Degenerates: Voices for Peace
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Degenerates: Voices for Peace EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Weasel Copyright © 2014 Weasel Press Front and Back Covers © Carolyn Adams All written and visual works remain the sole property of their creators. They are free to use their works how- ever they see fit. Degenerates is an independent anthology, published by Weasel Press. If you would like a copy of the magazine you can order one from the Managing Editor at hitchingpoets@ hotmail.com Degenerates: Voices for Peace is a non-profit based magazine and runs solely off the support of its readers, authors, and artists. If you would like to be considered for our next issue, please visit our website to see when we open up again. http://www.weaselpress.com/degenerates http://www.facebook.com/weaselpress http://www.twitter.com/weaselpress Table of Contents 1. Emergency Room Chaplain - Jane “The Rev” Wenninger/4-5 2. Saigon - June 11, 1963 - Carolyn Adams/6 3. Street Painting - Vimeesh Maniyur/7 4. Wings of Sand - Dustin Pickering/8 5. The Hunchback - Dustin Pickering/8 6. Red Sky - Strider Marcus Jones/9 7. Waiting Rooms - Rick Nightmare/10-11 8. To the Tuskegee Doctors - David E. Cowen/11 9. From Gastby’s Abandoned Children - Jeremiah Walton/12-13 10. Better Than Shakespeare - henry 7 reneau jr./14-16 11. i ≤ me + mine ÷ they (them) - henry 7 reneau jr/16 12. Ninety Nine Percenters in Tents - Strider Marcus Jones/17 13. The New Tropicana Vegas - Ken Jones/18 14. Occidental - William S. Tribell/19 15. The Evening News on the Morning after the Final Solution - Bruce Boston/20 16. Ninth Life - Rick Nightmare/21 17. Kelp - Kristi Beisecker/22-23 18. Blue Bells - Kristi Beisecker/22-23 19. Five Things I Need to Say - Patricia P./24-25 20. A Night...A Life - Eloísa Pérez-Lozano/26-27 21. Chin Up, Claws Out - Hannah Moyles/28 22. Eating Breakfast with a Dead Girlfriend - Meggie Royer/29 23. How? - Wilda Morris/30 24. To Violet, Lain on Satin - Jane “The Rev” Wenninger/31 25. Seasons - Hannah Moyles/32 26. Breast Giver (A Found Poem) - Trish Hopkinson/33 27. Love Who You Love - Patricia P./34-35 28. The Fear - William S. Tribell/36 29. My Answering Machine Still Remembers the Sound of Your Last Breath - Meggie Royer/37 30. Homecoming - Eloísa Pérez-Lozano/38-39 31. Trudge - Wilda Morris/40 32. Bully Society Haiku - Ken Jones/41 33. Jumping Jack Flash Hypothesis - Ken Jones/41 34. Beatitude of the Lost Keys (December 26, 2004) - David E. Cowen/42-43 35. Arbitrary Night in the University Lab - Bruce Boston/44 36. How to Wrap a Gun... - Mara Buck/45 37. With This Hammer and Nails - David S. Pointer/46 38. Beat the Balls Outta Yourself - Jeremiah Walton/48 Poets are damned...but see with the eyes of angels. —Allen Ginsberg 4 Emergency Room Chaplain Jane “The Rev” Wenninger The gaunt patient lay propped three quarters upright His daughter standing beside and beyond the foot of his bed Gentleness accompanied them “What brought you here?” I whispered “Awful Cannot breathe God give me breath or take it away I don’t Want To hang Here In the middle” “Would you like me to pray with you?” “Yes” “Are you Christian?” “No Ma’am Hindu.” “I don’t understand Hindu ways Would you like to lead? ” “Yes Ma’am” He stretched out his hand for me to hold His daughter filled the circle With an engaging smile she locked hands 5 He used no words We breathed together We breathed together In unison Rhythmically Peacefully Deeply Repeatedly Christ light filled his room As intense Glistening Living Holy Healing Crystal mist I left in awe. 6 Saigon - June 11, 1963 Carolyn Adams The day is cloudy. Traffic is halted. A monk sits in the intersection between his faith and his country. Gasoline soaks his skin, his clothing. But some drops remain on the surface, their duty to fulfill. A jostling crowd, restless, incredulous. And the rows of saffron robes, bowing. Then, the kiss of the match. It starts as a flash blooming on the forehead, then flowing past the temples’ columns. A single word echoes in his mind, and his soul grows still. Next, along the neck’s curve like a river, to drape the chest, paint each arm to the fingertips. Lingering there. This is only now. And now is an illusion. A bolt of light unfurls down the belly, the groin, the thighs. Finally in the feet, consuming the arches that never touch the ground. This is not the end. This is a prayer that will not die. 7 Street painting Vimeesh Maniyur Did you ever look into a street