Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue # 66                        Page 5

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They speak woefully
the same words come
forth each morning
god I don't want to get up
they utter in chorus

Yet still they rise
tepidly but steadily
like first plumes
of noxious ozone depletion
belching out of the smokestacks

starting the kitchen coffee
they worry about foreclosure and
Christmas maxing out credit cards
they worry about high chair edicts
from the holders of the puppet strings

they know the feel
of the Invisible chains
they know they are just
numbers ripe for cost cutting
those cogs in the machine

they sweated in their sleep
awakened to a chill in damp sheets
thought about a medical exam
then remembered paychecks continuing
on account of healthcare ending

you used to be one of them
you sleep soundly now
you awaken lively
without uttering the word god
no longer a cog in the machine

                               Robert M. Zoschke


After their swim they walked out the breakwater
Into Cape Cod Bay.
About half way out
More of a clamber than a walk,
The rocks more dumped than built
Into a barrier to the surf.
He found a slanting grey surface almost wide enough
Pulled her down close to him.

"Do you have any idea how much I want you?"
"About as much as I want you," she laughed, "But
you can't hide it." Pointed to the bulge in his
He did blush

But he laughed, too.

The tide came in
On one side of the breakwater
And went out again.
The sun set and the moon rose
And the sun rose again.

At sunrise they were both still virgins.

                      Henny Wenkart


Just legs and a rainbow skirt, Renoir-babe
face, creek-flow hair out walking Franchise
roads, why just making it to 65 and not six
million years?

                      Hugh Fox



half a dozen crumpled red cock
tail napkins rind of an orange
five olive pits eight maraschino
cherry stems one pineapple slice
empty glasses some on their sides
dark booth she sits photo magnets
torn from old refrigerator spread a
round her portal of visual doorways
she entered every morning taking skim
milk but for cereal packing half a sand
Wich way out of the life she chose map
of australia, santa fe sunset, menus
from new Orleans, ticket stubs, blue rib
bons tied in curly dark hair of her first
child slush of 1977 winter when ice castle
wonderland melted & the bay spilled
over like bathtub water suicide butter
white tablecloth spotted red wine
made her dizzy remember son left
with relatives & her sweater scarlet
with desire lay-damp beside her dazed
like weekend she rode purple cock
of ex-lover while husband slept up
stairs she sucked off a stranger stole
her purse election eve will world change
on table crumpled bills & breath of jack
daniel's poet blowing on her neck t.v.
wild with expectation new president next
month's rent black leather jacket soft
markets will rise like the tent in pants
of man pressed against her wood paneled
wall & middle east mania wars peace
it's a new life starting tonight united
states of desperate humping its way
to contentment still she has no name
he has no phone number or family
photos or wallet or futures sunrise
his face vacant as room 106
she showers smell of her own rising
croissant & zips her skirt lust gone
but hope for borderless country fills
her open nostrils with cracked dreams
cemented with campaign speeches
words evaporate like ninth grade
love replaced by clear yellow
morning the ashes of insatiable sex

                      Lynne Savitt