My Neighbour Has a New Girlfriend

poem by Valerie Webber

My Neighbour Has a New Girlfriend

My neighbour has a new girlfriend.
I hear her little kitten moans
through the runway thin wall.
It sounds like they’re birthing a small barnyard animal.

My partner and I reflect
on how irksome he must have found us
these past few celibate years
And how surprised we are
that the only passive aggressive mail slot note we ever got
was after that awkward 4some
that lasted ‘til 8 am.

So needless to say,
we’re trying to be reasonable.

And through the muffled *hmphs*
and off beat bed springs
I’m at once saddened and joyed
by having peeping privy
to the sounds of new lust just as they’re exhaled.

And I wonder if they stare at each other
during pillow talk, eyes flitting,
or if they spoon, with cooling breath on the neck.
And if they spoon,
is she always the inner spoon,
or do they, like us, take turns.

I wonder if they’ll still find each other
perfectly new
after one has seen the other puke
– a few times.

I can practically feel their enthusiasm,
no matter how vanilla,
through the wall that joins us;
Of discovering each other,
showing off for one another
pre queef humility.
Hitting a hundred firsts per hour.

And I regret, right now, that I didn’t
go down on my first girlfriend more
or that I don’t exactly remember
the first orgasm I had with Antoine.

Still, tapping in to the neighbour’s
first steps
helps me to retrace my own

every first time that I’ve done them.

Valerie Webber
In her own write: Valerie is a reluctant academic and proud smut peddler. She has lived in Montreal since abandoning her maritime home 7 years ago. When not writing she alphabetizes her cd collection, chews the skin around her fingernails, and shamelessly indulges in legal drama television. She generally shares too much information concerning genitals, her own or otherwise. Previous work includes thin little arms build castles (big baby books) and lignin diadem with Genevieve Dellinger (big baby books, rain ridge press & glasseye books co-publication ).

Dust off Your Lips

Dust off Your Lips, a poem by Travis Catsull

It’s morning in Texas
& deer bones
thaw in the ditch

grapefruit rot on the table
& it pours on the tin
propped against the barn

suddenly water
covers the road
in heavy puddles

& we are praying
& praying so
damn loud

we pray
for bigger mouths

Travis Catsull, from Year of the Girl

Other books by Catsull include Open Spirit and Isle of Asphalt from Effing Press in Austin. Catsull is the editor/founder of Haggard and Halloo and co-founder of The Charles Potts Magic Windmill Band Which won the Austin Chronicle’s choral CD of the year award in 2008 for The Golden Calves.

POETRY: "Dear Horizon" by Adam Perry

Dear Horizon,

 

             It could have been an anchor I pushed into you, but the pull was something like a lighthouse. Perhaps we’re a wildfire “because of what happens between ellipses and the continuation that we make love so well we recover our virginity.” I see the city, but we can exist here all-knowing and unconscious, because we’re moving. We mystery: man and wom(b)an(d) vice and never versus – a reversal. Who has the authority to push and pull heaven and hearth from both sides of variability? If only it was like a book with cylindrical binding in the center – pages inside and out, an author given peace to please – light room on a dark horse – a shape in shadows exists while you enter and by no means exit; an image speaks with no prevention, only echo fire. Jump off a building holding hands –what’s the chance you’ll fall on someone you love like an eclipse? Would you recognize sex from a print of my fantasy palm? (My son’s line; my head line; my archer and flame and mineral line) Perception is the story of destiny; how we’re always right on time, stumble and discover we’re home, wiping stroboscopic genitals with sun-dried rags to prepare for free will. So breathe into my character, give me an overabundance of names to balance all those unnecessary superlatives on the exclamation points of a first kiss that happens every day. Circles are the only Lord of Light; they draw all possible combinations back and forth together and feather in orbit. A universal magnetism, desires tamed through indulgence vis-à-vis how blood bleeds: causal, astral, fizzle, stop and repeat. In essence, I would use your face…a photo of your grace…to describe what and how I’m feeling, but some people are out of love, so out of wearing skin that up is down and nothing moves anyway. We have become a most-favored instrument, a means of expression. Do this harmony on my hereafter, because the common gender is obsolete:

                                                                               Love,
                                                                                     Adam Perry


Adam Perry will graduate this year from Naropa University. His first book No One Knows was published by Richard Denner’s D Press several years ago. You may have heard his music with the bands Whitford and Love X Nowhere. The quoted remarks in “Dear Horizon” are from his SO Irene Joyce and the poem is from his forthcoming collection on Monkey Puzzle Press (monkeypuzzleonline.com), entitled fotographs of bones.