painting? We are not different, you know Uniting the Siva with his half Bringing the calf for Krishna People come and watch Throwing coins through our open bellies And the next moment, we assure It will be just a hand of city’s dust with a small colour Not say sorry, we expect very little. Very little Four or five pieces of chalk, varying colour, A candle, a place…. Some says nothing new God, Goddess…… We Ravi Varmas of the road and dust. Eternity never ruins in our dreams Know we are something material. Next day, next town. 8 Wings of Sand Dustin Pickering Stop and think, with a spirit clouding overhead. Why should I worship the dream? The machine keeps running, the authorities relax their smoke and mirrors. The cigar and the tower. The mirror we drown our faces in. No one will read this poem. It won’t get into your head. So fly into an alcove with wings of sand. The Hunchback Dustin Pickering A hunchback brings me flowers Don’t let go of the hours of his embrace. His stare clings to my heart, leaving deep impressions— Images are hidden in his confessions. The ugliness of this reprobate I cannot contemplate Because, in a way, I am Him. His innocent shadow grows dim. I see flowers reflected in His eyes. 9 Red Sky Strider Marcus Jones i forgot to put my image in a photograph. it was walking with a crowd inside a dream; humming songs, that once turned on a phonograph who have left this herd, unseen- to its shadows of indifference and coats pulled-to in self defence, searching for omnipotence- red sky too intense. do i stay, or go now? work it out for me? what is left to grow now? to make, and be? black doors in the distance, let in specific light, while opposites of resistance limbo in twilight- like wicks without matches, living in opaque eyed hatches and wired stone- drawing heavy bolts and nervous latches for pawn heroes, in cold dispatches, now splinters of bone, not coming home. 10 Waiting Rooms Rick Nightmare For my years of drudgery For the family I raised and the promises I kept Here is my waiting room For the home I built from small to big And the laughter we made inside its walls Here is my waiting room In the frailty of first born hours And the tragedy of broken hearts For the food left on my plate And the miles spent at the wheel Here is my waiting room Out beyond the hasty planting Past the stench of unclean lives Hidden from inspection Bereft of dignity and pride There are waiting rooms We look with eyes of lions shunned from the pride Abandoned to the raptors will The floors contain our lasting thoughts Swept into a bag then killed Out beyond the frosted panes Ignored, the corpse alive, broke down Petrified, a heart betrayed "We'll come back soon" the last goodbye Out beyond the chain link fence That keeps in all and keeps out few A failing sight with spirit fades Replay the glory of young days A black silk veil descends upon my last inhale I'm Jonah swallowed by the whale Here was my waiting room The bed is changed The floor is buffed 11 The frosted pane is wiped in haste All seems safe The new arrival left to live as I had lived one day The frosted view, a budget end An out of sight and mind millstone inside The waiting room the days they’ll spend It meant everything that I once earned It means nothing now I'm in this urn. A lone voice asks "Is he remembered?" This waiting room where all thought's ended. To the Tuskegee Doctors David E. Cowen To which Hippocrates did you swear your placebo oath; injecting the sugared water into the veins of the darkened martyrs; their dying eyes affixed in trust on those bright stars and bold stripes; as a fair haired clerk files away your useless data. I bathe in the thick, black mud, to hide the shame of the color of my skin. 12 From Gatsby's Abandoned Children Jeremiah Walton There will be time to rest when you die A price cannot be put on the scars of a life well led Living measured in bits of paper is not Living I thought I was honest and easy but I've learned there is no such thing. It never comes easy it never comes easy something wrinkles in the bone another knife to pull out throat another scream through blunders of sweat the graves are not worth filling use my ashes to paint a picture Grab the knife grab the knife pull it out pull it out repeat. Breathing is a circle's sharpest corners Mornings I feel like killing myself I laugh and say, "You don't want to kill yourself." Discard the knife out the window Alleys and roads offices and nursing homes desks and needles all filled with knives.