispered reverently, by prayer and eyes revolving in desires of chance.
Handy unfitted the restraining straps of the backpack and removed a blue and white checked blanket. The nature of his aloneness forebode reason and rational as he layed the blanket across the bloody soil. The crimson tinctured the blanket in disdain, in warning. Handy closed his eyes for a moment as he sat down on the blanket. He saw seas of scarlet and suns blazing amber in painful clarity. The mists of a wrath untold and blind by the need of what sapphire eyes and mulberry wont express. Eating the call of ravaging danger and tears of senseless diversion. Handy ate chicken, potato salad, and the crisp chips lined neat in stacks.
The balance of night and day divided the hours as handy ate and thought. In the end he concluded the twilight ceremony with a prayer, “By Gods grace we take the wisdom of sense and the desire to live in passions of safe futures and asylum.” He prayed in quiet breaths of new resolve. The night sang sure and the remnants of old chicken bones and plastic containers marked the sodden ancient soil, by bidden release he was reborn and given the will to survive.

Punishing the Drum

Skewed by harps, lutes and endless trembling masquerades in cat gut, the tight lipped celebrity of the veiled drummer exalted the environs of unholy phenomenon. He occupied the greater of anger, in part at the midway point between hate and panoramas of blood. He found the fine art of drumming embryonic ally Mephistophelean, a bearing bought in backward glances to the piano and flutist, a poetic wrath in irritating repetition.
“Neat slaves of vacant feather, play by the call
Of common meals and waspish swarm, play by neat
Bombastic, blackened desires of rage.” he screamed over the cacophony of sound. In replete doom they listened to the call of the drummer, intent with the posture of believing rapiers and sharp wardship.
Tiny by the spells of heaven, an angel cried and the eagle of issued breath, of conquering trust, found changeable seconds in reprieve for the flute, the piano, the lute and the harp; the drummer found a strange solstice in this and paragons of respite, in the flitter of a reason for being.

Ron Koppel Berger

Like Bill, Gore Just Wants to Have "Fun!"

When we first heard Al and Tipper separated,
There was a gasp heard round the world,
That kiss, ten years ago, at the Democratic Convention,
But now accusations are being hurled:

A Nobel Prize for disrespecting health care professionals,
Female massage Therapist Numbers 1, 2, 3...
While trotting the globe promoting his movie to save the Earth,
Laurie David, did he or didn't he?

But worst of all, the Inconvenient Truth,
After sanctimoniously distancing himself from Clinton during his Presidential run,
Perpetrating the boring image which some blame for his loss,
When like Bill, Gore just wants to have "fun!"

Karen Ann DeLuca

We're Still Electing Them Way Too Tall

We elected him as a mirror,
And because he wasn't George W. Bush,
Racially mixed, he seemed to reflect US well,
Kids and wife; finally, a First Lady with a tooch!

A human Rorschach,
We projected onto him what we wanted to see,
Which has led to massive disappointment,
Because he just isn't all that we thought him to be.

Aloof, robotic, and detached,
Not nearly as emotional a Democrat as we'd like,
Who knew when we elected the first Black President,
He'd take a page from "I like Ike."

And now all that elitist, arrogant body language,
Will be tested in races come this Fall,
Maybe this time we'll find leaders truly in touch with US,
Because we're still electing them way too tall.

As we cast our ballots this November,
If warranted, yes, throw the bums out,
No room for arrogant, entitled incumbents,
With eyes wide open, voters have the ultimate clout.

It's easy to project superhuman qualities,
Especially in hard economic times,
Been there, done that, elected officials aren't saviors,
This time, no room for second thoughts and regrets down the line.


Karen Ann DeLuca