Paul Hostovsky

GUILT AT THE TRANSFER STATION

There's a lot of baggage
in the garbage
at the transfer station,
which we used to call
the dump. Someone has thrown out
all these old suitcases,
a mattress and a box spring,
and a bunch of cardboard boxes which
the recycling cop is saying
are a violation: "They should be
broken down and recycled."
In the backseat of my car
a large black plastic bag
bulges guiltily, a small slit
divulging a suspicious-looking
refulgence. Black like a thief's
black woolen cap pulled down
over the shining evil face
of my old television, old computer,
and several small appliances—
cathode ray tubes which will take
a hundred thousand years
to biodegrade. When the Danish
nose tax was imposed in the 9th century,
delinquent taxpayers were punished
by having their noses slit.
But I'll be damned if I'm going to pay
the CRT recycling fee
just to throw out my old computer and TV,
especially after paying through the nose
for my new one. The leaden stink
of the unfairness of it all rises
as I lower my bag over the edge
of the world, the slit ripping open to reveal
a gaping, damning, luminous gash.


Paul reads "Guilt at the Transfer Station":



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Paul confesses: "In the town where I live, we take our own garbage to the dump. The things people throw out! It's a crime. Leftover cans of paint are a no-no. TVs, appliances, computers. Anything with cathode ray tubes. But they charge a fee to recycle the CRT's. So it's cheaper to just furtively toss them. Which I may or may not have ever done in my life. Poetry is fiction. But did you hear? Our country throws out 40% of the food we produce. Because it's cheaper to throw it out. If that's not a crime, I don't know what is."

PAUL HOSTOVSKY's newest book of poems is The Bad Guys (FutureCycle Press, 2015). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and two Best of the Net Awards. He has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer's Almanac. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter and a Braille instructor. To read more of his work, visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com.

Elizabeth Lash

A FALL INTO GRACE

This afternoon,
We watched a woman push a small, silent child on a swing.
She seemed sad, pushing him,
ever so gently,
over and over again.

Each time he fell off,
She rearranged him back on his seat.
His head drooped, though, no matter what she did.

It seemed strange that a blond-haired, curvy woman,
dressed in a green silk blouse, and
flowing black pants, and
polka-dotted black flats,
more appropriate for a work day than a
playground,
was pushing such a quiet child repeatedly on a swing.

We heard about it in the news later,
answering our question as to what we saw,
but never as to why.

All we know is what we saw that afternoon:
a sad, blond-haired woman
dressed for work—
pushing her dead child
on a swing.


Elizabeth reads "A Fall to Grace":



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Elizabeth confesses: "I've spent many a warm summer evening sitting on a swing set (even as an adult!), and so I was interested in this weird little news story about a woman found pushing her dead son on a swing. Without many details about what had happened, I was left to ponder - how did she end up there? And why?"

ELIZABETH LASH is a NYC-based attorney who has written on a variety of subjects—from art law and ex-KGB agents to women engineers and corruption in Azerbaijan. Her poetry has appeared twice before at The Five-Two, and her non-fiction articles have been published by the Center for Art Law, the Holy Cross Journal of Law and Public Policy, Transparency International, the Engineering News-Record, and GetCrafty.com, among others.

Sarah Stockton

MORTAL TERROR

I would share that last meal with you, even tear
open the ketchup packets with my teeth—
although if I help you they might accuse us
of a shared bond, of being blood sworn.

Our mutual terror of death is an arterial thread
connecting your mortal sins to my lesser grievances,
pulling me along with you on that last solemn procession
to the room down the hall with the gurney straps
and the winding sheet.

The cloudy vials of mortal sleep
deemed too unreliable for a quick death
have given you another chance—
to eat, to drink, to break
bread and add some salt but so help me God,
I'm not hungry. Let me out
of here, tear this vein
from the chamber of my bleeding heart.


Sarah reads "Mortal Terror":



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Sarah confesses: "I wrote this poem in response to the continuing controversy and legal battles over the use of death penalty in general, and the use of lethal injections in particular."

SARAH STOCKTON is a teacher, author, and poet. In her poetry, Sarah explores the themes of memory, illness, family, the nature of faith, and trauma and recovery. Visit her website, http://sarahstockton.com/.

