she said ‑ "like dry ice
this weather feels like dry ice
      cold but not cold
                an eerie chill"

& it is February in NY & well
into the 50's & it's been this way
for over a month  
& i heard a whisper extend
his cheeks & blow a vacuum of air
into the room & a screamer did the
same & the globe became a bit
more fried & the sea a bit higher
& the globe became a bit more tired & the 
air a wee bit crueler

the post man delivered the letter of death
                                                       & announced thru his mask ‑ 
                                         “you cannot beat the toxic drum
                                                 you cannot eat the crutch ‑ 
                                   throw away the new made holes
                                           & smother the seasons”

“dry” she muttered annoyingly     thru her cracked mouth ‑   “dry ice”

the world is collapsing like a musical scale
& was always collapsing ‑ 
there are no corners to hide things in –-
or closets
no words to compensate & deeds will never  

                  there is only the humble heart to apologize &
                  beg forgiveness for his brothers for the madman
                  thrashing the brutal lamplit nite ‑ for the park torn
                  up to prevent the homeless from resting for the forests
                  filth & the hole in the sky for hatred for the damaged metal drums
                  bleeding into all our backyards ‑ for the
                  poet's feeble attempt at apologies & false awareness
                  for  the very root of modern extinction know
                  the list goes on & on

but apologize to  
whom?  to what?  to the  
brutal nite? to the dry ice chill?
to the warming globe?
to the profile in the mirror?
to the final smile?
the sad & sorry   
sax o phonist?                                                                                                   

                                         like a malevich
                                         square we are here
                                         & defined & flat
                                         & simple & unbound

*    *    *    *

steve dalachinsky was born in 1946, Brooklyn, New York right after the last big war and has managed to survive lots of little wars. His work has appeared extensively in journals on & off line including; Big BridgeMilkTribesUnlikely StoriesRatapallaxEvergreen ReviewLong ShotAlpha Beat SoupXtantBlue Beat JacketThe Brooklyn Review,. He is included in such anthologies as Beat IndeedThe Haiku MomentUp is Up But So is Down: NYU Downtown Literary Anthology, the Unbearables anthologies: Help YourselfThe Worse Book I Ever Read and The Big Book of Sex (of which he is a co-editor) and the esteemed Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. He has written liner notes for the CDs of many artists including Anthony Braxton, Charles Gayle, James "Blood" Ulmer, Rashied Ali, Roy Campbell, Matthew Shipp and Roscoe Mitchell. His 1999 CD, Incomplete Direction (Knitting Factory Records), a collection of his poetry read in collaboration with various musicians, has garnered much praise. His chapbooks include Musicology (Editions Pioche, Paris 2005), Trial and Error in Paris (Loudmouth Collective 2003), Lautreamont's Laments (Furniture Press 2005), In Glorious Black and White (Ugly Duckling Presse 2005), Dream Book (Avantcular Press 2005), Christ Amongst the Fishes (A book of collages, Oilcan Press 2009), Insomnia Poems (Propaganda Press 2009), Invasion of the Animal People (Propaganda Press 2010), The Mantis: collected poems for Cecil Taylor 1966-2009 (Iniquity Press 2011), Trustfund Babies (Unlikely Stories Press The Veiled Doorway & St. Lucie (Unarmed Press 20012) and Long Play E.P. (Corrupt Press, 2012). His book The Final Nite (complete notes from a Charles Gayle Notebook, Ugly Duckling Presse 2006) won the 2007 Josephine Miles PEN National Book Award His most recent books are Logos and Language, a collaboration with pianist Matthew Shipp (Rogueart Press 2007), Reaching into the Unknown, a collaborative project with  French photographer Jacques Bisceglia, RogueArt 2009). His latest CD is Phenomena of Interference, a collaboration with pianist Matthew Shipp (Hopscotch Records 2005). He has read throughout the N.Y. area, the U.S., Japan and Europe, including France and Germany. He is a contributing writer to the Brooklyn Rail. His book A Superintendent's Eyes (Hozomeen Press 2000) is being reissued by Autonomedia/Unbearables in an expanded/revised edition in late fall 2012. His latest cds are collaborations with saxophonist Dave Liebman, bassist Joelle Leandre and an experimental French rock Group the Snobs.
A response to the photographs of Laurie Tümer

The child, relaxed, languishes in the star
of her mother’s arms. Take one step. Everyone shifts into stars.

Oh Holy Mother, your sideways glance
as if you can’t bear the child who is the moment’s star.

