| January 2008 |
All work
copyright the
owner. No
reproduction
without
consent.
copyright the
owner. No
reproduction
without
consent.
POEMS
Poetry by California's Michael Yachnik. www.susannewmandesign.com/fivemil
For Sale
For sale: Three pounds of raw sewage. Great for party gags. Gloves included. May be shipped across
state or national borders.
Fact: NAFTA began in 1994 and will complete in 2008. Disciplines contained in NAFTA are designed to
prevent the use of sanitary measures as disguised restrictions on trade. (US Govt Fact Sheet)
For sale: Vintage cigarette holder (agrico-periphero-thingo). Elegant. Missing both ends. Own a piece of
history. Own a piece of somebody’s history. Tariff prepaid.
Fact: Complete does not mean end.
For sale: Small roadkill (extra-agrico, as of this writing). Eyes intact. Cute enough for anniversary gift.
Slight stomach swelling. Order soon.
Fact: Parties are encouraged to move toward domestic support policies.
For sale: Quality dentures. One molar missing, one front tooth chipped. Okay for everyday wear. Boon for
sensible buyer on a budget anywhere.
Fact: Dentures are not yet considered import sensitive crops. Tariffs may apply.
For sale: Genuine cowboy boots. Mostly repaired by dedicated child-artisans in unnamed, well-
supervised facility. Only worn once. Left heel great fun for those liking surprises.
Fact: Refining does not confer origin.
For sale: Candy, $1 per pound. Assorted. No lead in blue ones. Not sure what’s in red ones. Yellow
ones taste pretty good.
Fact: Countries shall not provide less favorable treatment for “like” imported products. (Yellow and blue
seem safe for now . . this part not in document).
For sale: Collectible what-not from “what-not shop” on Pennsylvania Avenue. Includes unread
commission papers and stuff (integro-ignorio-agrico). Shipping and handling charges apply now and
well into the future.
Fact: The agreement explicitly recognizes each country's right to determine the necessary level of
protection. (Ha, Ha . . . this part not technically in document either).
For sale: Your product here. Get while the gettin is good. Contact Tabby at A-13.
Sleeping to Forget
The faceless one falls endlessly,
and still, the gods stay sleeping.
They’re sleeping to forget.
The girl is maimed.
The town is burned.
The woman screams,
then gurgles one last breath.
The tanks roll in.
The men are filled
with fear and rage and demons
loosed at night.
The little boys watch carefully,
and learn what no one should.
They see their blood upon the moon up high
and wonder if the sun has gone for good.
The days are long,
each hour endured,
resentfully.
The quiet dawn now reeks of death.
Old booze is sour upon the lips
and floods the decimated lives herein.
A numbness comes,
an answer to the endless prayers
of those who wait for history to end.
The faceless crowd is falling,
falling, endlessly.
And still, the gods stay sleeping.
Nose to the Wall
Grey. Like almost night. Like on the back of Gritty the cat. Red, too. Like where we used to dig for rocks
by grandpa’s. Out, away from the river. And brown. Like chocolate running down your arm.
What?
And little ridges. Like roads. Lots of them. Right in front of me, two ants crawling up the roads. Big wavy
sticks across their heads, rocking, rocking. Just going up the road. Straight up. Stumble, grab on, go.
Foot comes loose then back again.
Don’t mumble Jerry!
Big shadows on the side. Makes the ants like monsters. Aliens. Or machines. But not real ones, like in
cartoons.
Finally, she looks over at her son and yells: Nose to the wall! Brick dust in your hair! Don’t stand so
close. Don’t. Don’t hurt your eyes. Don’t.
She grabs his little arm. Pulls and turns. Too fast. Grass, still wet, is slippery. Flat on his back in a snap.
Up, for chrysake. Look up, she says. Now, what do you see? Huh?
Up. He looks up and says: sky. Just sky, mom. Sky.
The First One
The first one, not the second one. The first.
That’s what Bennie said. He’s twelve, he ought to know. I wish I was twelve, then maybe I would know
too.
Two holes. One closer, one farther. One bigger, one smaller. Make sure you pick the first one, the
bigger one.
But the coatroom’s always dark. I won’t be able to see. And how much bigger is bigger?
Maybe I could measure. Maybe she won’t mind. Maybe she won’t tell anybody. Yeah, right.
The first one. I better not miss it. Or everybody in the class will know. She’ll tell. I know she will.
Then Bennie won’t like me. What kind of little brother can’t find the first hole?
On the Malecón
The girls, they swivel hot Havana hips,
The boys, they hold a pose and flex.
It’s not for us, it isn’t new,
but still, we stop to watch.
We stop to watch
the ones who watch us back.
And wish.
On the Malecón.
The girls and boys,
they smile wide,
Forget that not too far away
a friend is sick,
he’s very sick.
He’s told to take
the medicines that don’t exist,
To find a way to
kill the fever,
stop the swelling,
numb the pain,
So one day he can go where others go
to preen
and flex
and maybe, just forget.
On the Malecón.
It all looks nice,
it all looks right,
I smile,
Wink,
Then leave to drink a beer or two before I sleep,
before I close my eyes,
Forget that life is not just there,
In sexy moves and muscled arms,
But in small rooms with peeling paint,
too crowded rooms with weary
and yet hopeful souls,
Far from the fabled Malecón.
More poetry in this issue:
The Birth of Soil
Caribe Casanova
Crickets & Machetes
I'll Miss You Strawberry Sun
Skies Stained in Arctic Blue
Back to main page
Poetry by California's Michael Yachnik. www.susannewmandesign.com/fivemil
For Sale
For sale: Three pounds of raw sewage. Great for party gags. Gloves included. May be shipped across
state or national borders.
