Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 21 no 1

8/8/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 21 no 1

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2000

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Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream


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Waterways: Poetry in the MainstreamJanuary 2000

Punishment is not the appropriatemode of correcting the errors of mankind.

from POLITICAL JUSTICE (1793)William Godwin


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 21 Number 1 January, 2000Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Assistant

c o n t e n t s

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $25 a year. Sample issues -$2.60 (incpostage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

2000, Ten Penny Players Inc.

Joy Hewitt Mann 4-6

Will Inman 7-8

Robert Cooperman 9-11

Joanne Seltzer 12

Herman Slotkin 13

Geoff Stevens 13

John Grey 14-15

Ida Fasel 16-17

Albert Huffstickler 18-20


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William Godwin1756-1836


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Third Times A Charm - Joy Hewitt Mannfor Jessie Tafero, executed in Florida

To Taferos bare feet the floor was cold,

his slit trouser legs flapped against his calvesas he walked, and he would have liked to hold

for an instant only, but the warden

and the doctor and the guards took positions,

gripping him at wrists and upper arms.

Jessie saw the reporters, their expressions

noncommittal and unbiased. He was

pushed into the bright death chamber quickly.

He saw faces white as the whitewashed walls

watching with unfriendly curiosity,

felt himself pushed and pulled up the platform

and started violently as he fell

against the chair. Rough hands pressed his shoulders

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down and pressed him back firmly. He could smell

their sweat. His spine ached. Someone seized his legs,

pulled back his slit pants quickly, and hands were

at his head, at his arms hands all over him.

He gasped at the smell as the black leather masksmothered his features. He could only

feel now feel the cold metal against his face,

feel the wet, saline sponge on his shaved head,

feel the heavy headset bolted into place

and his legs and arms bound painfully tight

against the chair. He could not move, heard Ready.

Suddenly he felt himself wrenched from the chair,

his body grabbed by some monstrous eddy,

his muscles stretched out as a million hot needles

pierced them. He felt a roar of pain

as bright colours tortured his blind eyes and

shattered with the explosion in his brain.

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He awoke to the smell of burning

rubber, hair, and flesh. And awareness

struggled back from the torture of hot stars,

struggled back to life, groping for consciousness.

Again, two thousand volts, fourteen amps, smashed

through his brain and the white-hot wire that was

once his own thought, squirmed and glowed and slowly

trickled away.

For four long minutes the laws

that craved his death kept his body burning.

One third spasmed jolt

and he was free.

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shackles on the shacklers - will inman

Male justice a crown among oxymorons is as much perpetrated against menespecially young men

who get out of lineas it is against women generally. Iwas told, working with retarded adults,Dont be too kind: they will tryto manipulate you.

Same is saidof prison inmates. Cons.

Its true,of course:

why should captives of anybreed be expected to be different? Slaveswere accused of being lazy as if hard workby a human owned by another human couldsomehow be a virtue.

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Most inmates treated asless than human will be released from prison.A few will come out clean: others, tarnishedby rep and by rap, will not see worth

in respecting social (male) authority. Thattoo many women internalize male

valuesdoes not alter the equation.

Respectrequiring respect, with opportunity to prove,can cut through bars behind even wounded

eyes. A society whose habit is to perpetuateblame will have trouble being releasedfrom disrespect by those punished by hardnosedjustice.

How can punishment cleanse.5 September 1999,

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Sadie Likens, the First Police Matron in Denver, 1883 - Robert Cooperman

I was a nurse in the Civil War,my dear husband, two brothers,

and four nephews taken from mein that orgy of murder.Afterwards I tried to find a placethat hadnt been tainted by bloody vatstilted by Satans thirsty henchmen.

Instead, I fetched up in Denver,a city filled with men in love

with whisky and guns.But a woman has to settle somewhere,and Ohio too heavy with memoriesof my John, of Elmer and Lawrence,and my nephews, boys whose cheekshad never felt the razors stingwhen they went off to fight.

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What Ive learned over the years?People aint happy unlesstheyre making someone else miserable:

if not slaves, then the kids and womenwho fill our city jail, where innocentswere tossed into cells with men,like mice caged with cats.

Male prisoners killed crying children,women refusing to open up like tin cans.I demanded, and got, separate facilitiesfor children and ladies their crime:so hungry theyd sell the one thingthat belonged only to them.

Ive yet to see a man convictedof dragging a servant girldown the dirty path, letting his wife

toss her out like slops, with no wagesor reference once she started to show.

When women stuck in this hard placetry to kiss my work-chapped knuckles,I cry a blinding waterfall for them,for John, Elmer and Lawrence, for allmy kin, even the ones Ive never met.

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A Death in the FamilyRobert Cooperman

We had a death in the family,

Lori exhales, her eyes cloudingwith the tears she refusesto let loose, afraidtheyll flood like a burst dam:her step-brother, fourteen,an accident with a gunwhile his mother

and new step father were away.

They were on their honeymoon,her eyelids tremble like a mothcaught in a fans exhaust.He was just fooling around,didnt know it was loaded.

I havent the heart to tell

our tough next-door neighborit may not have been an accident,teenagers indestructibleexcept for suicide.

Guns, she mutters,It was his mothers;Id like to pistolwhip her with it.Its not like they livein New York or D.C.,just a small townin the middle of Kansas,for Christs sake.

I drove through Kansas o

saw billboards advertisinmotels,Christian fish symbolspromising Jesuss wingswould shelter allwho spent a night.

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Denial - Joanne Seltzer

Today I got the urgeto split my husbands headwith an axe he keeps in the garage.

He would have bloodstained hair,blood-blinded eyes.His tongue would hang out like a dogs.

