Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Bilall Maliqi
Duane Locke
Eddie Awusi
Silvia Scheibli
Amit Parmessur
Lyn Lifshin
Juan Hongi
Shutta Crum
Peycho Kanev
Fahredin Shehu
Lana Bella
Laszlo Slomovitz
Abdulrahman M Abu-  yaman
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Keith Moul
Aneek Chatterjee

Tom Evans
Robert Nisbet
Paul B. Roth
Alex Ferde
Alan Britt

Richard Gartee
Karyn M. Bruce

Ali Znaidi
Running Cub
John Grey

Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven

Helen Gyigya


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
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AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 51 years all together....

------------------------------------------------
staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

BIG LIES

You’ll hear a repertoire of big lies
anywhere you go in the world.
Big lies and big budgets
scrape your money together and then
big voices promise more of
what they can’t provide,
politicians with voice muscles
like Schwarzenegger’s abs.

But a lie is really absence,
a black hole even
where people go missing.
The rest of us press on through their aftermath.
The more of them, the lesser we are.
We need the lies, some say.
They turn the machinery on.

Once a lie is told
it becomes part of the process –
crushes the truth-tellers,
powers up the liars.
Important men and women
are merely one long spiel
spitting from the mouth.
That's where the lies come from.
And the lies get even bigger
so as to quash the ones previous told.

Lies encompass the earth.
May as well accept lies as gospel.
Sure that just gives them bigger teeth.
but at least were all together
when they feed on us.
Look in the mirror if you don’t believe me.
You’ll see the consequences.
You'll find a big lie.

 

TO THE ARTSY TYPES NEXT DOOR

This is all about the American dream,
not calling attention to oneself.
This is suburban house, two car garage.
You don’t belong here.

We plan to endure through our children.
Not paintings. Not performance pieces.
Our life is so precise, so fine.
Your existence is something else entirely.

No, we cannot risk indulging you.
You are not greenbelt.
You don’t belong at our edges.
So pack up our stuff and go.

We don’t need weirdos
trying to raise the stakes and possibilities.
We know what we want.
We’ve found a way of needing it.

 

John Grey, Johnston, Rhode Island, formerly Australia

   


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