Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue # 66                        Page 7
                                   

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"UNEARNED SUFFERING"
        for Kirby Congdon, 1978


Please don't blame me
if I have not earned
my suffering
I who have
everything
shoes, roof, a borrowed dog
and the ground
unexploded, under me.
Don't judge too harshly
if I cry
and have not labored for the tears
If you don't believe me
go to the movies
but please hold your brilliance
from attack
I'm truly sorry I fail
and am not the voice of the century
as you promise to be
But I was locked in a closet
saw my dreams only
and refuse to be silent
So say nothing
if you can't credit me
for I have consoled myself
with the poem I have sent you
though I am
your thief of woe.

                               Roberta Gould
_________________________

THE UNSHACKLING EARTH

i will seize the moment
that my grandfathers'
11 brothers & sisters
were marched into
the nazi ovens

the yr 1943.
i was born in
1943.

today
under an early morning
cloud
i water my garden.

i have planted
giant sunflowers

but will welcome
the weeds
equally.

                               normal

HOW I BECAME HOLY

I began as a sandwich man, advertising my need
in big red letters, billboard and T-shirt screaming
EAT ME!

Strangers starved for conversation and fast food
addicts smelled a rat. The curious sniffed suspiciously,
but soon my tender juicy flesh became irresistible.

One bargain hunter with a gargantuan hunger
and canines like fangs stopped to chew the fat
and ended up tearing off a piece of me that he
gobbled until he gagged.

I shrieked PAIN IS MY PLEASURE!

Others smelling blood saw my sign as no baloney
and swarmed in like paranah finishing a crippled bull
In minutes I was guzzled, gristle and gizzard
marrow bones cracked and sucked dry. Soon only the
sound of gnashing teeth and smacking lips could be
heard as if all were tasting divine wine.

Authorities saw thru my tissue of lies and wrapped
my ribs in a bundle of thin skin and dumped the
whole doggy-bagged mess of me in a dank bog.

I exist now only in the heads of the jittery
who lie awake nights belching my undigested organs.
They count on sheep they've eaten to put them
to sleep in the slaughter house of nightmares
where I appear as the relic relief comic dressed
in a saint's skeleton.

My grin goads the guilty to kneel before a toilet
bowl altar, and as if praying, stick a finger in
their throats, vowing to vomit me up. But no promises
will pay their guardian angels to kiss my ghost off
and flush my flesh down the drain.


                      Maxine Susman
_____________________________________________________

DISPENSING WITH AGE LIKE SEASONAL ATIIRE


          loose change

          spare
          change


                                            no change


                                                                     Evan

THE OUTLAW
Dedicated to A.D. Winans


he will tear you apart
not with his fists-
his words are enough-
straight shooter
he tells it as it is

he minces no words
when he retaliates
you will feel the
fangs of a cobra

he has been writing
for many years
and bukowski once
said of him,
he is the only
poet I can stand

poets like him
are rare

he can wring your
heart with pathos,
make you cry if he
wants to,

when he writes about
his father
there is blood in every
line, mixed with tears,

his name is known by
those who look for truth
wihout the fancy words

poems are my life,
he says strongly
both the same,


that's how it
goes down.

                      Ed Galing
______________________________________________