Mother of Progress, Father of Casualties, turning your arms
into altars of commerce, your face its falling star.

The prophets spoke. Nobody listened in the Fifties, Rachel.
The air downwind. My garden. My babies. Three wishing stars.

Once your family dumped milk in the Fifties.
The cow’s four stomachs chewing stars.

Stamp an expiration date on my hand.
Make it be August please, under catastrophic stars.

Farm worker, back float in gas mask and goggles.
What wonder among the sacrificed stars?

Masked but not carnival, small ghosts of fear.
Hands offering and receiving disorganized stars.

Orion, Big Dipper, Pleiades, constellations I know.
This dye traces new frightened stars.

In poisonous moments of the mind, the heart escalates.
My grandson begs for blue Legos of The Death Star.

Joanie says, Laurie, thanks and no thanks. I barely bear this
minor key. Sing Earth, Holy Earth, more fragrant than stars.

*    *    *    *

Joan Logghe has served as poet laureate for Santa Fe, NM 2010-2012. Her most recent books are Rice (Tres Chicas Books), Love & Death: Greatest Hits, with Renée Gregorio and Miriam Sagan, wonnder of a New Mexico, and The Singing Bowl, finalist in New Mexico Book award, Bennington University Milt Kessler Poetry Award, and WILLA Award. She has lived in La Puebla, New Mexico since the early 1970's. 

As a high school student she was interested in biology and very aware of the burden on pesticides. As a grandmother, organic gardener for decades, she is even more concerned.
Saint Rachel, pray for us.
Forgive us, though we know
what we do.

Here on the edge
of small-town America
in the heart of “God’s Country”
on the outskirts of the one universe
we claim to know
women drop used diapers
in the Wal-Mart parking lot,
wanna-be fishermen leave beer cans,
plastic bottles and Styrofoam worm boxes
on riverbanks. Here, neighbors
put plastic bags of trash on the edge
of the lawn where every stray dog and cat
scatters the contents up and down the streets.

Here on the edge
of small-town America
in the heart of “God’s Country”
on the outskirts of the one universe
we claim to know
a man wearing lime-striped tennis shoes,
a yellow shirt and clashing off-yellow hat
spends Sunday mornings wielding
his home-made stick-with-a-nail-in-the-end-of-it
picking up our trash.

Saint Rachel, pray for us.
Can you forgive us, since we know
what we must –
and what we must not do?
Click on the link below to download an excerpt from In the Garden of Live Flowers, a play by Lynne Conner and Attilio Flavorini. This excerpt from In the Garden of Live Flowers appears on this website with permission from The Dramatic Publishing Company.
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     Another message to the lost in America

The breath of Wishekuanwe wrestles
and tumbles and tears at the matrix
pulls and chews     tearing at the
imagery    the activation of my first
memory     one of the oldest
ceremonies of homeland   of history
Rattles   eagle bone whistles
dancers and drummers keep the rhythm of
history in the inner circle of
women singing        when
first men painted color onto stone

The wind wrestles to strip me of
all the weaknesses    gathered by
vain attempts to be a human being
longing to live inside the color red
a southwest red that streaks the
canyons    collects as dust    and
whirlwinds into pinnacles of red stone

Unlike movies my life began in
color    before i discovered america
an old film in black  white and gray 
To achieve color    it needs
our native attachment for
homeland      from where the oldest
legends pull us from holes in the
earth    or from the sea   the sky or
from cracks in stone

Reality as we know it    imitation
love produces    the phrase suggests
problem love     having to fake your
identity  your orgasms 
Colonial truth has no
color of its own   born to thievery
and murder    It will take your
breath and leave you without
relatives of truth and honor   and
erase the color of your homeland   if
you let it    The ancestors sculpted
stone into elegant shapes    obsidian
edges to cut flesh and shave wood
and bone

We are all supposed to be assimilated
by now     so we will not be
recognizable     we will look like
theives and no longer be as
suspicious    people wondering if
we still really exist    until the
fantasy of heathen blood flows
through all of america and the
guilt is redeemed
We re all Indians now   afterall
What was that struggle all about
Good God
We act like we re not grateful
Well   some of us
Some of us are still burned by
the imagery of holocaust
(with little finger pointing at all
the Jews and Catholics aboard
the ships of
Columbus    the new gangsters of
the new world)
american holocaust    white on
red    red into stripmined earth
white on the backs of blacks   
truth into

