by Paul Pines

EPONYMOUS PAUL
     Easter morning

the notion of waking
to the sound of a trumpet
or its corollary
the Roshi’s well–timed slap
what I find hermano
is that I’m constantly being
interrogated
by a wakefulness
that intrudes on my fantasies
of triumph and vindication
reminds me of the power
in those drives
and finally
of their triviality
which I accept with grief
at times relief
at others
as a deepening
of cross purposes
stripped bare

I look for models
find foremost among them
strangely

             Paul
             late of Tarsus

at the “bloody cross road”
of ecstasy
and propaganda
not strange
that he should long
             to see as
             he is seen
but that he fails to see
this already exists
as an interior
condition

             that takes
             our measure

whether
we see it
or not

by Paul Fericano

Not that good sense has anything to do with poetry
but if for some reason I should decide

That I’m not completely satisfied with
where you went to school or who you know

Or what fucking prizes you’ve won
or why I’ve never heard of you before now

I’m going to send back everything I don’t understand
with a short note explaining my irritation

And this promise: if you ever send crap here again
I’m going to visit your house and shoot your dog

by Paul Fericano

Enough already enough
with all this Leonardo DiCaprio crap

All this stinking garbage about
art for fucking art’s sake

This is no Holly wood movie my friend
we don’t use stunt doubles here

You either get with the program
or you sleep in New Jersey

by Richard Jarrette

Our destination hovered between Pacific mist and looming clouds conceding a
glimpse of arctic blue sky.

We half–guess navigated by sound to a sea lion haul out,
slipping by sonorous dreams and groans to the white yarrow

on the headland above. Skylarks are a delicacy in Japan, you murmured, people
pray to be invited to the feast.

I studied illuminated text in your face — fragments of my Sappho:
]  listen into  [     ]  sweetclover  [     ]  my ankles.