And I would hit him again.And again.

His brains would show.He would look strange without ears,without a nose.

And I would hit him again.And he would still pretendnothing is wrong with our marriage.

first appeared inRA

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Warning Label - Herman Slot

A long time agopeople believed the sun is God.

When food failed or the sun blinked,they believed He was angry.

To soothe His anger, they believed insacrificing necessary and beloved th

the best of their food,the purest of their children.

Beliefs can be hazardous to your life.

Choose them very carefully.

Geoff Stevens

Genetic modification is surelythe method for correcting errors of mankind,for how else could one hope to punish God?

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A Professor in the Mid-WestJohn Grey

I watch the ceiling fan in the bar,

one drink from dusty throat,ten feet from dusty street.

Everyones talking up the pastor how maybe this yeartheyll get the price they deservebut Im just spinning aroundon those blades,

taking my lifetimeon a simple-minded journey.

If you werent born in these partsor youre not a farmer,theres nothing to keep you here.But Im one of those

who watch the worldlike its the woman who sleeps beside me.I must overcome my scorn for the snoresto get at the music of her dreaming.

With the advent of drunkenness,their conversation, loudand unashamedly Protestant,whips up the calmest sea of wordsinto whitecaps.Emotions baitand opinions hunt like hounds.

But always their good humor intervenes.These things that whip them upare freakish, are carefully hatched plotsthat drive the years like tractors,their lives lived out in rainfallor the names they can remember.

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Once I got off on feeling superiorto just about everythingbecause Id read some booktheir conversation couldnt touch

or sat in the third row of a lecture at Brownon the Black Mountain schoolthat made red dirt and wrinkled faces irrelevant.

But we all have to drinkand besides, the fans whispering to meabout Jesse James who was killed near here,shot in the back by Bob Ford

as he dusted a picture.

Jesse started to turn towards himas Bob pulled the trigger,struck him just behind the ear.He fell like a log, dead,confessed Ford.

I could talk about Jesse James I reckon.If nothing else,we can hate Bob Fordlike they despise droughts

and I detest almost everythingon the New York Times bestseller listwhile we all mourn the beautiful Jesse.

We are in this together after all,well-received essaysand good years on the farmbundled together like children

in a winter forest.Jesse as history,Jesse as the kindthey dont make any more.In a plethora of Jesses,our humanity is assured.

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Scheherazade - Ida Fasel

Old Fleece Master Deathin due time to pull wool over my eyes,

Master of Suspense himself,lets me get by, lets me have my waybut hold off his clout as I go about my life,an absolute beaver gathering, gathering,a drummer with an array of instrumentsto sound out from his brief moment,a fast-composing Scheherazade stalling for time.

Granted its self-serving, its plea-bargaining,but Ive found my happiness,earthling with a waning credit balanceof run-of-the-mill days, discoveringtheir excitement and danger, wanting more,scouting words of fine means

honor, loyalty, virtuefor my ongoing narrative. So far so good,

hurting for the decent perfectionof great ideas, awash incontradiction on contradiction, centuries deyes shaper then shining for enduring goo

The old the changing the new grind downto nails of dust. I reinvent significanceon earth as it is, coming up from itstroubled waters a reinvented selfknowing this surely,with so much more to seek out and tell,I shall never be a finished woman.

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Stopping At A Note In Columbine Memorial Grass - Ida Fasel

Rachel,daughter all amother could ask God for,I bear your death as if you hadbeen mine.

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Judgement DayAlbert Huffstickler

1.

Shame is a brokenbody, is not beingable to stand, ishaving your mindblown sideways, outthe side of yourhead and back to

that place whereyour images dontmatch the environ-ment. Shame isstanding before you,hands out, not ableto utter a sound.

2.

My back was bent

but they broke itwith a scalpel andsaw. I lost adisc. I also lostmy mind. Later,they discovered thatthe nerves were

also damaged. Icould have toldthem that notdamaged but lost.Id lost my nervesblown out through

that hole in myback. They gave

me drugs: I wentcrazy too. NowI didnt haveanything. NowI was a ghost, hoverinabove this bodyI couldnt move.

Lately, things gotreally bad. Igot up and fell,my body split open.Its all in hismind, said the doctor

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3.

Zoned out, they say.In another zone where all your sins

don costumes. Itsa costume ball witheveryone clad indemon masks but you.Guess what? Yourenaked. And yourebatted like a volley

ball from demon todemon while farbelow your bodywrithes on the floorwhere its fallenand demons in white

stand over it clucking.Ask me now if Iworry about death.Not on your life.

4.Lazarus came backa stranger. Heknew too much. Hewas alone with it.He tried to speakof where hed been.

His tongue froze.Lazarus became amute. He was verylonely. He revisedhis opinion ofdeath.

5.

This was all along time ago butI visit it from

time to time asone visits the graveof his innocence.Sometimes I wake inthe night still andfor a moment amdisconnected and

panic seizes me. Iput on the light,get up, make coffee,do the small thingsa man does totell him what world

hes in. I movemy body testinthen sit back asavor my coffe

Small things... lives in small tGrace is beingto move.

Ruta Maya CoffeJune 30, 19Published

First Class,IssueMilwaukee,

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Old Acquaintance - Albert Huffstickler

It was like talking to a dead person.I heard about people I hadnt seen in thirty years

and didnt care for at the time.It was like walking through a graveyardand having a corpse pop out of every hole.It was like working hard for a hundred yearsthen finding out that your life counted for nothing.It was like dreaming that you diedthen waking to find that you hadntbut everyone else had.

first published in Lummox Journal, V. 5, July 1999, San Pe

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ISSN 0197-4777

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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol 21 no 1