"The Dope From Muskogee" by Charles Potts

merlehaggard

During the 1960s, when half of America was a race riot and an anti-war demonstration, the great musician Merle Haggard made a famous song called “Okie from Muskogee” in which he sang, “We don’t smoke marijuana in Muskogee, a place where even squares can have a ball.”

Now, forty-five years later, it turns out Haggard is a pothead. From the Jan 1, 2009 New York Times:

Merle Haggard plans to give his first concerts since undergoing surgery for lung cancer two months ago, Reuters reported. In a special twist, Mr. Haggard, 71, said that for the first time in his life he would perform without having first smoked tobacco or marijuana. Notwithstanding a jab at pot smokers in his 1969 hit “Okie From Muskogee,” Mr. Haggard has long indulged a marijuana habit of his own. [He gave up a few times over the years, but “nothing was funny,” he said.] Having now put it aside, he said, he expects to work harder in 2009. The concerts are set for Friday and Saturday in his hometown, Bakersfield, Calif.

It’s okay to be a hypocrite, but I think the heads of the 1960s are owed an apology, as the Okie song was just one more stupid stanza in a drug and culture war that, guess what, we are about to win! How did marijuana get legalized? Because they don’t have 120 million jail cells vacant at any one time.

So…

The Dope from Muskogee
for Merle Haggard

If you live long enough
You’ll get to see everything
Turned inside out.

Turns out the “Okie from Muskogee”
Turned into the Pothead from Bakersfield
With no apology yet foreseen
For the damage hippy hating did to this
Defunct Vietnam War torn country.

Pot smokers take turns
Passing their joints around.
Merle must have at least one song
In his tuckerbag to extol
The virtues of Marijuana over Valium:
Please pass the music.

Put him on the train for the
Medical uses of Marijuana
Recreation without drugs
Is hardly recreation at all.

—Charles Potts

Muntader al-Zaidi named Arthur Magazine "Man of the Year" 2008; Charles Potts salutes al-Zaidi with new poem, "Balls Out."

topics_alzaidi_395.jpg

For slinging truth directly to despotic criminal power in a heroic, selfless act of CONTEMPORARY conscience and righteousness, an act that many others could have done but none dared, Iraqi journalist/shoe-thrower Muntader al-Zaidi is the clear choice for Arthur Magazine’s coveted “Man of the Year” award for 2008.

In honor of the occasion, Charles Potts has composed a new poem, “Balls Out,” which we proudly present here:

Balls Out
for Muntader al-Zaidi

We’ve found Hitler’s missing testicle
Lodged in George W. Bush’s nose.
Yes ladies and gentlemen
George Bush was snorting Nazi Nuts
When one of them got stuck in the cocaine.

Muntader al-Zaidi attempted a seasonal variation on
Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Sweet
With his shoes.

He really wanted to hit the visiting fascist in the face
The lame duck occupational Caesar of the colony of Iraq
To crack the American crackpot empire
With his shoes.

George Bush ducked al-Zaidi’s flying shoes
Just like he ducked
Every single other responsibility of the office he stole.

Duck this George:
Since the nefarious democrats didn’t have balls enough to
Impeach you,
al-Zaidi impeached you with his shoes.

The Muntader al-Zaidi College of Journalism at Yale
Now open for admission.

We owe you a pension al-Zaidi.
We are all in prison
Until you are set free.

—Charles Potts


"A Case of Cheney Paranoia" by Charles Potts

A Case of Cheney Paranoia

To go with the case of Chivas Regal.
I am the first vice president of the United States
To actually be the president of the United States
Simultaneously, but really I am
President of the Senate and in the legislative branch
So subpoenaing me about documents related to executive privilege
Will be futile since I am between branches
No law actually covers me
And everything the president does, as Nixon said, is legal.
Like conservatives everywhere
I hate and fear the government except when we can milk it like
The cash cow it is.
Since I am the government
I hate and fear myself.
And you wonder why I’m trying to keep it a secret.