Fact: NAFTA began in 1994 and will complete in 2008. Disciplines contained in NAFTA are designed to
prevent the use of sanitary measures as disguised restrictions on trade. (US Govt Fact Sheet)
For sale: Vintage cigarette holder (agrico-periphero-thingo). Elegant. Missing both ends. Own a piece of
history. Own a piece of somebody’s history. Tariff prepaid.
Fact: Complete does not mean end.
For sale: Small roadkill (extra-agrico, as of this writing). Eyes intact. Cute enough for anniversary gift.
Slight stomach swelling. Order soon.
Fact: Parties are encouraged to move toward domestic support policies.
For sale: Quality dentures. One molar missing, one front tooth chipped. Okay for everyday wear. Boon for
sensible buyer on a budget anywhere.
Fact: Dentures are not yet considered import sensitive crops. Tariffs may apply.
For sale: Genuine cowboy boots. Mostly repaired by dedicated child-artisans in unnamed, well-
supervised facility. Only worn once. Left heel great fun for those liking surprises.
Fact: Refining does not confer origin.
For sale: Candy, $1 per pound. Assorted. No lead in blue ones. Not sure what’s in red ones. Yellow
ones taste pretty good.
Fact: Countries shall not provide less favorable treatment for “like” imported products. (Yellow and blue
seem safe for now . . this part not in document).
For sale: Collectible what-not from “what-not shop” on Pennsylvania Avenue. Includes unread
commission papers and stuff (integro-ignorio-agrico). Shipping and handling charges apply now and
well into the future.
Fact: The agreement explicitly recognizes each country's right to determine the necessary level of
protection. (Ha, Ha . . . this part not technically in document either).
For sale: Your product here. Get while the gettin is good. Contact Tabby at A-13.
Sleeping to Forget
The faceless one falls endlessly,
and still, the gods stay sleeping.
They’re sleeping to forget.
The girl is maimed.
The town is burned.
The woman screams,
then gurgles one last breath.
The tanks roll in.
The men are filled
with fear and rage and demons
loosed at night.
The little boys watch carefully,
and learn what no one should.
They see their blood upon the moon up high
and wonder if the sun has gone for good.
The days are long,
each hour endured,
resentfully.
The quiet dawn now reeks of death.
Old booze is sour upon the lips
and floods the decimated lives herein.
A numbness comes,
an answer to the endless prayers
of those who wait for history to end.
The faceless crowd is falling,
falling, endlessly.
And still, the gods stay sleeping.
Nose to the Wall
Grey. Like almost night. Like on the back of Gritty the cat. Red, too. Like where we used to dig for rocks
by grandpa’s. Out, away from the river. And brown. Like chocolate running down your arm.
What?
And little ridges. Like roads. Lots of them. Right in front of me, two ants crawling up the roads. Big wavy
sticks across their heads, rocking, rocking. Just going up the road. Straight up. Stumble, grab on, go.
Foot comes loose then back again.
Don’t mumble Jerry!
Big shadows on the side. Makes the ants like monsters. Aliens. Or machines. But not real ones, like in
cartoons.
Finally, she looks over at her son and yells: Nose to the wall! Brick dust in your hair! Don’t stand so
close. Don’t. Don’t hurt your eyes. Don’t.
She grabs his little arm. Pulls and turns. Too fast. Grass, still wet, is slippery. Flat on his back in a snap.
Up, for chrysake. Look up, she says. Now, what do you see? Huh?
Up. He looks up and says: sky. Just sky, mom. Sky.
The First One
The first one, not the second one. The first.
That’s what Bennie said. He’s twelve, he ought to know. I wish I was twelve, then maybe I would know
too.
Two holes. One closer, one farther. One bigger, one smaller. Make sure you pick the first one, the
bigger one.
But the coatroom’s always dark. I won’t be able to see. And how much bigger is bigger?
Maybe I could measure. Maybe she won’t mind. Maybe she won’t tell anybody. Yeah, right.
The first one. I better not miss it. Or everybody in the class will know. She’ll tell. I know she will.
Then Bennie won’t like me. What kind of little brother can’t find the first hole?
On the Malecón
The girls, they swivel hot Havana hips,
The boys, they hold a pose and flex.
It’s not for us, it isn’t new,
but still, we stop to watch.
We stop to watch
the ones who watch us back.
And wish.
On the Malecón.
The girls and boys,
they smile wide,
Forget that not too far away
a friend is sick,
he’s very sick.
He’s told to take
the medicines that don’t exist,
To find a way to
kill the fever,
stop the swelling,
numb the pain,
So one day he can go where others go
to preen
and flex
and maybe, just forget.
On the Malecón.
It all looks nice,
it all looks right,
I smile,
Wink,
Then leave to drink a beer or two before I sleep,
before I close my eyes,
Forget that life is not just there,
In sexy moves and muscled arms,
But in small rooms with peeling paint,
too crowded rooms with weary
and yet hopeful souls,
Far from the fabled Malecón.
More poetry in this issue:
The Birth of Soil
Caribe Casanova
Crickets & Machetes
I'll Miss You Strawberry Sun
Skies Stained in Arctic Blue
Back to main page
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Feel free to join our Mailing list or our
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our ultimate goal of paying all the artists
who contribute to the magazine, as well
as to improve the website and build the
infrastructure necessary to further unite
art and activism in the Calgary
community. If you like the magazine
and the values it stands for, please feel
welcome to contribute.
Equally important is to get the word out.
Advertising is expensive, and the best
advertising is by word of mouth. If you
like the magazine, or any content in
particular, please take a few moments
to share the link with your friends.
Feel free to join our Mailing list or our
Facebook group.