Charles Rammelkamp

BOO COO

Once the star halfback in high school,
Duncan came back from Vietnam
a changed man: slept in a hammock
he’d strung up in the woods by the river,
cut his own hair with a knife,
the locks uneven clumps and patches,
smoked weed all day long.

With Duncan, everything was "boo coo"—
Vietnamese slang for "beaucoup"
he'd picked up in-country.
He told everybody he smoked boo coo dope,
liked to get boo coo high,
had gotten boo coo Asian pussy in Nam.
Boo coo this, boo coo that.

His girlfriend, Linda Swanson, head cheerleader
when they were in school, who'd vowed
to wait for him until he got out of service,
dumped him after one date when he returned,
soon engaged to dull George Shedd,
assistant manager at the A&P grocery.

"Sad what happened to Dunc," she sighed,
wiping an invisible tear from her cheek,
but that’s all she’d say.

One morning we woke to the news
Duncan, dressed in camo, set fire
to Shedd's rancher out on 27-Mile Road
while he and Linda were inside having supper,
beat George half to death with a baseball bat,
begged Linda on his knees to take him back,
shot himself in the side of the head
when all she could do was cry,
shake her head back and forth—
no, no, no—
her long blond hair whipping like snakes.


Charles reads "Boo Coo":



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Charles confesses: "There were many reasons I did not want to go to Vietnam, chief among them my opposition to American involvement in the first place. As Muhammad Ali famously said, 'I ain't got no quarrel with the Viet Cong.' It was somebody else's civil war. We had no business being there, 'Communist containment' or not. But I also got a first-hand view of how it ruined the lives of many more than one veteran—as all wars do. And for what?"

CHARLES RAMMELKAMP lives in Baltimore. His latest books are Fusen Bakudan (2012) from Time Being Books, Mixed Signals (2014) from Finishing Line Press, and Mata Hari: Eye of the Day (2015) from Apprentice House. He edits an online literary journal called The Potomac.

Catherine Wald

BITE

Teeth, even of largish dogs
can be so small they leave no trace
on the warp and woof of flimsy slacks–
just a tiny purple emblem like a
fleur-de-lis on the inner calf,

proving that plush purveyors of adoration aren't
perfect; they have rough edges, jaws, incisors.
On occasion they flash back to their
wolfish ancestry and can't resist
taking a nip at raw flesh.

In a world where species comingle in unnatural ways
where love’s bartered for food, warmth is precious as
water, and humans are unpredictable,
who can blame them? Even the bitten
understand the lure of instinct,
the lust to grab something solid
in the maw and chew it, hard.


Catherine reads "Bite":



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Catherine confesses: "A dear friend of mine has a dog with, let’s say, behavioral issues, and he bit me a couple weeks ago. I was nowhere as upset as my friend, but I did get a tetanus shot. I wrote this poem to cheer her up and also to show my continuing support for the canine species."

CATHERINE WALD is an author and poet with an unimpressive criminal record. Her chapbook, Distant, burned-out stars was published by Finishing Line Press in 2011.

Joseph D'Agnese

PREDATOR AND PREY

Boosted the crimson Mont Blanc from my boss's desk.
She was in with a client. Too busy to notice or care.
I'd taken little things for as long as I could remember,
so small I'd never felt guilt or been caught.

But that day, I stopped by the zoo on my lunch break.
The snakes were being fed, too.
Terrible, I tell you,
watching a green sinuous thing
crush a trembling wretch in its grip,
its snout blood-red from that first snap of the serpent's jaws
The mouse kicked. Its tail twitched.
But the killer took his time.
Four fangs, moving independently,
gripped that tender furry flesh and coaxed it in
the way a sock slides up around a plump ankle
one side, then the next

Until at last there was nothing to do but slurp up
the rodent's tail
with a satisfied smile.
In three minutes' time
the shape of the meal
—the sharp bits of its bones—
was hardly visible against
muscle and scales.
Somehow it seemed less like nature
and more like fate.
Like Hell come to swallow
a pathetic wrongdoer,
sinner and fool.

I ran for a restroom.
The beast got its lunch but I lost mine.
That afternoon:
"Is this your pen?” I asked. “Found it under the desk where it rolled."


