INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Gerald Clark
Lyn Lifshin
Paul B. Roth
Ndue Ukaj
Anne Babson
Laszlo Slomovits
Qinqin Huang
Duane Locke
Adhar Maheshwari
Shutta Crum
Odimegwu Onwumere
Anthony Seidman
Chris Lord
Running Cub
Amit Parmessur
John F. Buckley &
Martin Otto
Joanie Freeman
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Sonnet Mondal
Karyn M. Bruce
John Tustin
Jennifer Burd
Michael Gessner &
Daniel Davis
Martin Camps &
Anthony Seidman
Fred Wolven
M. J. Iuppa
John Grochalski
Catherine O'Brien
Joe Milford
Byron Matthews
Joseph Murphy
Dike Okoro
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2012
Fred Wolven
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
------------------------------------------------
Fred Wolven, editor
Submissions via e-mail:
LOVE OR GLORY AND HEMINGWAY
i've been pacing around
like a man in need of a cigarette
hemingway said that he
never thought about his writing
once he left the table
but hem blew his brains out over breakfast
because he couldn't write anymore
and i've been thinking about my
words a lot these days
what to do about them
in love with the idea of not putting it down
sleeping in later and later
watching the sun filter in
through the dusty blinds
wondering what's the point?
reading nothing of value
walking these streets like a clown
killing the soul with drink and apathy
shoveling snow to stave off time
shoveling shit to hamper memory
i finally realized that
i can't talk to anyone anymore
no one interests me
through not fault of their own
the faces of the many scare me
their words, like mine, make no sense
everyone looks so ready to kill all of the time
constipated dullards with nothing better
to do than pounce on one another for sport
and i can't relate to the newspaper either
all this ink and drama, war and death
like a romance gone wrong
i'm growing a beard instead of taking these pills
or lowering this noose
i'm playing papa caught in death throws
daydreaming daiquiris in havana
marlin off the coast of miami
watching movies that bore me out of spite
wishing that i could shoot my television
the way that elvis did
i'm growing my hair long to cover my eyes
so that maybe i can hide
my fat and aging face from myself
find some blind solace in this mirror of gloom
cultivate a little love or glory
communicate unrecognizably
maybe have someone else stare back at me
for a change
or locate something that no one else has found before
i'm setting up my symptoms in rows
like little plastic soldiers
getting ready to do battle
on the carpets of my youth
i'm rooting around in this refrigerator
sifting past the rancid fruit
and outdated condiments
past the scotch bottle and flat champagne
searching like an explorer
staking out a new territory
hoping for something fresh
a pathway to salvation or antarctica
a bagel not yet stale
or a little orange juice with no pulp
a nutritious spread
served on a table in idaho
with jam and a little honest conversation
over an old god
dead for almost fifty years
John Grochalski, Brooklyn