Yeah   it bothers me if you claim
my history   and you run from the
truth of your own    to claim my
own thinned blood    then make up
your own fantastic rules about God
and ceremonies    All our ancestors
were once children too and ran
with imaginary friends
cowboys and Indians
Red Ryder and Little Beaver
colonial pederasty in full color
You do know that
Hawkeye and Uncas really had a
thing for each other   No  really
and was Tonto always on top of
a masked white man        and what
was Dr. Quinn doing with that guy in
the factory tanned bucksins    and
when our histories actually blended
Tom Jeffords and Cochise   now
what was that all about  
Did General Crook really have a
crush on Geronimo   and did
OO Howard pursue Chief Joesph
longing to smell his butt  What was
with Johnson and Osceola in
the steaming of the everglades  
Tecumseh and Rebecca Galloway
“Mr Tecumtha sir”
Andrew Jackson and William Weatherford
a Horseshoe Bend rendezvous in
the Danielle Steele bookcover tradition
Colonel Custer and Monaseetah the
little vixen of the plains
Alfred Kroeber kept Ishi   desolate and
stunned   the last of his kind  posing and
demonstrating technique   but what did
Ishi know about porno   about the
history you claim

You know    the TRUTH    yes
you do    and now that america
is falling apart    you come to
find safety   to find answers that
have been spoken and ignored
all along    still ignored   Now the
water comes and swallows New
Orleans    your politicians steal your
dreams of safe lands in the west
Lady Liberty forging
ahead of  western ho the wagons 
big flag in hand to the promised
free land    

The landscape of america is on fire 
and other peoples with whom
colonialism tampers   blow up sacred
icons   and sacrifice their own lives to
keep the colonists out
the sun is not shining right
the earth shakes and animals take
headphoned heads and
jogging asses out   people who
play in the wild as if they know it
and are entitled         Centuries of
disrespect come to a head    and
when you have to sneak through
the door    to claim a place in the
veins of first blood    you dishonor
the truth that longs to be in your
blood anyway    without disguises
without excuses   without
need to control or change   The
truth you come to find is not about
race anyway     Afterall   respect is
a ceremony in which each step is
an honor for the combination   the
confirmation that we are not
alone   that we are grateful to
our own languages    and to
read the languages    that in the
beginning were painted onto stone.

*    *    *    *   

Barney Bush was born in Southern Illinois and near Karbers Ridge, home of the Vinyard  (Shawnee) Indian Settlement.  After completing high school, Bush hitchhiked across the United States for several years. He graduated from Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado in 1972 with degrees in Art and History. He became involved in the American Indian Movement, and helped to establish the Institute of the Southern Plains, a Cheyenne Indian School in Oklahoma. In 1980 he earned a Master’s degree in English and Fine Arts from the University of Idaho. He is a poet and author, and also performs and records his own music, and has taught creative writing at the Institute of American Indian and Alaska Native Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico. 

"Our Creator makes available to us all that we need. It is an honor to go out and gather it. We must remember to say ‘Thank You.’ It is honorable to give away, to show our gratitude… and to let the children see this.” -- Barney Bush, SHAWNEE
fifty years after Silent Spring...

one president (not the one
Oprah said is the one)

that depends on what the meaning of the word is
is, and this comes to mind when
I am reminded that the one

only Chinese friends of a certain age say now was
the one is there on the back cover of the pocket paperback
edition of Silent Spring that has been on my shelf

for four decades saying this
decade (that is to say the seventies)
must be. it is

literally now
or never,

he says some years before 9 august 1974,
when i remember yet another president
lying about military necessity. there is

nothing new under the sun. and what better proof could there be
that it is all connected? a specter is
haunting us, has been

a long time. man can
hardly even recognize
the devils of his own creation,

and the devil you know, you know...
time is, but there is no.
the obligation

to endure gives us the right to no.
i have been trying to tell myself that
the man who brought organo

phosphates into the everyday
bellum omnium contra omnes
must not be related because

of the a, no
o with an umlaut
and i wash my hands

of him. it was
the fragility of the shells
that touched me as a child

when i thought i saw through glass
darkly. and it comes to mind as
i watch a young man spray

Roundup on an expanse of grass
behind Hillel House. what was
it Hillel said before that other

rabbi was
thrust into  the
spotlight? if i am not
for myself who will be?
and if i am for myself alone...?