Joe Paretta reads "Predator and Prey":



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D'Agnese confesses: "A recent visit to a zoo in a small city inspired most of this poem's drama. The rest came as I thought about shiny things I’d love to swipe. The truth is, I have a larcenous heart, and a weakness for beautiful pens."

JOSEPH D'AGNESE's nonfiction appeared in Best American Science Writing (HarperCollins) two years in a row. His crime fiction has appeared in Shotgun Honey, Plots with Guns, BEAT to a PULP, and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. His short story "How Lil' Jimmie Beat the Big C" won the the Short Mystery Fiction Society's 2015 Best Flash Story Derringer. Another of his short stories was chosen by author James Patterson for inclusion in Best American Mystery Stories 2015 (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt). D’Agnese is the author of three popular history titles, a children’s picture book on the Fibonacci Sequence, and some novels. He lives in Asheville, North Carolina.

Peter M. Gordon

OFF THE GRID

I use burner phones
So no one can find me
I always check my six
So no one gets behind me
I study Houdini
So no ropes can bind me

Don't try to reach me
I'm not friendly
Don't try to preach me
I'm a brick wall
Don't try to breach me

I'm not paranoid
They're really
out to get me


Peter reads "Off the Grid":



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Peter confesses: "I started writing this poem after the line about burner phones popped into my head. I had volunteered for a group that helped homeless people in Orlando. Once I thought about their lives living in the woods outside of town, the images came rather quickly. I don't usually write poems that rhyme, but it seemed appropriate for the poem's persona. I remain on the grid in real life -- for now."

PETER M. GORDON's poems have appeared in magazines, books and websites, including Slipstream, the Journal of Florida Literature, 34th Parallel, Cultural Weekly, and the Provo Canyon Review. He's President of Orlando Area Poets, the largest chapter of the Florida State Poetry Association. CHB Media published his poetry collection, Two Car Garage. Peter lives in Orlando, Florida and teaches in Full Sail University's Film Production MFA program.

Vera Salter

MY SUMMER VACATION

I finished 4th grade in June and am
looking forward to 5th in September.
I will be in Mrs. Kuchinski's class
and she is making me write this essay.
Went to day camp in New Jersey for most
of the summer because my parents had to work.

Then we went on a family vacation to Arizona
to see the Grand Canyon, which was pretty.
The next day I wanted to go swimming, but Daddy wanted
me to learn how to defend myself.
So we went where children have fun on the range
and burgers too.
I got to shoot a spraying Uzi.

Something really bad happened.
I fired and all of a sudden the gun teacher was
on the ground. Mummy says it’s not my fault I killed him.


Elza Moore reads "My Summer Vacation":



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Vera confesses: "This poem was inspired by the August 2014 accidental shooting of a gun-range instructor by a nine year old girl."

VERA SALTER writes at the Hudson Valley Writers' Center in New York. She is retired from a career in health care administration, policy and advocacy. She grew up in England in a family of refugees from Europe. She has a PhD from the University of Pittsburgh.

David S. Pointer

SCHOLASTIC MUSICAL CHAIRS

If you grabbed a tactical
entry tool or common
burglar's pry bar and
opened the file cabinet
of Linda's life you'd find
out she'd been a meth
cooking concubine later
abducted by social services
and offered a cut-to the-front
admittance to a local LPN
nursing program even though
she’d used and sold drugs
while the last potential
student having already
waited three years to
start classes finally gave
up and got corralled into
the sex trade before making
an early appointment with
a morgue pathologist, but
this wasn't included in
Linda's pre-life file or
school graduation pamphlet


David reads "Scholastic Musical Chairs":



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David confesses: "This poem started out as an idea to showcase a microcosm of society. Bits and pieces from real life stories swirled into eventual fiction contained in the poem."

DAVID S. POINTER is a longtime Five-Two contributor. Recent acceptances elsewhere include Detectives of the Fantastic anthology, and Fugitives anthology, forthcoming from Thirteen O'clock Press and Sinister Saints Press.

