by Kevin Sweeney

Although I didn’t take Anatomy and Physiology I (or II)
I understand from reading I’ve done on my own that
when you’re dead, you’re dead. It doesn’t matter if
you’re dead in Boston, New York, Richmond, Dublin,
Hartford, Uniontown, PA or Kansas City, Kansas. In fact,
if you’re dead in Quincy or Salem, you’ll still be dead
when they transport your body to Boston. Dead in
Yonkers doesn’t mean you’re undead on Staten Island.
Dead in Mexico City means you won’t be enjoying the
eternal spring in Guadalajara. If I read about your sudden
or prolonged demise in the Maine Sunday Telegram, I
know that you’re still dead in the Lewiston Sun-Journal
even if no one in Sabattus spent money to have your obit
printed for the citizens of Auburn, Litchfield, and Turner.
Dead means it’s over, The End, Sayonara, Adios, Good
Night, Irene. Questions about transcendence or the end
of consciousness belong in another poem. Not this one.
Here we’re only trying to establish one thing. If you’re
dead on Saturday in Skokie, nobody is looking for you
to walk beside the lake in Chicago on Sunday. That’s,
because you’re dead. Even in St. Louis.

by Kevin Sweeney

In that section of the Friday NY Times I spot a
small headline: “Dead Dog Returns to Haunt Artist.”
A sculptor named Tom Otterness, had his contract
for subway sculptures that would have earned him
$750,000 terminated by San Francisco. A San
Francisco Examiner reporter discovered that when
Mr. Otterness was 25, he bought a dog at a shelter,
tied it to a fence, shot it “on camera,” and created
an exhibit called “Shot Dog Film.” It was too late
to cancel Mr. Otterness’s other project for the new
hospital; the City had already ponied up $365,750
for his “Mother With Children” piece, so this mother
will receive the full $700,000 he has coming. San
Francisco would lose money by terminating that
contract too. I once made an ecumenical Catholic
promise to God, Buddha, Yahweh, Allah, et al
that every dollar I get from readings will go
to local animal shelters. While that promise still
holds, I am ready to put up $50 of my own as bounty
on Mr. Otterness. It won’t be necessary to tie him
to a fence or shoot him. A punch in the face will
earn you the stipend. If I don’t hear from anyone
in a year or so, I might cruise the Upper East Side
and do the job myself. Since I’m over 60, I might
punch him twice, and when he hits the pavement,
say, “Hey pal, I know a thing or two about art.”

by Mark Rubin

In the absence of a third eye, I have a third ear
for knowing what to say and when not to say it.
I am more present than I appear, at times
a heroine’s hero in a life
that includes me, but isn’t me, a story
whose shape-shifting plot fills
a heart that can’t be found
that makes a mess that can’t be swept. As in —

I need to be really no really important how do I know

you disappear you left me are you going to

call me back it’s an emergency up yours

under your umbrella don’t hang up

you’re mean you don’t listen I don’t know you

do you want to get rid of me do you

think about me when you’re sleeping

I’ve picked out a tree you’re a liar why

did your eye twitch I hate you the old

you knew what to say fuck you sorry sorry

are other people more important you are

unethical can I curl up on your shoe

I will never trust you again even

when you’re old you can’t die

pinkie swear you won’t leave do you

have stars in your shoes I’ll visit you

in the nursing home I’ll make sure

you have water I’m a whore I’m gum

on a shoe I don’t feel okay I’m scared.

At noon I unwrap a corned beef sandwich
and stare at a Kosher pickle.
At five-ten I row myself home.
Alms for the poor, poor kitty-kitty.
A green parakeet sings for my pleasure,
for room, board and takeout
when I appear at the door, my briefcase
filled with wind, dust — the usual.

by Mark Rubin

No name or visible address, no red light
to indicate taxi referrals, walk-ins welcome.
The sun may do shift work in New Orleans

but here in Tijuana the sun does not
work overtime for a better view
of four chairs and four bored women,

used and carbohydrate thick or anorexic,
a row of undeterred survivors.
They smoke and chew gum. And wait.

One whose turn is up can’t wait
to crook her arm in mine, the two of us,
strolling on our honeymoon.

Soiled air, tissues, a mattress on the floor.
I am the worm in her mezcal.
I am her dime bag of weed.

I am her jack-in-the-box.
I am her daughter’s new shoes.
I am her naked rooster soon

counting five dollars more to the taxi pimp
who saunters in wagging a prophylactic
and lackluster grin. I have no history.

Worse, my trustworthy who to date
has not faltered, fails to rise and shine,
to cock-a-doodle-doo.

Which is to say, I re-organized myself
in reverse into clothes, and walked out
onto the emptiest street in the universe.