Poetry of Issue #5                        Page 14
Table of Contents	Poetry Reading at Chumley's I can't remember a single line she read only that the poet she came with leaned over & whispered as she started to rise that her fly was down they must have been pretty close   Vince Corvaia	45 I drank my poems from pleated cups I wiped my mouth with a white flag I painted happy little trees until I saw the forest was the issue our own blighted forest is the issue now the avenues are writhing swelling through the barricades clearly something     is very     wrong &I confess my confessional poetry confesses nothing of interest to fascists the avenues are writhing and breaking the margins of these pages magma roiling into the furious night someone hands me a sign I haven't written & I become we I take my place among strangers in a country growing stranger still & we are all nothing of interest to fascists we are all nothing of interest to fascists yet   Vince Corvaia__	Poem the sky is scribbled with contrails I think of Hemingway who said write drunk edit sober my parents who said things cost money when I trashed a coloring book after breaking the promise of a line & an ex pale remarried who would have looked up & said see how the wind slurs them into feathers   Vince Corvaia__	Autobiography I tore the wrapping off a stick when I turned 6 & Danny Vancheri’s mother cried     it was a kite which pretty much ruined the party   Vince Corvaia__ ©Bob Heman: Destination (detail 1)