Dennis Weiser

ELEGY FOR A LOST WAR

Though I will honor them,
I will not celebrate our troops, their deeds,
and the deaths of all those children, women,
men senselessly slaughtered
for the sake of your blind vengeance
and your greed in thrall to harpy
hypocrites, malignant mavens,
and senile sycophantic slaves
of "progress" and "prosperity".
The wealth of nations does not exist
in gross domestic products,
in armies and weapons or
the terror your very name inspires,
but in the love and solidarity it shows
with its children, elders, homeless,
hungry, despairing, poor and destitute,
the damaged and disabled ones
caught in the cogs of your machine,
beaten and broken for your dream.


Gerald So reads "Elegy for a Lost War":



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Dennis confesses: "'Elegy for a Lost War' was inspired by the abandonment and betrayal of our young military men and women by these insidious catastrophic wars, waged in the name of the American people but serving only predatory corporate interests. It's enough to make me reach for my WMD."

DENNIS WEISER earned his Liberal Arts B.A. at Westminster College of Missouri and his Master of Arts in Philosophy at The University of Kansas. He is a former weekly columnist for The Kansas City Business Journal and book reviewer at NPR affiliate KCUR-FM in Kansas City, Missouri. Volume 3 of Sinister Dynamic, The Challenge: Redefining Work, Equality and Authority will appear in June as the summer release at 3RD AWAKENING BOOKS. A member of the Academy of American Poets, Dennis is currently writing Emmisary, a sci-fi novella that cannot be made into a movie.

Jennifer Lagier

ICE CREAM PEOPLE

They were the safe ones,
bland, blonde, blue-eyed,
good boys, the only kind
your mother allowed you to date.
Honor students who worked part-time
after school at an office or bank.
Sexless and soft, they opened doors,
chastely kissed without using tongues,
never tried feeling you up.

Your first husband was a vanilla
icecream person until he returned
from a tour of duty in Vietnam.
Cambodian shore bombings,
mercenaries, ship suicides
sent him home psychologically maimed.
A paler version of Victor Charlie,
loaded gun in the closet,
machete under the bed.
Night terrors, physical violence.
Your home a hot zone.

During his final melt-down,
you ran away, hid for months.
Cut off contact with family, friends.
Spent ten years rebuilding a broken life,
barely escaped.


Jennifer reads "Ice Cream People":



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Jennifer confesses: "'Ice Cream People' was inspired by a line from a Charles Bukowski poem. I used the phrase as a title, spinning off the story of an ex who started off as a gentle boy-next-door and ended up emotionally and psychologically damaged by the Vietnam War."

JENNIFER LAGIER has published nine books of poetry as well as in a variety of literary magazines. Her latest book, Camille Vérité, was published by FutureCycle Press. She taught with California Poets in the Schools, co-edits the Homestead Review, maintains web sites for Homestead Review, Monterey Poetry Review, Ping Pong Literary Journal and misfitmagazine. She also helps coordinate monthly Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium Second Sunday readings.

Charles Rammelkamp

CONFIDENCE

"Nothing says confidence
like a brand-new suit and tie,"
the voiceover in the Men's Wearhouse ad declares,
as if God speaking to Moses,
outlining fundamental truths.

So full of doubt,
if it were helium,
I'd float away,
I wonder if I should buy
some clothes to bolster my ego.

I think of my old boss
in his crisp pinstriped suit,
the self-assurance he exuded like oil;
the firm grips of politicians
working a line of voters
with their charm, their "charisma";
government officials who refuse
to admit to disastrous policy mistakes.

And I remember my friend Ken
speaking derisively of "suits,"
empty imaginations draped in expensive clothing:
stuffed shirts, idiots making decisions,
he a doctor who routinely saved lives
in his modest blue scrubs.


Charles reads "Confidence":



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Charles confesses: "One morning at the gym as I dressed after my swim I heard this ad in a commercial break on ESPN, and it made me laugh. Those overhead monitors at the health club themselves may as well be Mosaic stone tablets! Of course, I remembered the mantra, "dress for success." My college roommate, a hand surgeon in Oklahoma City, whose good liberal instincts are an anomaly in that red state, had worked tirelessly after the McVeigh bombing to repair mutilated limbs without thought of being rewarded. A child of the counterculture Sixties, Ken knew that it wasn't clothes that made the man."

