CAUGHT IN THE NET - ONE

April 2001

Editor - Jim Bennett  

CITN is here.  Well it is there I suppose, wherever you are, delivered to your in-try for a dose of culture whenever you feel the need for a bit of mental refreshment. Please note that no particular spelling convention has been followed and the spellings used reflect the usage of each contributor.  We are always looking for new poets and poems for CAUGHT IN THE NET and it's sister web based magazine TRANSPARENT WORDS both of which are hosted on the site of PK POETRY LIST   The PK Poetry List is a poetry workshop and discussion list.  Anyone interested in joining the list or in finding out more can do so at the main PK site which is at   

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Copyright Notice - All the work produced in this ezine is the copyright of the individual authors and cannot be reproduced without permission. All writers have exerted their moral rights to be identified as the author of their work.}

Submissions - always welcome - please send to - caught_in_the_net@hotmail.com

Contents

How I Will Sign Autographs (for Strangers) When I am Famous

And Still Single  by Andy Baron

 

Caroline-

Look up and smile for me. Little people do it. Society

was just not meant to accommodate little people,

but they smile anyway and scurry like enchanted

trick-or-treaters through gigantic worlds.

You have no excuse not to smile.

 

Paulette-

Facing North- you will see the wind

that carried you here. The wind is meant

to be seen.

Facing South- you will hear the blue rhythm

of the sky making you dance as the wind

continues to carry you.

The sky is meant to be heard.

 

Anna-

Your name is a palindrome. There are

so many things in life that look the same

in reverse. How is one to know? Perhaps

the world is spinning backward on its axis

and you are getting younger every day.

Perhaps fallen stars are regaining their light

and the trees are sinking back into the earth

surrendering their seeds to God.

Because I love you

by Jim Bennett

 

I listen to late-night lovers radio alone.

phone in and talk to the DJ about you

read lyrics attentively while Dylan drones

but nothing helps like seeing you

 

Because I love you

I stand places just to catch a glimpse of you

try to look interesting in an interesting way

talk to you - give you things -

throw kisses at your back

 

Because I love you

I am not too upset when you

distort your pretty face and call me creep

I know its your code way of saying something

I cannot figure out yet

 

Because I love you

last night I waited three hours in McDonalds

where I see you eat sometimes

I read poetry till the staff cleaned up

and the policeman told me to leave.

 

Because I love you

I sat on the bench by the bus stop

opposite your house all night

thought about your hair tied back

you lying - eyes closed - breathing in my face

 

thinking till It hurts about your games

how you try to make me jealous

walking hand in hand and laughing

with people you don’t love

and who will never love you the way I do

 

Because

I love you

to death

 

 

You can see more of Jim's work at -

http://www.geocities.com/jimbennett.geo/

The Trivet

by Janet I. Buck

 

I saw a trivet years ago.

Made of used, collected corks.

So I saved mine in a box.

Thinking I could copy it,

this classy bed stand for the heat.

Gazing back through

sober's clearer looking glass,

it didn't take me long enough

to finish up the project

of that mimicking.

 

Salt 'n Pepper

by Janet I. Buck

 

 

I am hungry for hot soup,

for hugs that press against my pulse,

measure the immeasurable.

Phone these days have separate rings.

One a flower pot to water.

One, a desert's dutiful.

It's Sunday now; both streams might call.

One beckons me; the other curls wishful toes

into their snails and tortoise shells,

sustained by liquor's summer rain.

Judgement flowing through my veins.

Caution tries to arbitrate.

 

One is pepper in my eyes.

The other salt that brings

a fruitful surface forth.

Every ache a watermelon

stirring juice around its seed.

Is grief in piles enough excuse?

Can coy addiction washed by

true forgiving clouds

sand the building calluses?

One stops in a breakdown lane,

jumping cables of a tear,

unafraid of shock and shacks

where ghosts are playing in a puddle,

seizures part of waxing live eternity.

 

Comparisons are haunting me--

a broken tooth my tongue just keeps

returning to despite decay and coral reefs

where spindly accusation sleeps.

The difference sits, a pendulum

between blank page and great great books.

Knobs are turning toward a room

that lets the widowed sunlight in.

I doubt you know I am chickens in a yard

and silence is a bloody hatchet

slipping from your guilty hands.

see more of Janet's work at

http://members.aol.com/jbuck22874/whatsnew.html

 

BITE!

by Arthur Chappell

 

There once was a vampire who fed

On a military man all dressed in red.

Swooping down, he tangled his bat wings

In what appeared to be nylon strings.

The soldier was startled, but he didn't run.

He just reached to his holster and took out a gun.

Unaffected by the point blank bullet,

The vampire sank his teeth into the soldier's gullet,

But instead of blood he tasted wood-sap.

The soldier collapsed mumbling "Mysteron trap."

The vampire spat and rinsed his mouth out.

The soldier was dead, of that he had no doubt,

Until he got up and started to walk about.