"Spasm Empire" by Charles Potts

Paranoid Christian Fascism is not an appropriate answer to world or American problems but it is the only one coming out of the final days of the Bush administration.

The US government became paranoid with the passage of the National Security Act of 1947, which made government a secret. This made everybody who might want to know what the government is up to an enemy, from whom the truth must be kept at all costs. Are 16 spy agencies enough? Why not 24? or 56?

Christianity is a comfort religion for chimpanzees without the nerve to die decently. They want to drag everybody through their Armageddon–worse than a Mel Gibson movie.

And Fascism, well the 20th century was a hundred million death essay in the futility of invading neighboring countries just because you can. Adios Nazi Germany, Imperial Japan, and Mussolini’s “Government by Corporations” Fascism. The adult countries of Europe and Asia will have to help put the kibosh on the PCF US Empire.

With any luck the empire will collapse in time for all of us to watch. While the Vichy Democrats have decided to ratify the Bush strategy to run out the clock and blame all their failures on subsequent and former administrations (I mean where the fuck is Congressman Conyers’ bill for impeachment?), our obligation is to not help them kill any innocent bodies and to stay out of the way of the debris from falling empire.

Or as Edward Dorn just said: If voting changed anything, it would be illegal.

Peace

Jim Dodge: “you am before you can think you are.”

Unnatural Selections: A Meditation upon Witnessing a Bullfrog Fucking a Rock

by Jim Dodge

Amalgam of electric jelly,
constellated neural knots
in the briny binary soup,

as surely as stimulus prods
response


brains are made to choose.

And through a major error
in pattern recognition


or a significant cognitive
fault,


the bullfrogs brain has
selected


a two-pound rock

as the object of his rampant
affection,


a rock (to my admittedly
mammalian eye)


that neither resembles

nor even vaguely suggests

the female of his species.

He does seem to be enjoying
himself


in a blunted sort of way,

but since the rock so obviously
remains unmoved


one suspects it’s not the
blending of sweet oblivions

that fuels his persistence,

but a serious kink in a
feedback loop–


or perhaps just kinkiness
in general.


The less compassionate might
even call him


the quintessentially insensitive
male.

Assuming a pan-species gender
bond


and a common fret,

I advise my amphibious pal,

“Hey, I don’t think she’s
playing hard to get.

That’s the literal case
you’re up against, Jack–


true story, buddy; stone
fact.


And I’d be fraternally remiss
if I didn’t share


my deep and eminently reasonable
doubt


that she’ll be worn down

however long and spectacular
the ardor.”

Ignoring my counsel

as completely as he has
my presence,


the bullfrog continues his
fruitless assault

with that brain-locked commitment
to folly


which invariably accompanies

dumb, bug-eyed lust.

But, in fairness,

whose brain hasn’t shorted
out in a slosh of hormones


or, igniting like a shattered
jug of gas,


fireballed into a howling
maelstrom


where a rock indeed might
seem a port?


One can only conclude

that such impelling concupiscence

serves as a species’ life-insurance,

sort of a procreative override

of any decision requiring
thought,


thought being notoriously
prey to thinking,


and the more one thinks
about thinking


the thinkier it gets.

Therefore, though the brain
is made to choose,


its very existence ultimately
depends

on the generative supremacy
of brainless desire–


for with all respect to
Monsieur Descartes


you am before you can think
you are.


Dirt-drive compulsions riding
powerful desires


render any choice moot,
along with


reason, morality, taste,
manners,


and all those other jars
of glitter


we pour on the sticky and
raw.

The hard truth is we never
chose to choose:

not the brains we use to
pick


between competing explanations
for our sexual mess


nor these hearts we’ve burdened
with our blunders


in the name of love.

Do whatever we decide we
will,


the choice isn’t free;

we live at the mercy of
more pressing needs.

Thus, urges urgently surging,

we mount a few rocks by
mistake.

A bit more embarrassing
than most of our foolishness, true–


but so what?

The power of the imperative

coupled with the law of
averages


virtually guarantees enough
will get it right


to make more brains to be
made up


about exactly what steps
to take


toward what we think we
need to do


on this stony journey between
delusion and mirage–

when to move, where to hide
our dreams–


a journey where we finally
learn


freedom is not a choice

a brain is free to choose.

Fortunately, my warty friend,

the soul is built to cruise.