Nixon and I (Wick Chapbook Series 2)

More Buying Choices - Paperback. Book 1 of Add to Wish List. Usually ships in 1 to 2 months. Book 2 of Book 3 of Be the first to review this item. Order in the next 16 hours 39 minutes and get it by Saturday, December Book 4 of Book 5 of Book 6 of Temporarily out of stock. Order now and we'll deliver when available. Book 7 of I allow myself to be a pawn, dispensable, when in my soul I am brook, I am knight and castle, and men in parks take me in their fingers and plan great moves all in their hopes of finding a new promise and a better game.

A plane flies overhead. A truck mumbles in the distance, a mule brays; and below, along the briny shores, emerald leaves flutter not from wind, but from the movement of beasts with heart and machines with naught. It chronicles his visits to Yugoslavia between and will be published in May His memoir, Some Houses, is seeking a publisher.

The Genuine Negro Hero

When not traveling he is a carpenter and professor. He recently purchased an old Victorian home and now is planning his next Triumph motorcycle in order to solidify his artificial existence as a renaissance man. Some black and white, others color. These are the victims of the dirty war. The generals, now ghostly TV images, their faces gray as intestines, ordered deaths by the thousands. Ordinary people hustled into Ford Falcons, tortured. Their bodies tossed from DC-3s into the Atlantic.

Marchers with red flags. Do ghosts of Ford Falcons still cruise these streets? We wait on the sidewalk, while tens of thousands pass. The drums — boom, ba boom, ba boom. Girls selling socialist newspapers.

Marchers with banners wide as the Avenida de Mayo. Lauren takes out her camera.

Rows of men with clubs bring up the rear, their faces disguised with bandanas or keffiyehs. Photos of celebrities on mahogany walls. I drop a submarine-shaped chocolate in my cup of hot milk. His chapbooks have won honorable mentions twice in the San Diego Book Awards. The Madres are the mothers who protested Argentina's dirty war by holding their disappeared childrens' pictures in the Plaza de Mayo.

Sleet needles me un-knits my sleep: Two fluorescent hunters cruise toward dawn in a bronze Dart. A hip flask loosens their intent. The cats yowl for tinned meat while rodents drunk on compost snicker by the chimney. Swank heat blows up the grates: She has written poems and songs to accompany her community through a generation of moments and milestones. As a teacher and facilitator, she has created collaborative writing projects in schools and nontraditional settings: What are you most thankful for?

For images of stylized mayhem with arbitrary rules which we can safely watch from our roost and pretend that the outcome matters let us be virtually thankful. For protection from a world with real anguish and real mourning and maybe even repentance not to mention blessings worth counting let us be virtually thankful. Esther Greenleaf Murer lives in Philadelphia. As I sank down between the words, I could almost taste the fine grit of sand on my tongue and the layers of dust on my teeth. I could almost feel the dry scorch of the air of the desert days and the bone-chilling cold of the nights beneath the shooting stars.

I could almost sense the tight clench of the M16 gun barrel between my fingers and the rattle of the Humvee over potholed roads in my bones. Other countries no longer subsidizing our debt would shock lots of people! Then reservoirs of con-thought would once again be con-sulted. Shaman wears a Muslim peci on his head but these are dangerous times, he says, and the sooth of our ancient archipelago from many mouths must be heard against black magic.

He listens to the bowl, quaffs its eerie contents and chants spells so to bewilder the terrible Wizard in our midst: We lost much, especially our innocence, and after the devastating emptiness, we were filled with something familiar but alien- emerging from our darkest dreamscape. We stopped searching years ago and some no longer asked: And reconstruction began above sacred ground, where ghostly secrets were buried in the catacombs of ground zero.

Yet now, when hundreds of human remains have been discovered, we must question why we stopped.

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What is more horrific: What discovery shall we make, when looking back, we see the Void of human omission? A thief waits outside the window. He swallows dreams, memories. There is a bomb under the couch. No one is trying to remove it. We sip red wine, comment on the inevitability of the explosion.

