COLLECTING EMPLOYMENT
-- Aviva Rosenthal

Never understood why people played the oboe.
Nothing of glamour in it; their biggest performance
Is the duck in Peter and the Wolf  -- I would resent feeling so unused
Even for the sake of such a charming, insolent sound.
Must be worse for cymbalists, or people
Who play the triangle, or the gong --
The interminable wait for the second
Or two of barely noticed show-and-tell.
They stand there, tense as all get out,
And pretend not to be sweating it.  I don't know how they manage.
I would think about sex, or finances, and miss
My moment in the sun.  The musical director would bawl me out,
And I'd probably have to leave the orchestra, blacklisted
And disgraced forever in the musical community.
I don't think I could work in a gallery either, or be a prostitute.
There, too, one has to wait for ages, while appearing simultaneously
Attractive and cruelly bored, and then be a fast
And convincing talker.  Not for me.
I tried to work for you, but the whole thing
Fell through after a few disappointing days of temping.
Which was funny because
I could've sworn you were hiring.

$$$

THE BALLAD OF MARIA VIRGO
-- Corrine De Winter

I've said goodbye to those other men
Although when the night is dry
I often think of them.
They were my lilies & ivy,
Slept with them crossing my palms.
Brought me to all-night diners,
Cowboys and smooth Latin men.
Left me to liars and thieves
And boys with Smith & Wessons
Tucked in the back of their jeans.
I have ridden every night
That starving horse who refuses to slow,
Have cupped my hands for the bluebird.
I am the woman they call Maria Virgo.
But there were so many,
Crazy bastards half of them,
Addicted to one thing or another.
Still, I could not stop
That springtime winking,
Could not help those salt water kisses.
And after too many dirty nights
On the highwire of desire
It bled me dry.

$$$

plastic
-- Ben Carlin

fat plastic wallets
tell fat lies to plastic women
who gets the gold star?
by day they peddle their
silicone stocks and
Monopoly houses in
Christmas colors --
one long tupperware party.
bubble-wrap pops
beneath their feet.
I would rather listen to
the rubbing of a balloon;
someone scratching a blackboard
it is not enough to see through
their plexi-glass shell.
I want to break it.  but
as far back as I can bend it
it always seems to snap back into place

$$$

Pay Your Taxes
-- Anthony George

Pay your taxes
or the man on the moon will have to stay there.
Pay your taxes
or French kisses will become mouthfuls of sand.
Pay your taxes
or the smallest insects and rodents
will become vicious and eat the city.
Pay your taxes
or your diaphragm will shrink five sizes
whey you need a deep voice.
  O you fools, you beasts Pay your taxes
or mad scientists will drain our blood
to wash the feet of robots.
Pay your taxes
or revelry will ride sinking stones
not fantastic horses.
Pay your taxes
or your bent backs will taxi imbeciles
from inane extravaganza to inane extravaganza.
Pay your taxes
or birds will come to eat our teeth like popcorn.
  O you insane abyss lovers please Pay your taxes
or all the statues in the world will shit.
Pay your taxes
or books will gnaw off our fingers.
Pay your taxes
or your eyes will become plastic
your nose will grow into a spiteful cobra
and every awkward dancer will step on your tongue.
Pay your taxes
or we'll wipe our ass with broken glass.
Pay your taxes
or we'll wake up in coffins.
Pay your taxes
or our faces will die before the rest of us.
Pay your taxes
or one poem will last as long as all poems.
  O you crazies Pay your taxes.

$$$

MY DICK
-- Aviva Rosenthal

I woke up one morning
with a dick I had won the night before
in a poker game with Nick Cave.
I rolled over like Gregor Samsa,
a vile specimen of male sexuality
early in the morning with no explanation.
But it was actually quite a nice dick, large and healthy.
I couldn't wait to try it out.

That day I drank a lot and spent most of the day
standing around and pissing on things.  I felt superb,
in total control.  I could write my name on things 10 feet away
with my own bodily fluids.  I felt it very possible
that life would not get any better than this.

In the evening I went out to a bar
hoping to get lucky, but no woman would fuck me,
not even the very drunk ones.  Maybe I was too short.
But my dick was very big, at least I thought so.
The guy who sucked me off in the bathroom
after last call thought so too.  After coming
all over his face, I called Love Line, and
told them about my problems getting women.
They made a lot of stupid jokes about how I
should have kept my vagina, but I didn't care;
I had a dick.  I went home and fixed my stereo.
Then I walked around the city until daybreak, without fear.
I thought about going to a prostitute, but I was embarrassed
and anyway broke.  My mind was bending with privilege.

When I got home, my mom told me
that Nick had called and wanted his dick back.
When I talked to him, he said he had a 15-year old
we could both fuck for coffee and cigarettes.
That sounded good, so we took her to a cafe
and then to a motel and I fucked her till my dick bled.
After kicking her out, Nick and I got into a fight
over the dick but he won and so now has two.

$$$

The Food Pyramid
-- Bill Carney

Dates back thousands of years
slaves in the salad days
of the ancient breadbasket
the fertile crescent
a time of spiritual growth
when we rushed to give something back
to the mystery, a giftbasket to the gods,
a prix fixe to the oneness.

No one knows
how it was constructed
even with today's modern machinery
and carbon dating
that growth of grain,
that ocean of cereal,
those legions of legumes,
receptacles crammed with vegetables
in the city of the dead
the mountain of meat
cheese wedged aloft
the whole fat group
above it all
looking down contentedly
like in spatial and dietary harmony,
sassy, like bankers.

$$$

the aggressor
-- Ben Carlin

I give thanks to the
righteous, for so generously
producing their other cheek.
now I can smash that one as well without the
inconvenience of having to adjust
my position

I walk the streets of the inheritance
that the meek surrendered
long long ago, sipping wine from
the hat of a beggar.
there are no more good years
only a good day once in a while.
and wine can't mature in a day.
a boiled egg matures in minutes
but isn't much good without salt.

so I find myself tied to the
tracks -- my own waxed moustache
smirks at me then leaves me to
the horrible screeching of the approaching train.
but not to worry. we've all seen this movie before,
only my hero never comes
I am left to save myself when I can't
even get out of bed in the morning.

thus the train rolls over me;
again and again until my legs come apart from my torso,
my torso separates from my head.
legs and torso still working fine
as my head rolls down the hill to where
the cows graze peacefully
and lands in a pile of shit.

the meek, you say? it is the meek that put me in my place
and I assure you they would not
trade places with me. damn them
if only they would give me a quarter
when I need a dollar, a handshake when I need a hug.
the meek build the trains. I only wait for them
and boil eggs; I give them no reason to fear me, yet
the trains get bigger and faster.

why? am I not tied with the same rope? does my wine now
boast a more impressive vintage? I am already beaten,
and if given the choice I would rather not be beaten further.
I have not much left to offer, but I offer a challenge:
trade places with me now. bed down on the tracks you built
with me in mind. blanket yourself with twine and then
turn the other cheek.
because I just bought a new pair of boots.