GREGORY FOSTER August 1969

Her afro was so big and mini-skirt so short it was like watching Sandro Botticelli's Venus walk up and down Telegraph Avenue dripping wet draped in a single sea shell while selling Little Red Books

So you watched

Power to the peep-hole sister

Power to the people brother

Where the broom does not sweep

The dust will not vanish of its own accord

Buy a red book and come to the meeting

Will you be there

Right On

Then right on then

And before you knew you

Were an agent of change

Right on right on right now

But she was a demi-goddess

Bound to a petite demagogue

Who espoused Power to the People

But whose soul believed the masses

Were unredeemably benighted asses

Argued  true power should rest

In hands of intellectually best

Small select politically correct central committee of  three

Then promptly appointed himself the group's Leading Cadre

He loved her knot, she had been very deeply envolved in the fray

Been there seen Bunchy Carter gunned down on campus UCLA

Anti-Nixon anti-war Black Panthers Pink Panthers Brown Beret

For her and me it was philosophy and support for common cause

Hippies  Blippies street people blight and all anti-capitalist laws

For him had been sheer power he'd sung

Dialectically and historically  I stand

Following the anti-imperial capitalist plan

Of Lenin  Joe Stalin and  Mao Tse Tung

His vision for second American Revolution dashed

By lapse of time and lame lip excuses

For freshly disclosed Red Guard abuses

Dogmatic and adventuous strategies that clashed

With my own and more importantly too many others

Who were also forward thinking sisters and brothers

Black Student Unions  SDS   United Front  CORE

Freedom Riders  SNIC  and  Veterans Against the War

No way!   It was an iron on patch too foreign to hatch

Even in babylonian Berkeley

But back to her or was it me

At whom she flaunted sexuality

Answering the door in thin neglige

Without bra nor pantie down under

Repeatedly toying taunting enticing

Me to make a political blunder

Hind her glasses  followed the eyes

poised with anti-chauvinist thunder

It seems the sexual gratification revolution delayed

Although revolutionary musical bed  later played

Shortly after the glass jawed movement

Hit the brick wall in seventy-two

She'd had enough to tell him after

Two dogs and two babies we're through

To tell the whole truth he had forced her hand

Had taken a solid steel pipe and killed a man

For all legal fees and her loved one's life

She vowed to become the barrister's wife

Divorced her husband, married his attorney

And thus did end her revolutionary journey

Occasionally seen haunting the East Bay

Poor chap quite delusional to this day

He recognized and confronted me to say

I alone revolutionary remain

Was it the truth or is he insane

Was so long ago a distant Shangri La it seems

Those hopes now most dust lost utopian dreams

Chance at  true social revolution  never so real

As the cold hard pipe used by angry hands to kill

MARK A. FISHER trump

“turn the card”

she whispers

in an atmosphere

of anxiety

the smell of peppers

and cheap incense

trapped by frayed

curtains

that make the room

dark enough

to hold arcana

not trumping

piles of losing scratchers

tossed into drawers

with her dreams

as laughing children

remnants of her magic

fill the backyard of now

still

another card is turned over

on her kitchen table

while she looks for
a better future

DAN DIAMOND Adventures in The Skin Trade 3rd draft

            (cento after Charles Plymell)

Sleeping under street lights 

Occasionally car seats 

That's what nurtured this skin

I uncomfortably sit in 

Skin loosely flooping air 

hisses through meaningful holes 

Called by some cheloidal scars

Meanwhile. ..

Quotidian sticks up its head as it tends to do

Saying hi, how are you the weathers nice and o my you're thinner

Perversely I have it in me to reply

I am the cook

I am the walrus

But I decide not to reply

 and know that I am 

the farmer of the rainbows

Feeling under the skin of  the cook or the walrus

Searching about in secret chambers made by unknowing bees wait, can it be ?

In the volcano

 beyond the waters of Vanuatu

The worker ants no longer see 

-the grand design, from being underground too long 

Their nearsightedness only improves alchemy

Soon they will be able 

to channel a human heart

I cultivate another skin

One that looks more like me 

SEVEN DHAR The Magic Wand

I have a lucky pen.
It never leaves the house.
Silver, encrusted

With jagged

amethyst accents,

Hard to harm,
Harder to hold,
It's almost indestructible —
A stem that scores the hands,
Something to wring

When wandering
in weary lands,

A vajra — incisive as a diamond,
As quick as a bolt.
It sometimes writes alone.
Not good stories, I'm told.
What can a liquid-pencil know?
Fluid, refillable —
It’s no good with prose.
But if it should slice,
It sure can sparkle,
Cut into my hide and know

A rich reward of vermilion.