The vampire shot him, using his own gun,

And then the vampire started to run

But the corpse stood up again

Despite taking a bullet right through his brain.

The fact of the matter was easily deductible

The bugger was a puppet and indestructible.

Captain Scarlet yelled 'Spectrum is Green'

Within minutes Angel Interceptors were on the scene

Spreading illuminous vapour trails in the moonlight

Creating the sign of the cross in the sky just after midnight

Ageing quickly and turning to dust and almost gone,

The vampire's last words were "Who is Mister Ron?"

And next week on Jackanory

I'll tell you another gory story

About a vampire I know

Who had a go at Pinocchio.

More of Arthur's poetry and writing can be seen at

http://www.arthurchappell.clara.net/contents.htm

Traversing the Beechworth Gorge 

by Frank Faust

 

... and then we walked through untidy scrub

paths that needed reinvention, across

granite monoliths, whole through the ages with

moss now dry and thirsting, lichens clinging

unchanged by weather, and naked rock showing

a clean face and still seeming newly broken

at the hands of the engineers,

thirty five years after the time when I

was as old as the boy breathing hard beside me

in this exposition of the past,

with it's smoke-blackened caves, the silence

of distant cicada thrumming, trickling creeks

obtained through thickets of berries black and red,

and slipping rock faces worn smooth

to cover rough edges of a partly shared history.

 

Listening to the marvelling and the disdain,

feeling again the powerful, passing pain from

the crunch of a loss of footing in the sparse and

tangled undergrowth is a revelation

of the simplicity of pleasures and momentary

brutalities still present in these rugged,

brown places that I remember.

The fresh bruises will pass quickly, but

the tenderness of reminder

will remain long, acting as a balm

and a satisfying confirmation

that yesterday held moments of magic

still reachable today, even if in

somewhat smaller portions.

 Frank Faust - http://www.hotkey.net.au/~flp/F_index.htm

The Damage that Grief Does

by Larry L. Fontenot

 

he courts only thoughts

clear and brutal,

tells herself over and over

that what seems important

doesn't matter.

She spurns every lover, calls

grief and hunger to her side,

spreads her history like cocaine

across a silken surface.

Though men arrive in red taxis,

she leaves passion behind

to glow at the edge of the porch,

returns home at night alone,

delirious in blue denim.

And if the teeth of her ageing hound

outshine her passion, it's only because

all the shades are pulled

and all the candles blown out.

It's only because regret lies grieving,

still savage under the skin.

More of Larry's work can be seen at

http://poetrysuperhighway.com/PoetLinks.html

The Guitarist's Stroke

by Larry L. Fontenot

 

He doesn't recall McDonald's,

doesn't remember falling on asphalt

sticky from the spill of a million cokes.

He doesn't remember sirens or the glide

of rubber wheels along corridors

bloated with noise, robust with light.

 

Most of the past is gone, washed

away on broken neurons,

unlinked chains letting varmints

flee into the neighbourhood.

Alcohol burned his insides out,

collapsed his body into a lump of mutter

waiting in the drive-through lane.

Now he stays inside,

checks the notes left by his wife:

take out the meat, set the timer,

change your socks.

 

On better days he leans

over his battered guitar,

places his fingers exactly

where they should be,

bumps the pick along shiny strings.

"I learn back something

every day," he grins.

When someone asks,

"That A minor seventh,

is that new or recollected?"

his eyes look anxious, searching

for answers learned by heart.

Finally he says, "I don't remember."

More of Larry's work can be seen at

http://poetrysuperhighway.com/PoetLinks.html

MULTIPLE GOD MURAL

by David Gershator

 

I call on every threat

in the divine infrastructure

I call on the god of ambush

I call on the god of torn pages

I call on the god of burned books

I call on the god of hard boiled ink

I call on the god of silver and thieves

I call on the god of jewelry

I call on the god of frogs and jade

I call on skirts of water

I call on the old god of fire

I call on the god of wrinkles and irony

I call on the god of dislocation

I call on the devourer of spiritual excrement

I call on the god of graverobbers

I call on the doctors of the night

I call on the anonymous teachers

I call on the cleaned up bloodthirsty gods

I call on the goddess of 400 nipples

I call on the source of drunkenness

to protect me from perforated skies

I call on the mute gods

to protect me from shooting off at the mouth

I call on the gods of mutation

to preserve my identity

I call on the blind gods to lead me to safety

I call on the guards of human menus

to protect me from the thieves of health and precious poems

I call on the true and many faced and yet to be invented gods

to grant me songs to outlast the lives I value most

beyond any sound and burned out light

I call on the gods to stop laughing behind my back

I call on the gods to stop crying behind my back

I call on the gods to stop dying in front of me

I throw disbelief in gods and man

at the feet of imperfect powers

 

MAN MADE GOD MURAL

by David Gershator

 

After the basic necessities

fuel my red mouth to overflowing

after my bed is filled

with all the meat I can handle

what am I again

the governor of cactus

the kicker of stones

the skull basher

the chiseler of hearts

the carver of cliffs

what am I again

the ruler of toothaches

the pain in the groin

the reviver of dead birds

to the illiterate go the laurels

in accidental gardens of turquoise music

eccentric obsidian and flint

I cut the ice of words in bloom

I can only be touched by flowering euphemism

when I wake up in another language or another dance

I have abandoned the bones of the shining houses

and my only fire comes from smoking mirrors of mica

I'm reduced to being a museum piece--

another Aztec god of echoes biting the dust

calling it nourishing calling it home

 

"Green Blanket"

by Shannah Leah Hogsett

 

Late Summer

Do you remember?