CHARLES RAMMELKAMP lives in Baltimore. His latest books are Fusen Bakudan (2012) from Time Being Books, Mixed Signals (2014) from Finishing Line Press, and Mata Hari: Eye of the Day (2015) from Apprentice House. He edits an online literary journal called The Potomac.

Sara J. Tantlinger

LOVE ME LIKE A MURDER SCENE

You hold me like a ransom note
and love me the way a knife loves
a heart. The police tape is strewn
around us, yellow ribbons that scream
caution, caution, what have you done?

This murder scene love bleeds dark
rubies under my skin, and you can slice
into me all you like, but I remain viciously
tied to our passion crime, a wolf who refuses
to die by anything other than your mouth.

Your eyes, bruised with affection, promise
me forever, but I know that does not mean
golden sun and songbirds. Forever is cruel,
a chilled finality between us. I want it anyway
because I know you will meet me at the end.

Stop your shaking hands. Hold the knife against
our chests, grip me tight in your threatening
embrace, and I’ll promise to love you even when
your skin rots from your corpse. I will clutch your
bones to my heart and bid the world farewell.


Sara reads "Love Me Like a Murder Scene":



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Sara confesses: "The poem spawned from fascination with tragic, self-consuming love. How would Heathcliff be remembered if he didn’t beg Catherine Earnshaw to haunt him to his grave? That idea sparked the first line about possessing love like a ransom note, and then the poem’s story took off."


Guest editor Karen Petersen's ruling: "From the tantalizing title to its closing line, 'Love Me Like A Murder Scene' immediately got my attention and kept it. The poet uses crime scene homicide metaphors with a creepy brilliance that captures the obsessive nature of intense passion. I hope to see more from this writer in the future."

SARA J. TANTLINGER is pursuing her M.F.A. through Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction program. She enjoys writing horror poetry and can be found at odd hours of the night drinking tea and writing strange things. Find her on Twitter at @SaraJane524

Bill Baber

WE DIDN'T KNOW

Danny was so sure
of his carefully drawn plan.
And even though I had doubts
since he had been away once before
I let him talk me into it.
He promised, "Nothing can go wrong
there's just one kid working
from six until they close."
He didn't know while that kid
was filling a bag with cash
the owner would come
from the backroom
pointing a double-barreled shotgun at us
or that I would shoot him dead.
We didn't know that a sheriff's deputy
would drive by at the exact moment
we ran into the night with
masks still covering our faces,
guns clutched in our hands.
I didn't know Danny would roll on me,
and I sure as hell didn't know
I'd land on death row for it.


Bill reads "We Didn't Know":



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Bill confesses: This poem was inspired by bad choices we all make and the people who sometimes talk us into them.

BILL BABER has had over two dozen crime stories published and his work has recently appeared in Rogue from Near to the Knuckle and Hardboiled Crime Scene from Dead Guns Press. He has also had a number of poems published online and in the occasional literary journal. A book of his poetry, Where the Wind Comes to Play was published by Berberis Press in 2011. He lives in Tucson with his wife and a spoiled dog and his been known to cross the border for a cold beer. He is working on his first novel.

Johnny Longfellow

ELEGY FOR A SMALL TOWN

When geese fly south across the sky
Aroun’ this time each year,
Ain’t nothin’ much to see some guy

Go out ‘n’ dress a deer.
Fact is, it ain’t the slightest bit
Unusual ‘roun here

To see some game hung up ‘n’ split
Wide open, ‘til it’s bled.
O’ course, it’s somethin’ to admit

How when they called on Ed,
That’s jus’ the scene them po-lice foun’
Outside there, in ‘is shed.

I guess that’s why when rifles soun’
An’ skies grow thick with geese,
There ain’t a soul in this whole town
Who won’t recall Bernice.


Johnny reads "Elegy for a Small Town":



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Johnny confesses: "This poem explores the lasting impact of Bernice Worden’s 1957 murder on the town of Plainfield, Wisconsin. From the ballad’s mundane opening to its grisly conclusion, Dante’s rhyme scheme, terza rima, proved inspirational in terms of structuring a brief narrative."