Glisten and glide, it rolls.
One day it’ll be jaded.
Then we can pen,

pal, and partner,
Maybe even pose
The finest final question,

In search of THE answer,

The ultimate query of all,
The ne plus ultra,
The sine qua non,
The unparalleled
We meant to pose all along,

ART CURRIM She Gives Men Pause / Notes From a Walk in DTLA

Kevin writes with chalk and intent
On a treaded sidewalk
Big capital letters colored white
“EZELL FORD GOT STOPPED FOR WALKING WHILE BLACK…”
His penmanship is above par
Spacing elegant and precise
The message more important than the process
the time of day the milling crowds
Oblivious to the oblivious
Who step on and smudge the message
It will be re-written
The young birds giggle and flutter
And touch their locks
Nothing will dislodge these locks tonight
Slim-stilettoed things lining up already
For wristbands and jello shots and dancing for release
At nightclubs and bars erected to vanity and soulless connections
Alas, I have neither time nor compassion for them
And less money than it would take to feign interest

Lady with a dog yells at the shopkeeper
He is accustomed
He’s a sentry, a gatekeeper
His patrons glance disinterestedly
They can’t see down to how far she has fallen
Her anger frustration rage self-hate poverty
Realization of the hardest of hard realities
Harder than (their) cookie crumbles
Hotter than (their) chai lattés

Abandoned and bereft, she
Talks of ghosts and fears past
That she faced alone
“Men” No Men” she mumbles
Then loud and clear and strong “There’s no such thing as menopause”
The men who hear her look down uncomfortably
Shuffle their feet
Thinking of their mothers
Still women, still their #1 sons,
Who put the men on pause to raise them
She’s right, I think.
No such thing as menopause
Just men who left
And now men who wait till she does.
The lady talks on then
About looks and age
Nothing she says can quite describe
What I see reflected in her eyes
I can’t tell what she has seen
But I know that it was real.
I’m sad beyond explanation
I feel the urge to mutter
The words don’t come / Words I can’t muster

Marginalized people stumble on cracks in pavement
Drunk enough to express passion-rage-frailty-sex
They shout for emancipation and justice
With rough voices they tear down
The rough stone of the 100-year old buildings
Their ancestors built with rough hands and hooded (darkened) eyes.  

I continue to walk aimlessly
Toward the parked car
That will take me from this raw doomed place
Watching those who are making the difference
Share space with the ones who live within it
Watching those who are making the difference
Take the space of those who represent it
Familiar haunting echo-rap of sirens
Sports cars and happy spirits
A film set spins a web across several blocks
Kiwi tourists smiling bewildered
Hold their handbags a little closer when I ask “Having fun?”
Besides that it’s pretty peaceful
The cops are behaving themselves tonight
Plenty of people walking while black
The po po aren't pushing back
I look skyward at heritage, gentrified, petrified
Filigree detailing and warm light
Warm shadows thrown signal an early night
Turning on, turning in, tuning out
In the gossamer distance
Low clouds among the towering buildings
Reflecting on the city
Reflecting on those that envisioned them, reaching for the sky
Reflecting on those that built them, now in quiet earth.

BEVERLY M. COLLINS Back Bite 

Hidden tension chokes
curls long tail through open
air like smoke. Regret has
its way, steams every windows.

Shame breaths like a thin
musty substance folded, neat
as the napkins, between us.

We cut the cord to understanding.
Its green sprout left to dry, given
no water that is listening or hearing.
Your eyes-shifting pools of
weighty silence.

This clumsy dance on tears is like
fangs on the neck of the flame. Love
banged in the brow again on our watch.

JACKIE CHOU The Sea

where I live I cannot see
the roaring sea

but a lone silhouette at night
makes gray the moonlight
outside
dusty windows, yellowish
curtains that used to be white

loose garage doors
that shake as the wind blows
rattle all night
the cold moon
reflects my ebbing mood
as you say good-bye

your blue eyes
which mimic the ocean
the empty street
where you are nowhere
to be seen

DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL At the Cemetery Garden

What else is there to do

But stroll amongst the flowers

Hold hands and stop

And hug and lean heads

And kiss on the concrete walkway

Take cell phone pictures

To remember our story here too

Later, a poem, maybe even

Published somewhere online

Or in a soon-to-be archaic book

Immortalizing the couple

In love with each other’s eyes

And noses and lips and

Ears and necks and torsos

Intermingling genitals for the rush

Because personalities match

According to the scientific plan

It makes us feel alive before

Illness or accident can strike

And we join the great recycling

CALOKIE Remnants of Ancient Flames*

Dark the water
Waist deep I stand

Around me families weep
Over gray flesh fragments of

Loved ones seeping to
Surface from ocean depths

I pick up square sponge of
Cartoon face floating by

Try to toss into boat with no load but
Rowing skipper shakes head

Flip flab instead onto
Over loaded vessel

Tattooed youth
Wail and hug as

One places remnant of
Homie upon mounting heap

Ferry chugs gently away into
Dark the night

*Vereris Vistigia Flammae—Virgil

31 poets being published in SGVPQ 66

Part One (Available May 30th)
JACK G. BOWMAN

CALOKIE

DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL

JACKIE CHOU

BEVERLY M. COLLINS

ART CURRIM
ROBIN WYATT DUNN
THOM GARZONE
SCOTT KAESTNER

MINA V. KIRBY

MARIE LECRIVAIN

TOTI O'BRIEN

LORINE PARKS

THELMA T. REYNA
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
ROBERT WILSON

Part Two (Available June 6th)
SHEIKA A.

MARIA A. ARANA

JIM BABWE

VIRGINIA MARIPOSA DALE
SEVEN DHAR
DAN DIAMOND

MARK A. FISHER
GREGORY FOSTER
CHARLES HARMON

LINDA MARIE HILTON

ANN HOWELLS

GERDA GOVINE ITUARTE

JEFFRY MICHAEL JENSEN

LALO KIKIRIKI

LORI WALL-HOLLOWAY

15 poets read from SGVPQ 65

DEBORAH P KOLODJI

Below Sea Cliffs

New pools, new worlds,
left by receding waves. 

Cormorants fly by,
black shadows overhead,
as the gray sky grows.

As foam returns, rising, rising,
I sink into my tide-pool ocean. 
Limpets become boulders
and I scramble with the hermit crabs
for shelter.

      sudden storm—
      the words of our last
      argument

JESUS ALDANA-ALBA

The Crucible of Our Love

In the crucible of our love –

                   the rendezvous of lost souls —

my pen earns it’s name;

        my kiss holds the totality of my skill-set.

But, how do I know what’s appropriate to articulate?

                                My genius — the fool.

You looked at me like maybe I was magic....

But, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

        Now, there is only space.

I do not reach for you when I open my eyes,

or whisper your name as I close them.

Without weapons, or war,

I can do my dishes in peace;

        rearrange my furniture.

Maybe, I’ll soak in the bath,

instead of taking a quick shower.

Maybe, time heals

and longer hair would look better on me, anyway.

I’ll speak in music –

                        speak in tongues –

and,

        my mouth would get better with age….

You'll lose your charm....

You'll gain your peace....

You'll wipe the tears away.

Because Love.

And... because...

Totems flow like rivers run.

You, with your horses,

your hair in a bun.

Me, my hands, the river, the sun….

We were so hungry, we made bread from the crumbs

CALOKIE

Lake of the Angels

Sunday morning

Exit Westlake/MacArthur Park Metro station

On corner of Wilshire and Alvarado, street preacher in staccato Spanish 

bullhorns concrete congregation to BEHOLD 

the lamb of God who takes away EL PECADO DEL MUNDO

Who died in your place to save you from the eternal flames 

of inferno once you accept JESUS CHRISTOS as your personal

lord and savior

At Intersection— 

Autos reving particles of carbon dioxide behind and upto skies

pass by

pedestrians walking between 99¢ Store and sidewalk vendors 

oblivious 

to gospel pitch

Enter park

Homeless guy on grass snores under classified section of LA Times 

displaying colored photos of shining new car models for sale

Upon MacArthur Lake in white sun glare, rest 

hundreds of seagulls poised like foreboding flock 

of Hitchcock birds

Near center 

underwater fountain sprays jets upward as in prayer for 

a thirsty California 

At northern edge 

marine green waters lap against cement bank while bright-eyed 

niño in fading Laker tee tosses tortilla bits to gray gosling 

web-peddling before mama

On grassy knoll

on western end, revolutionary Marxist group begins setting up tables for 

free food distribution

Walk across Parkview 

to UCLA Downtown Labor Center for study session, 

"Converging Storms 2014: The Crisis of Energy, 

Capitalism and Environment"

DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL

The Rectangle, People

On a round planet

With jagged edges

And irregular bodies

Of clouds and water

Beings with oval heads

And four sticks emanating

Evolve to build houses

Tables, chairs, beds, pools

Vehicles sporting wheels

Bats, balls, tennis rackets

Radios, record players, televisions,

Microwave ovens, computers

(utilizing dials, knobs, buttons, keys)

And now personal L7’s

To hold onto and look into

To fill lumpy, bulbous minds

Concentrate almond eyes

On numbers, letters,

Pictures, music,

Video, games featuring

Recorded voices and faces

Reminding us we are

Creations recreating

Recharging our selfies

Until inevitable recycling

JACKIE CHOU

Writing Poems

I turn to the next available blank page in my notebook

And stare at it, demanding a brilliant idea or line from it.

