Ann Arbor Review


Deji Adesoye
Changming Yuan
Violeta Allmuca
Beppe Costa
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Stefania Battistella
Agron Shele
Lana Bella
Fahredin Shehu
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Alex Ferde

Irsa Ruci
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Richard Gartee
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Amit Parmessur
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Robert Nisbet
Jeton Kelmendi
Duane Locke

Lyn Lifshin

Richard Lynch
Jean McNerney
Fred Wolven

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2017 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:




The roof

Of Vienna’s

St. Stephen cathedral imprisoned  me  in its geometrically

Clear and distinct

Criss-crossing white precise lozenges. 


But my unknown body crawled through the four-sided bars due

To my sight of a squirt of light from antique street lamp

Falling on a snake-shaped crack in the old sidewalk.


It was a terrestrial epiphany, this squib of light.

Although it felt ad infintium,

lasted less than a second, It was a scintilla,

That became a tromp l’oeil in my mentality.

The evening wind had blown apart large yellow leaves

To let through shivering silver scales as if

The sidewalk was trying to become a silver fish

And transform  bricks into a silver river.


I breathed in the street lamp obscure scene

And breathing its obscurity changed my life.




Often I remember a segment of Roma, the unadorned

Church, high crumbing steps

With a basement

Of bones.


The bones, memento mori or a benediction.


Down the street, the Piccadilly Cafeteria

Where in front is always a crippled Gypsy child

With an unturned stolen cap for coins--

A presentation of the irremediable present. 


Not far away the Baberini Palazzo where it is rumored Henry James

Once participated in a noblesse oblige tea ceremony.  A ceiling is by Cortona,

Who did the ceiling for Michelangelo’s first Pieta, a ceiling

Overlooked by tourists who pretend awe when visiting San Pietro

After a short glance at the work below.


What I remember vividly is the brightness of the blood

Dripping from a severed head in a Caravaggio Painting.

The blood had been brightened by a recent expert restoration,

The blood as urbane as Christ’s dirty feet, a Caravaggio painting in the church

On Piazza  Navona’s edge


I returned to my albergo and reread Spengler’ Decline of the West.




After a descant

With clerisy,


The cognoscente,

Who with lyceum language


All proclaimed and I think even believed they are my friends,

I feel my feelings occupied another dwelling than the dwelling

Every one swore I lived in.


My feelings dwelled in an obscurant melee

That could not be deciphered.


I had thrown away the long circular package

Of poker chips a so-called friend gave me for Christmas.


This event was the last type of communication I had with anyone.

Strange, this gift. 


I found poker, any type poker, boring, and had not

Played since I was five years old.  I am now ninety-five.


The person who sent the gift was a psychologist

Claimed he understood both my consciousness and unconsciousness.


I asked him about my super-consciousness.  He said that it was yoga

nonsense.  The cosmic consciousness was also nonsense.


He remarked that I was a schizoid personality and my coffee was tepid.

He said I needed a new coffee maker.  He recommended a shiny crimson device.


I told him I had a crimson-colored coffee maker,

The carafe had cracked and oozed out brown warped stars over my kitchen counter.


Everyone appeared to me as a palimpsest.

I doubted, was suspicious of everyone’s, as well as my own advertised



I was a poet in a time when poetry no longer existed.




The causation of his gentleness and empathy, the foundation

That established his non-conformity: his not being cruel

And destructive was


His dislike of people.


He quickly sensed that most people spent their lives living by lies.


Also, they had no deep understanding of the lies they revered as absolute  truth.


Everyone seemed to be a fraud, living by self-deception.


He despised the popular and praised entertainment of his time.


He especially hated the movies of his childhood.

When Tarzan jumped into a pond to shampoo his hair,

All the crocodiles  hurried into the water to attack and eat him.

The movie producer lacked the knowledge that crocodiles

Are Taoists, and live primarily by non-action,  not speeding to devour

When an Ape-reared human jumped into a pond.

Then the commercial –minded Hitchcock who had a deep understanding

Of how make a profit from the slave-mentality’s purchase of movie tickets

Endowed innocent sea gulls with the minds and habits of the Marquis DeSade.

Then there was a movie about an ancient man who was named “Jesus.”

This movie was an orgy of sadism, beating after beating,

Accompanied by music that harmonized with the cruel actions.

The slave mentality audience feel an intense joy

As the blood oozed from each blow of the whiplash.


Being a misanthrope saved him from being one of the cruel


And brutal.



The baker called it “A sugarless wafer”;
The biter thought it flesh.
The three front teeth that bit was bright white porcelain-crowned,
The debilitated face once a juggernaut. Now, a chimera,
Was puzzled about aporias of metaphysics, and his apostasy. All seemed oblique.
He chewed baked dough and drunk from a thimble
What was believed to be blood.

His face a momento mori and a memory of Rilke’s Apollo’s torso.

A man with a brown-paper- bagged skin, braided hat—curlicues
Of tiny golden ropes, each end knotted into a hanging noose
Shining on a background of black silk. I thought about the black
Cloth being made from the salvia of a worm, a small mulberry
Loving existence that did not know his spit would charm
And direct through gestures of nods so much of the world.

All this happened in Paris.
I had gone to Norte Dame to gaze at light as it came
Through the Rose Window to made designs on bald heads.


Duane Locke, Tampa, Florida


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