JOHNNY LONGFELLOW's poetry has appeared in The Barefoot Muse, Ppigpenn, Thieves Jargon, and Underground Voices. He is also the curator of the multi-media art-site Midnight Lane Gallery, and poetry editor of Midnight Lane Boutique. To contact Johnny, email: MIDNIGHTLANEGALLERY at GMAIL dot COM.

Matthew Wilson

GHOUL IN THE CROWD

At dawn I saw him hanged
They took him to the market square
A handsome blue-eyed fellow
Tight jaw and yellow hair.

Spitting rain cooled no curiosity
Men came from far and wide to see
The low and high king’s priest
Cheered as they took him to the tree.

They say this fellow killed his family
Felled them with his father's gun
The weeping convict pays for crime
His faced turned to the sun.

He and I were friends once
I forgive the awful things he said
Now he pays unwitting for my crime
I cheer the hangman, palms blood-red.


Gerald So reads "Ghoul in the Crowd":



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Matthew confesses: "This poem is inspired by my fondness for Victorian crime stories and influenced by Edgar Allan Poe, who loved an unreliable narrator more than anyone."

MATTHEW WILSON has had over 150 appearances in such places as Horror Zine, Star*Line, Spellbound, Illumen, Apokrupha Press, Gaslight Press, Sorcerers Signal and many more. He is currently editing his first novel and can be contacted on Twitter @matthew94544267.

Jennifer Lagier

STAY WITHIN YOUR WALLS

Guinevere paces
her convent cell,
fumes at fate,
perfidious men,
the injustice
of involuntary confinement.
Knows Arthur
brought alienation
of affection
upon himself,
parking her
inside empty stone walls
while he caroused
day and night
with boisterous homies.
Launcelot was no better—
big promises then
hasty exit when caught
with his pants down.
Left in the company
of virgins who
don't know what
they're missing,
she is bitter, repents
romantic love,
infatuation that comes,
quickly disappears.
Passion—a fleeting phase
that empties your bank account,
compromises credit,
leaves your heart broken.


Jennifer reads "Stay Within Your Walls":



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Jennifer confesses: "'Stay Within Your Walls' was inspired by perfect storm—the conjunction of a line from a Charles Bukowski poem, which I used for the title, with a wry, contemporary take on Arthurian legend from Guinevere's point of view."

JENNIFER LAGIER has published nine poetry books and in multiple literary magazines. She taught with California Poets in the Schools and is now a retired college librarian and instructor. She is a member of the Italian American Writers Association, co-edits the Homestead Review, and helps coordinate monthly Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium Second Sunday readings. Website: http://jlagier.net

Elizabeth Lash

STAR WARS: DARK FORCES RE-AWAKEN (FOR A 7TH TIME)

The only correct answer to the question of "Star Wars or Star Trek," geeks,
is that both are different, but Star Wars is better.
To you naysayers, only the criminally insane would factor in the Prequel.
The infamous Trilogy.

I mean, Jar Jar Binks is a Jabberwocky,
And the menace of the film isn't phantom-like, only bad.
We weren't meant to see Yoda fight, or R2D2 fly through the air.

I bided my time, hoping one day such madness would die,
and we would forget about new franchises.
But instead, darkness was re-awakened. The 7th episode was filmed.
A disturbance in the Force, I sensed.

As a daughter of this galaxy, I realized,
balance had to be re-established.
The dark force had to be conquered, yet again.
So papparazzi were paid - and
Paths were figured for waylaying.

And on the appointed, anointed day,
I casually waited behind the old Jedi in Starbucks.
(I wasn't afraid - fear is the path to the dark side.)

"George," I said, by way of introduction, "I'm such a fan."
As he turned away with his coffee, wearing mask-like sunglasses,
I saw, at light speed, my opportunity evaporating.

"Lucas, you are the father of these films!” I yelled,
"Stop heeding the need for cash and destroy them!"
He threw his coffee at me and turned to run.
So I slashed him with my light saber to stop him.

Suddenly, he lay sprawled across the floor, unmoving.
“Oh, no. You're no good to me dead,” I said, and
Poked his shoulder with the sword—
But still he lay there.

As they took me away, I thought,
Oh shit--there goes the planet.
Now they’ll never stop making these damn films.