Then we stop talking about it altogether; it becomes an impolite subject. We play music, tell stories to soothe our jangled nerves. Today is the Official Celebration of Hope. We wear bright colors, pretend to love each other and the fate we share, pretend safety, solidarity, high purpose pretend we have time. She turns country music stations on, then off, then on again. She spots two mules in a field and pulls over to watch them, plodding along side by side, tails brushing against each other. She watches so long that the sunset turns rows of corn a sort of scarecrow-black. She watches the farmer drive the mules into the barn, sees him leave a half hour later.

She parks on a nearby hill, waits till the lights go out in the farmhouse, then drags that double-harness over to her car, already halfway to orgasm. Then people appear as bright constellations moving about in the dim world.

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Even their footprints are incandescent trails in the dust. It is hard, in this light, to discern enemy from noncombatant, a basket of bread from a bomb. Women and kids as radiant as men of fighting age. A pregnant woman shimmers like a nebula in my scope.

The Genuine Negro Hero by Thomas Sayers Ellis

Far too easy a target. Luke Welch has published recently in Pemmican and Centrifugal Eye. He works as a sign language interpreter in northern Illinois. Sampson Did you see the news today? There are so many and so few versions now and all the news is old, older than time. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai 4midable, 10acious, cre8ive 1derer who has wandered intrepidly through countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http: Snow There are only two characters. One has more than the other, therefore one has less. One is taken from, one given to.

One strikes, the other retaliates. Hard envy and hot anger well between them. There may be a robbery, perhaps a killing, no more or less brutal than any other, although not necessarily a murder. One is the victim, one the perpetrator. Repeatedly, one flees, the other pursues. Injury is strewn like grimy litter on a spring sidewalk. What we cannot know is, who holds the gun? Snow teaches and writes in Lakewood, one city west of Cleveland on Lake Erie. I scrape particles of its hind leg from the metal shelf. A truck driver enters the exit lane of Interstate10, crashes into a van, kills one, hospitalizes two others; third time this month someone has driven the wrong way.

Wick Chapbook

Our country is at war again. I wonder if the demand for geraniums will slacken their scent of funeral homes already hanging in the air. In the same fantasy I hear Lincoln laughing behind me, pointing to the Liberty Bell healing its crack, while an elephant stomps past me chased by mice dancing to echoing peals of joy.

Then Nixon apologizes inside a pool of Agent Orange, Cowboy Reagan ropes himself to a nuclear weapon. A map of my country grows beneath my feet, and I mix separate and unequal cities with a quick stir of my hands, welcome the cheering crowds massing in buildings and parks, waving their arms like flags.

She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play. The poem "rifling in the ranks" is written in a form called eintou which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom". This, despite the memento mori of an oak leaf, brittle as an absentee ballot, affixed to the windshield wiper. On the far side, an already antique cluster of campaign signs—losers all, including the winners—is buffeted by the wind.

The sugary maples fade with no sense of defeat; the sumacs redden, but not with any shame. How deeply do I wish that I and we could say the same. Mikhail Horowitz is a poet and performer who lives in the Hudson Valley. He and his performance partner, Gilles Malkine, recieved an award from Sullivan County Peace and Justice in for "furthering progressive causes through the arts. Delighted that reporters will have enough other things to focus on, get off his back for a minute or two.

He can just walk in the woods and trust his staff to keep him informed of how the voting goes. Hunt and peck is how he thinks of it, fondly recalling how he used to type his school reports, looking up and seeing his mother standing beside him. The doctors say exercise might even be good for his heart. And he needs to plan more days alone with his family. This time it will just be the two of them. Three children's stories have also been accepted for publication.

She is the author of two poetry chapbooks: Where do we keep the past and what do we keep it in?

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How do we measure a person, a country, a love, a loss? What do we remember? What do we declare and what do we declare it with: The poems serve as storage boxes into which a memory is placed, then wrapped and bound. Hard truths come through the past, radio interviews, zoo animals, neighbors, personas, and pop songs. Local Fauna is terrific. Virtuosic writing combines with jagged feeling, and the end result is engaging, dramatic, and unpredictable.

They seek to make a world: