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2002
Ma
Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream
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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, May 2002
He haunts the shadowy night spots of GreenwichVillage. He is from Morocco. Less than five feet tall,he carries a hump on his back that thrusts his headslightly forward. And what a head! The head of asixteenth century Hidalgo, large, imposing; one visual-ized the white ruff, the plumed hat.
Margot de Silva, "Gil Amador"
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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 23 Number 5 Mayl, 2002Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Admirable Factotum
c o n t e n t s
Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $25 a year. Sample issues $2.60 (ipostage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed enveWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-21272002, Ten Penny Players Inc.http://www.tenpennyplayers.org
Will Inman 4
Terry Thomas 5-8
David Michael Nixon 10
M. M. Nichols 11-12
Fredrick Zydek 13-14
Geoff Stevens 15
Lyn Lifshin 17-18
R. Yurman 19
Albert Huffstickler 20-24
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Margot de Silvaon W. 12th Street
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late promise - will inman
hadnt been able for years. Old now.whisper promise: if willing with the shadow one,
could do one last time, then . . .want to, but what
a cost, late last arms sudden turn bones.beautiful fetcher, arms brothering pull closemothering, naked chest to chest, raw thighsfeathering each to each, loins wrapped lappedrapt, arms circling warm holding to late sweat now
flesh paring bones glisten soulgone, self
dragged by bone fingers on bone wrist, nomemory of late last lust, dustonly, grist for wind. gristfor stars.
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Roaming Shantytown at Midnight Terry Thomas
I always wait till the winds just right.Every third house has a dogsome mutt mixed
as much as the people living here,but each one is a Baskerville hybridand would run down and eat anythingon four legs or two.Lights glow dimly from some structures,someone staring at a kerosene lanternthe TVA never made it past Coon Creek
probably nursing a baby or a bottle of hooch,counting pennies, coupons, food stamps or mistakes.Even moon and starlight seems diffused,filtered by the high mix of ice crystalsor something oozing up from the dismal dirt.There! One of my favorite shapes in the gloom:
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a rusted bedspring with various broken toolsstuck through the coils. How many passionsboiled on that when it was workable?how many mothers writhed in tormentdenting shanty population with one more,how many daughters or sons coweredunderneath from thunder words in the hallway?Each shack has its stack of discardeddreams, history, mystery of dead ends.Then, finally, Im to the lastbarely
standing, dark, stark in dejection,leaning left, held together by years ofgreasy food, grime and time tempting nails.A broken fence hints that it was picketedonce, a home. Roams over. I go insideand hit my own rusty springs.
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My Indian Blood Rises Like Hair on a Scalp Terry Thomas
When I was ornery at eightNana would say it was just the meanness
coming outbut then she wouldsmile and talk about her father,a full-blooded Cherokee.Mom never knew her grandfather,so she didnt know if her mother was weavingtales like smoke from a campfire.But Id seen photos of great grandpa
black and white slices of timeand you could see the dark, fixed eyes,hawk nose . . . and the stare of a bird of prey,fixed on a rabbit.Besides, sometimes, when the meanness wasreally surging, Mom would send me outside
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to whoop it up. And when Dad got angry with mehed say he was gonna snatch me baldheaded.So I had to believe in that little red blend.Now Im a village eldertake walks throughwhite-eyes yuppie camps, treading softlywith the wind, past brown, black and tan vanscrouching like dead buffaloes,and the blood surges.I havent buried the hatchet,havent smoked the peace pipe
my tongue is my hatchet and I broke the peacemoons ago with the AMA and SSDI settlers,taking my hide in little pieces.The meanness, the meaning in the blood, isnt
just coming out, its here: painted, feathered,notched, on horse and ready to ride.
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9
Northern Dispensary
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David Michael Nixon
I rise from my nest,
dry grasses, greyingold birdis flying! flying!
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Metropolitan Handicap - M. M. Nichols
Our faces give it away.Frown, smoke-puff, the gracefully down mouth, the muttered oath, a
browned-out cave the eyes peer from.We elbow-jog neighbors in crowds, pass by florists futile daffodils
standing attentively in jars of water.
But here! This stopped me today. Self and two strangers, justchanging direction to cross the street.
Here comes a boy, not older than seven, on one rollerblade.A neat black cane in each hand, the left leg of black trousers tied
and hanging below the groin.
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Ahead of him flew his dark bright eyes and wide-open smile.Black hair streaming and shining.You could see his joy: nimble smooth weaving on one sure-bladed foot,
betwixt mighty, high pedestrians.White-haired man, tall, weathered, strode at angles of deft pursuit,
caught up, hovered till the boy stopped short.Then pulled out a white handkerchief and held it to the boys nosedrip.Whose canes were steady, the small arms confident of everything.
Suddenly we had no sadness. Three smiles, gut-surprised.Wishing we could live long enough to see him be President, at least
Ambassador to a dark bright-eyed country where the wealth is nstuff but spirit.
Long enough to see it happen here.
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Mirror Fredrick Zydek
Trapped within its silvery depths,
an overweight and balding thing,gone gray in the bonesstands behind his white beardwatching my every move.
He gives me fits at the bottom
of my soul. Ask anyone.I cannot survive this place alone.What I need is plain and ordinary,the soft spinning of an easy day,
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fields of calico where blossoms sway.In the mirror such things are central.I must call the gray thing by name.
Being present to him is the only cure.Tonight, I think, we see no more changes.
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Geoff Stevens
The ghost of Robert Lowellwandering its chewed-up streets?
James Baldwin waiting on tableat some dim dive?Who will you meet?Look up from Crosby Streetand can you seesix terra cotta angelson top of the Bayard Building,or have you hadone drink too manyin the Chinese Chance,been looking at too many paintingson the walls there,by the likes ofRivers and Dekooning?
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Les Deux Gaminsat Sheridan Square
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The Village Cowboy - Lyn Lifshin
in New England, where nobody
had a Stetson, or spurs. Hissister was ok they said, a bank
job. New lace curtains. No one
still remembers Frank, not the
way they do the vegetable boy
who couldnt talk, staggeredwith a wheel barrow of broccoli
carrots, strawberries up North
Pleasant. Frank stood out at the
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Corner that was once a First
National and when he could,
painted a front of a building or
hauled away a load of bricks. Hetipped his hat to all ladies, was wild
eyed some afternoons by 4 when
you could see the bulge of Jack
Daniels or Boone Farm even thru a
loose pocket, talking to dogs and
trees. Youd see him in the shade
of the Episcopal Church, stretched
out, whistling to robins, staring
past the railroad tracks that ra
fewer and fewer hours. Childre
aimed b b guns, called out wer
coming. Frank threw a few stoand grinned, waved his Stetson
or lumbered from the park dow
Main Street. Even if thered be
garbage bins, hed have been too p
He strutted as if he was John Wa
and expected to be applauded.
Some say he died on the toilet
holding a stray cat in his arms
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A Pain in the Neck - R Yurman
not somebodybut a physical acheup under the skull platesreminding menot to set my facein one directiontight vertebraethat want to move
and crackto shiftrelieving the pullbeneath the flangesof the skull
so many different handshave tried to easethis constant straintried to findthe exact pressureangle quick snapthat pops the caughtbones loose
in this necktender and unreadyto bear the weightof eyes and brain
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Before the BeginningAlbert Huffstickler
Things die she said
shaking her goldenhead. Her hair caughtfire in the sunlight.You know how it is.After a while, you
dont care or care too much.
Her name, she said,was Sorrow-of-The-Ages. Her hair
turned grey at 25.She said it wasin mourning for
all the dead flowers.Cloudy all day.No rain.The sky has brokenanother promise.
That man therestanding inhis own shadow,feet immersedin a dry puddle.
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Afternoon traffic:people hurrying,eager to arrive
before they haveto leave again.
If we could justlisten to the stars,she said.
If we could justsleep withthe moon for a pillow.
Its been said thatDeath rides agreen tricycle
but Im not sureif thats trueor not.
From Fireno. 14, Oxfordshire,
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Litany - Albert Huffstickler
My doppelganger,
the old bum downtown who isalmost me, the one I givemoney to every time I seehimmy ransom to fateis looking shabbier andtireder and more hopeless
these days. I wonder ifhell die. I wonderwhat this will do to me.I think I should prayfor him. To what God?
To the God of Alleys andMidnight Sorrows. Oris it Goddess? Yes,
its a Goddess:Lady of the Alleys andMidnight Sorrows, blesshim, keep him by youtill his journeys done.Peace.
From Poetry Depth QuOct. - Dec. 2000 North Highla
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That One Face - Albert Huffstickler
Well, I didnt see that
one face today. You knowthe one I meanthat one
face youre always looking
for without ever thinking
about it, sitting in a
caf over coffee, walkingthrough a crowd, alone
in your room, that one face
you recognize instantly,
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that face that resonates
through you back to the
beginning and on out across
the universe and back,that face that tells you
you wont be lonely for
a while, that alpha-omega
face that tells you your
whole worlds about toendbut only to start
all over, new, again.
From Nerve Cowboy, No. 4, Fall 1997, Nerve
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ISSN 0197-4777
published 11 times a year since 1979very limited printingby Ten Penny Players, Inc.(a 501c3 not for profit corporation)
$2.50 an issue