The blank page stares back. Selfish blank page,

All take and no give.

What can I do but to dress those bastards with

Beauteous, noble words?

Lines, circles, dots, and curves hang on their

unfitting bodies like priceless jewels on pigs.

Words are so beautiful on their own, unmarred by

reality and the sordid hearts of those bastards.

Yet words can also be empty and insufficient,

Like an evening dress hung on a plastic

headless mannequin.

So I alter my words to fit those fat, crooked bastards.

Then I glower at my creation and complain.

Why them and not truth, my preferred model

who befits words?

Then I realize that the talentless writer is no

better than her subjects.

I open my textbook to see examples of good poems.

Theodore Roethke is Ralph Lauren

and Alfred Lord Tennyson is Calvin Klein.

I am nobody.

I am an amateur writer trying to write poems.

BEVERLY M. COLLINS

Beyond Me

I see the homeless

As I walk or drive by.

Look away fast should their

glance meet my eye.

The pain that they live is beyond me.

I hear parts of the news

as I channel-surf.

I mute or tune out

for all that its worth

Those dramatic reports are beyond me.

My co-workers laid off

But for now, I am spared

I swallow back hard over

time that we shared.

Hope their lost of wage stays beyond me.

Someone poisoned the water

I hope “they” clean it up.

The problem is way over there

I shrug sipping my cup.

A mistake to think it’s beyond me.

ROBIN WYATT DUNN

Girl

Never and a never never when the never speaks whole rude rigid light, your eyes:

tell me

is it now and so

the lie you told

hear me shout

the light out of your eyes

DAN DIAMOND

A Very Good Year

My seventeenth year was a very good year I kissed Helen on Hope Street and she thought it was Grand

This hometown isn't physical but mental with plenty of there there

With tapestry grids that live in time and mind

I remember when I  rescued the woman kicked out of a car by her husband how  she thanked me and said that she would make me a star and asked me for two hundred bucks the next day

I remember when on this block the front desk clerk subtly sprayed pepper spray ambiently so I would leave

Now I am pursued down every street by memory

knowing that someday memories will leave me alone

With just the city

ROSE ANNA HINES

Contaminated

Leftovers from yesterday

spill seeds of dread

into today’s garden. 

Pollen from the past

carried on time’s breath

get deposited in the brain. 

Yesterdaytodaytomorrow

STUCKTOGETHER

ROBIN D. HUDECHEK

Window in Blue

He is chosen for the smallest desk,

the one with the wobbly front leg

that taps the floor

as his crayon touches the paper,

a thin line, each square precise

as it arches into the roof.  His houses

are always blue, the people

drawn with weighty heads, legs taller

than the bodies and smiles

which cut across the circles

with nonexistent noses.

He watches the snow gather

in the corners of the window pane

and carefully re-buttons his denim jacket.

The last wall is a thread,

the playground empty except for a few

kindergartners who tumble outdoors, scarves flying.

There is no one to climb the rocket ship.

Its bars, coated in ice,

attract no hanging bodies, no boys

to shove him under the door.

His knees scrape the cement and his hands

slide against broken glass.  The sky is white,

whiter than the teacher’s blouse.

“Sit still, Tommy.”  His crayon rips the paper,

leaves the last wall dangling,

piercing a yellow cloud.  He draws a few spokes,

pine trees on the hill following deer tracks

away from the house, away from the classroom

with its long division and turning pages.

TOTI O'BRIEN

Untitled

Then she went to the window.

House sunk into silence.

No light under the

bedroom door.

All breath swallowed

by velvet dark she

went, tiptoeing

barefoot. Then

she stared at the

building invisible.

Blisters wounding

the surface.

How she loved those golden

peepholes! Grown-ups

there did things

she had no name for.

She saw cutouts

of the inscrutable maze

from her vantage

point. But

seeing was all she

wanted. Dark building

pierced yellow. Games

she couldn’t unscramble.