Elizabeth reads "Star Wars: Dark Forces Re-Awaken (For a 7th Time):



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Elizabeth confesses: "Thinking about Star Wars took me straight back to my childhood days of lying on the floor, chin in hands, watching a forest chase scene with rapt attention. But as much as I loved the original series, the later series seemed like a parody of itself. Thus, in light of yet another film in this franchise, I was inspired by the thought of creating a noble (if crazy) heroine who attempts to rescue us from the world’s terrible sequels and prequels."

ELIZABETH LASH is an attorney who, although she primarily drafts legal documents, equally enjoys writing on a broad variety of topics. Her articles have been published by the Center for Art Law, the Holy Cross Journal of Law and Public Policy, Transparency International, the Engineering News-Record, and GetCrafty.com, among others.

Joe Barnes

CON MAN

The man in the next lane
gestures for me to pull over.
A broken brake-light?
A balding tire about to blow?

I obey and do the cursory
once-over of the helpless-with-cars.
Everything appears in order.

But there he is, on foot beside me,
pointing to a dent, acquired
God know when or how,
on my driver-side door.

He will repair it, he says.
For a fee, of course. I
wonder at the sheer nerve
of my wandering huckster
trawling marks from the city streets.

He has the patter of a salesman,
the hair of a preacher.
He is ten years younger than I:
not handsome perhaps,
but with a slim mechanic's build
and calculating, teal eyes.
His teeth are long. A small nick mars
his upper-left incisor.

I am middle-aged, middle-class,
a little effeminate as I fuss,
half-heartedly, at his affront.
I have somewhere to be, I lie.

He finds occasion to touch me
twice: once on my upper arm
and, then, when I don't recoil,
more firmly on my lower back.

I yield of course, just as he knew
I would, and un-peel a pair of twenties
to watch him smooth the dent flat
with a ball-peen hammer
and a smudged, faux-chamois cloth.

He drove away. I watched,
a fool and happier for it.
I never saw him again.

The dent lay hidden for a week,
then reemerged one morning,
like desire from flesh,
like regret from memory.
It's still there.


Joe reads "Con Man":



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Joe confesses: "The incident in the poem happened ten years ago, precisely as I describe. From the beginning, I knew I was being conned. My con man knew I knew I was being conned. There was a sexy complicity to the whole proceedings. The dent? I still haven’t fixed it."

JOE BARNES's poetry has appeared in four anthologies – TimeSlice, The Weight of Addition, Improbable Worlds and The Lineup: Poems on Crime – and in journals such as Bat City Review, Measure, and Illya's Honey. Barnes is also a playwright. He lives in Houston, Texas.

Robert Cooperman

FACTS

Facts are such painful, inconvenient things
when weighed against what we want to believe;
as if wishing were enough to give us wings

to deny science's theorizing,
when the Bible pronounces, "Adam and Eve."
Facts are such painful, inconvenient things.

Evolution trudges through Time's yawning,
dull compared to the Conjurer's crammed sleeve
of Six Magician Days, that gave us wings

to know the divine wand made everything:
or so creationists would smile and deceive.
Yes, facts are nasty, inconvenient things.

Take climate change, when folks are shivering
on the East Coast in a snowbound deep-freeze:
forget worldwide temperatures have taken wing.

All of science's laws arrive with strings;
it's all shifting, revised hypotheses
to fit the evidence, not the phony thing
of forgetting the facts, for wishful wings.


Gerald So reads "Facts":



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Cooperman confesses: 'Facts' was inspired by the utter stupidity of the Religious Wrong. Deranged Christians love to claim there's a war on Christmas. Poppycock! The real war is on science. For instance, to blithefully state there's still doubt global warming is happening, and fast, and if it is happening, it's questionable it's caused by us, the virus in the garden, otherwise known as homo sapiens, is plain dishonest, and heinous. Further, to claim that evolution didn't happen is both ridiculous, laughable, and directly affects our ability to compete on the world stage in the realm of science and technology. I could go on and on, but I'd end up with an apoplectic fit at the mountains of willful ignorance at work in our battered country. So I wrote "Facts" instead."

ROBERT COOPERMAN's fifteenth collection is Just Drive (Brick Road Poetry Press). His manuscript, Draft Board Blues, is seeking a home. Cooperman is a past winner of the Colorado Book Award for Poetry.