cat's eye moon issue

in this issue, we have a new vidrick poem. be sure to check out the entertaining reviews by stickney; they are good reading. swirynsky, bree, and stickney are new contributors to the city. i'm really excited about pete's magpie poem.

that night
the clouds
were covering
the moon as if
our meeting
were some sort
of secret
but tomorrow
when my arms
grow into your
hair and i
dive into you
like an ocean
there will be
nothing left
for us to
hide

vidrick

THE HAT

I touched it, the hat...
He's already turned down five thousand for it
It belonged to Field Marshall Erwin Rommel
He recited his favorite poems
Screamed out, War and Freedom
are never one act plays
His friends were sleeping all over the house
Something upset him, he threw me out of the house
and vanquished me, in effect, to the Russian front
I took one last look at the hat and left
Somewhere west of midnight, the impossible,
an accident is waiting to happen
It's a warm winter day and war just hours away
On the European Continent Patton and
his beloved men feel the tug of Spring
His tanks stuck in political mud, the battle
and small towns he watched burn
like lazy picnics--all of it bittersweet
He always played with jokers wild
Toasted our allies and called them, sons of bitches,
Wanting a shot or two at those Russkies
Surely, stateside he'd tell some crazy kids
on the run from Jersey to point their loaded
gun at him and salute the flag
With a tear in his eye he'd tell them
war was the closet thing to
a family he ever had

Vladimir Swirynsky

The Magpies Fly
About The Doctor's Office

I Go To The Doctor's Office Without An Appointment.
These Birds Are Flying All Over The Place.
The Radio Plays Old Vietnam War Music.
I Explain To The Receptionist I Need Help.
I Tell Her How I'm So Lonely.

She Turns Off The Radio And Opens The Door For Me To Come On In.
Damn The Birds Swoop So Low.
I Protect My Face With My Arms.
I Whistle A Happy Tune And Try To Remember What It Says In The Bible.
The Flapping Wings Create A Music Unto The Morning of Themselves.

The Nurse Turns To Me And Says..."The Magpies Have Returned."
They Have Returned To The Nevada Desert Where They Like To Test Nuclear Weapons.
I Stand Up And Watch A Cloud of These Birds Swarm Amongst The Laughing Pains In A Long History Where Stands The Lonely Man Just Recently Discharged From A Locked Hospital Ward.

The Magpies Have Returned To The Nevada Desert.
A Woman Sits Alone One Evening Beside The Burned Out Coals From Something That Remains From An Old Ceremonial Fire.
Where They Taught Us To Dance.
She Sits There Alone And Tells Me About The Magpies And How They Gradually Returned Since Their Village Has Grown In This Sorry Vacant Desert.
She Sat There On Some Old Upholstered Couch Outside About The Fire Circle Where They Dance.
Doesn't Rain Enough To Worry About The 2nd Hand Furniture Sitting Outside In The Atmosphere of A Quiet Terrain Where The White Man Used To Test Nuclear Weapons.
She Told Me About How Life Is Beginning To Return To The Desert.
One Young Brave Spoke Once To Me Telling Me How There Used To Be Antelope And Deer Grazing Amongst Where There Had Been Great Forests.
"The Magpies Have Returned" She Reassures Me.
And That Evening I Loaded My Pack And An Indian Brave Drove Me To The Distant Deserted Bus Depot Where I Stood Amongst The Ancient Bones of An Empty Gas Station.
And I Got Out And He Drove Away.
Leaving Me Alone With All I Could Carry On My Back.
"The Magpies Have Returned." She Said To Me In Her Home That One Day I Thought Was Just A Desert.
You Know...I Thought It Was In The Solitaire Evening...Just A Desert.

Peter Leon

On Nervous Potato Bugs

I walk lightly
in this grass
for everywhere in it
life is opening.

To my left there are fallen
logs making out in the shadows,

and to my right something chattering,
all of its might for a song.

And I look for a tree
to piss by.

And I look to the sky,

behind red hand leaves,

over tall grass and the ritual waving,

and keep looking about me,

in this grass place
where everything's private.

When I finally piss
it is on clovers,
nervous potato bugs
trafficking through.

bree

All poems copyright 2004 by the authors. Zine designed by Kathy Walker.