Ann Arbor Review


Chris Lord
Joseph McNair
Karyn M. Wolven
Geoffrey Philp
Paul B. Roth
Duane Locke
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Felino Soriano
Steve Beaulieu
Donald Hewlett
Alan Britt
Joanie Freeman
Mervyn M. Solomon
Jerry Blanton
Marilyn Churchill
Running Cub
Mukul Dahal
Alice Paris

Helen Losse
Fred Wolven


Curly-haired bats with pale blue
Eyes I saw as the specks my
Strained eyes sent out to fly
In front of my face that sought
Answers in the air.  I, whose
Biography was plagiarized,
Sung under a purple spotlight
By a chanteuse in a backstreet
Paris bistro, bowdlerized by my
Lovers, celebrated by cat calls,
My biography never written.
The wide-angle lens of my
Children's eyes, my children
Who believed in final causes
And indefinite articles, their
Wide-angled lensed eyes
Gave me a moon face
And put me in the distance,
Turned me into an assay,
A tackle box, a clog dancer,
A dead letter, but I wanted
To be alabaster or pyrite,
Or quartz, or mica, obsidian.


In an abandoned farm house attic,
The farm house soon to be bulldozed down, Replaced with a shopping mart And   
a Greek restaurant, A French restaurant, An Italian ristorante, A Japanese Sushi bar, A Chinese buffet, An English, Scottish, Irish Pub, I found in an old truck, rusty, its cardboard sides broken, spider-webbed, A picture of William S. Hart, A precursor of Tom Mix, Hoot Gibson, Buck Jones, Tim McCoy, and Bob Steele.

I looked at the face
Of William S. Hart,
Saw that his face
Resembled every face
I have seen on the screen;
It also resembled every face
I have seen on the streets
Resembles the fact on the screen.
Every face resembles
The face of William S. Hart,
Even the women's faces
Resemble the face
Of William S. Hart.
I have concluded
In the United States
There only exists one face,
And this is the basis
Of our alienation from each other,
Because no individual
Can be recognized.
Everybody has the same face,
The face of William S. Hart.


Cruising along in his bright red
BMW convertible,

On his way to the shopping mall
Built to simulate the city of Florence
And named


He chanted his mantra:

You can't stop progress,
You can't stop progress,
You can't stop progress.

But the coming of a funeral procession
Stopped his progress.

No, he said, Progress cannot be stopped,
So he ran his car
Into the side of the hearse.

The collision knocked open the coffin,
And a skeleton flew out
And landed in his lap.
The skeleton had long white gold hair,
So he raped the skeleton,
And drove on to the shopping mall,
Chanting his mantra:

You can't stop progress,
You can't stop progress,
You can't stop progress.

He chanted as the four American Flags
On his German car
Flapped in the American wind.


A bottle of rum,
No fee,
No fi,
No fum--

Just rum,
Nothing but rum--

Not even a Jamaican novelist
Or a
Slot machine.

My parents could not have been responsible For my wanting To learn everything And believe not in anything, Although my psychological counselor, A Lacanian and neo-Freudian, Said otherwise.

The counselor also said that I had read
Too much H. L. Mencken.

The counselor added:
"You have no ashtrays in your home.
You should.
You must,
You're obligated to have ashtrays."

I did not tell her I tore down the fire escape, And I never consider the audience when I write. I did not tell her that I quit Going to cowboy movies on Saturday Because of the stampedes.

As a departing gift, the counselor gave me A toy replica of a slave ship.


The bay water
That Easter night
Was the color
Of a crab shell's back,
The brown
Of a horseshoe crab,
The color
Of a horseshoe crab,
The color
Was a homage
To the earth,
A linkage,
A connection.

I saw a scene,
Two people
On a concrete bench
By the bay.
I wanted to identity
As being in
Such a scene.

The brown
Of the bay water said:
"You are
In the scene.
It is you
In the scene.
The scene
Is you."

I stop
It was me
In the scene,

And since
It was me
In the scene
I was terrified.


Bridges are different
In Bobbio.
No one ever crosses
A bridge in Bobbio,
In Bobbio, people
Just look at bridges.
Contemplate bridges,
No one ever walks
Over a bridge in Bobbio.
I, an alien, in Bobbio,
Gazed at the bridge
I was excited by its curves,
I became oblique,
Felt like the sound from an oboe,
But in my mind
Arose the Brooklyn Bridge
The past erased the present.
When the Brooklyn Bridge
Arose in my awareness,
I saw the Brooklyn Bridge
Painting murals on the air,
Murals of mules
And cars crossing the bridge,
As if two different times fused.
The mules wore straw hats,
On car's backseats
Rubble rumbled.
The murals became a movie.
I saw myself in this movie
Leaving Brooklyn,
Entering a walled city,
Although the city
Was not walled.
There was only the
Feeling that the city
Was walled.  It was
Felt there were walls
Around each person
Walking on the crowded streets.
Each person was scribing
Graffiti on his walls,
Writing his or her name
Over and over.
Some would bend down
Write their names
On the sidewalks.
Everyone would kiss
His or her name
Over and over.
There are no walls
Here in Bobbio,
Only a bridge
That no one crosses.


His head covered
In a transparent
Woman's white silk stocking,
Two ovals of silk
Cut away
So clearly could be seen
His two blue eyes.

When he entered,
Everyone held up his or her hands.
They spoke in a chorus:

"Take our jewelry,
Take our money,
Take our keys
To our BMW's,
Kidnap our children,

But do not disturb us,
Leave us alone;
We are watching millionaires
Knock each around
In a game that is designated
In popular parlance, football."

The intruder apologized,
It was his mistake,
He had come to the wrong address,
He was looking
For a costume party.


Inaudible, yes, inaudible,
I was saying to her
In my voice louder than normal,
Than I usually speak,
Was inaudible.
My content
When processed
By the processors
In her
Socially constituted brain
Became inaudible.

So while talking to her,
I sensed
She did not understand,
Or care to understand
My sounds,
And my sounds
Became inaudible,
So while talking to her
I pretended
I was talking to a tree.

Much to my surprise,
The waitress
Brought me a fax,
Telling me
That I had a message.

The fax
Was from a tree.

Duane Locke, Lakeland, Florida



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