New Page 1

..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume V, Issue II

..:: POETRY ::..

..:: PROSE ::..
..:: OTHER ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I


Blues for Guitar Bains
Greg Weiss


Sometimes I don't know what to do.
The potatoes float around in the water
when I stir them. Is it fair
that I'm not ambidextrous or tall?
I didn't ask to be an abacus
and you don't know the trouble I've seen.
I'm watching Everybody Loves Raymond in Racine,
Wisconsin: a tomato plant withers in the dew
on the grass covering Crispus Attucks
and the water
from his skull hits me first because I'm tall.
That's not fair,
but luck's the dew on a flower
too tropical for Racine,
she only shines on atolls.
In the crux of the water,
potato and tomato do-si-do
and cantaloupe attacks:
Is it fair that I'm ambidextrous?
Well of course it's fair
cantaloupe, fair has nothing to do
with it, but water
starves and legume toasts the scene:
Short, in-between, tall,
Short, in-between, tall!
Here, here! I didn't ask to be an abacus!
Boards cover the windows
of the house on the corner whose State Fair
Champion portland-roses glisten
with sun and hose-water,
sun and oil in the curb-water,
sweat on the harlequin stained-red petals,
ambidextrous "Have You Seen
Her" on 93.1. I, albatross,
alight on the lawn who, fair,
shares me with her dew
until I'm a waterfall throttling that dodo
Atticus Finch like an obscene fare.


//   Advance   //