Rachel, they say,
was a prophet
who knew

there comes a time

when silence is

there comes

a time


the time is

there comes a time

when mountain flowers are in wild bloom
she giggles in all the color
and every morning

first bird sings the world

as though the world depended on it.

so primitive a science has armed itself
with the most modern and terrible
weapons, and in turning

we are we
are we are we are
the other people we have

met the enemy
and we is

turning and turning and turning
toward bethlehem to be born
The season for shrimps
A sign chalked on blackboard
'shrimps second cottage on right’
the names of trees in
Bardsea woods.
I used to know them
I used to know these things.
The name of Bill Stables’ dog
that trotted behind him
as he rode his bike to Baycliff
to catch the tide
the sight of Gillam
padding barefoot round
his grocery shop in town.
I used to know the feel of a
lapwing chick in my hand
taste of wild strawberries
taste of a new laid egg
my dad had found in the hedge
on his way home from his shift
at Glaxo. I used to know
the feel of wind on bare skin
when I ran through bracken
smell of mud its soursalt tang
sound of the buzzer at Vickers
sight of thousands of men pouring
out through the yard’s iron gates
on foot, on bikes, in cars – but
back then mainly on foot or bikes.
Sight of the first primrose
hidden among gorse
on the railway embankment
Nethertown, just by the bungalow
and always a kestrel hanging
on the wind above the clifftop
always the sound of the Irish Sea
always that taste
sweet as a nut
of freshly peeled shrimps
hauled in
loaded onto tractors, driven
over mudflats across the Bay. 
I used to know.

*    *    *    *

Geraldine Green
Geraldine writes, "What struck me about Rachel Carson, and her work 'Silent Spring' when I first encountered it in the early seventies, was her courage in speaking out about the harmfulness of insecticides on the natural world. Not only did she follow her path studying and writing in response to natural history, she also passionately shared her wonder at the natural world which chemicals were - and are still - destroying. She reminded us that we, as animals, are also part of nature, part of the wonder we live and breathe each moment, and if 'nature' is harmed then so, too, are we." 

Bio: UK poet Dr. Geraldine Green is a writer, freelance creative writing tutor and mentor and visiting lecturer at The University of Cumbria.

She has had four collections published. The Skin and Passio Flarestack Pubications, Poems of a Mole Catcher’s Daughter under the pseudonym of Katie A Coyle by Palores Publications. Her latest collection, The Other Side of the Bridge by Indigo Dreams, formed part of her PhD in Creative Writing: “An Exploration of Identity and Environment through Poetry.” Geraldine was a contributor to a book on therapeutic writing - Writing Works. Her next collection Salt Road will be published summer 2013, also by Indigo Dreams.

Geraldine’s poetry has been widely anthologised in the UK, US and Italy and translated into German and Romanian. She has recently given a talk at the Lawrence Durrell Centenary Celebrations in Corfu and presented a Paper on the works of John Clare and Aldo Leopold at The South West Texas Conference, Albuquerque. Geraldine, who frequently performs her poetry in the US, read at WoodyFest, on an extended poetry trip to Oklahoma and Kansas, July 2012.  

You can listen to her reading on She is an Associate Editor of Poetry Bay. Geraldine lives in South Cumbria, on the shores of Morecambe Bay, where she grew up. Her twin passions are nature study and poetry.
      (for the poet Will Nixon)

Whenever we left your red cottage, we drove
past snowy egret on lake close by.

Each ride my heart started to open.

Each time I vowed I’d photograph startle
of bird in light.

When I was a girl in Sixties’ Catskills
egrets didn’t appear to us, I half-cried.

You, younger, came when the birds came back.

Last day you flew us by August lake
in your silvery car, egret perched

on branch crooked up from sky
in water, neck long and elegant …

beak flame … brushstrokes
of stillness on stillness

like ancient Chinese scroll,
my favorite kind.

I never captured bird with camera.

I let it be.

White egret feathering
Blood Moon heart.
Susan Deer Cloud by the Willowemoc River
Catskills, NY
The thorned spectral forest conceals an allegory of carnal lust. Its edge doorways a triangular light toward a glass coffin. Twilights dust in arabesque. Air brushes white rays into rainbow. Suspends spring. Then confiscates the sky.

Below the darkness death dreams a conscience silent. Lies asleep dormant. As the flora swells in sorrow.

Enchantments pass over. Twist in releve. Potions pirouettes in spells of sensual seduction sweet.

For the heaven ablaze with desire. Here the Earth shakes the leaves away in fantasy. Copulates thoughts in the ecstasy of chastity deferred.