We climbed a bluff in Arkansas

all the way to the top

I lagged behind, toting the green blanket

flushed and panting from the thick, wet heat

(the only thing I hated about the south)

We pushed up the hill

You kept looking back at me

Pale grass and trees waited at the top for us

the only witnesses to twenty minutes

of tanned flesh, braided and sparkling

with the sheen of salty sweat

I tried to explain how I got the feeling

when standing at the top of a great height

that the distance felt like it would pull me in

Like how the Grand Canyon feels it's going to swallow you

You didn't get it

I was sure someone else did

There was a wooden bench perched right at the edge

What a strange place for a seat...

And you carved our initials into the chipped blue paint

just before hurling a rock down the side of the hill

while hanging from a tree that leaned outwards

attached to dry soil by only a root

We descended

This time you carried the blanket over your shoulder  

Color of Meat

by Laurel Dawne Mattingly

 

Tan

unassuming,

the grooming's

about to begin.

 

Pink

rushes towards me,

the cords at the base

of it's neck

 

Collection of

purple,

inspection of

damages done.

 

Electric hot light

white

shrinks,startled

at what's taken place.

 

Bad Company

by Laurel Dawne Mattingly

 

Sitting at the counter,

counting seconds,

cursing hours;

how I hate a conversation

with myself.

 

I never met another

who could smother

every moment,

just like a pillow

pressing down upon my face.

 

Contempt clouds

the sounds I sense,

coursing from the mouth

so densely packed

with things I didn't want to know.

 

I have to leave

the room,

for very soon my boredom

shall form a puddle

on the floor.

Image

by Lynn Owen

 

The eyes in the mirror     look back

reflecting on last nights tears

 

They tell me to toughen up

 

But I can't      So I cover up

with expensive make-up

Designer labels and my Amaze them bra

 

As I bury the tip of my smoke into the ash

I see debris

Lynn's website -

http://www.geocities.com/onetwo3poetry/Enough_Said.html  

SOLSTICE MOONRISE 1999

by Jim Swift

 

The solstice moon

rose full over the snow

on the distant range.

 

Not a sound reached the

watcher in the meadow,

only silent scintillations

in the frozen remnants

of the morning's mist.

 

No celebrations heralded

the march of

that special moon

across the sky.

 

None were needed,

this was not

a man-made event.

See more of Jim's work at - http://members.home.com/perceptions-exhibit

The Danger of Dating the Newly Divorced

by M.J. Tenerelli

 

My boyfriend says "Where did you come from?"

And I say, "Why honey,

I've crawled out of hell.

Can't you see?

I'm stinking of sulfur

And I've lost all my hair.

You can't think I'm here intact.

Infernos cleanse so indiscriminately.

My eyes are seared open now,

I see all the time.

The fatty flesh men fed on

Has melted down

To beautiful bone.

When touched, I rattle.

It keeps me awake.

The bad news is my heart,

The shrunken thing's smoldering

And won't conscience company

It can't trust.

Its judgement is terrible.

It makes mistakes.

It moves me to menace men

Who mean no harm.

I lifted this pitchfork

Before I ascended and

I wield it with no good sense.

Get out of the way love.

I'm not to be trusted.    

 

More of M.J. Tenerelli work will appear in issue 19 of Zuzu's Petals, at - zuzu.com.

COMPOSITION WITH POINTS OF VIEW

by Lawrence Upton

 

 Backlights. Fragments of light ebb in.

 

 We become particular. Rush might work after meeting a discomposure. Two

 figures in the sentence, can I. It isn't a question.

 

 I've read it before though. They always write, the created; and we cannot

 survive expiration. They are heavy dying, carefully ranked, this world. It

 is, it's meant to have, the measure, all one is to be reminded of.

 

 The door's fallen off the performer might have said but dislocation must be

 a pause as such, error. I shall assume that is to be a wise man but

 dislocation must be too careful. And start rising. One makes the sentence,

 that is, scarcely room in all probability. One side of the situation tells.

What did you say, if so it'll be effected, black, then I do not mend it.

 

 Buy modern technology. What used to have touched a few ornaments and

 possessions in darkness. When the lights come on, you say?

 

 Pacing it. By and, if so, if so, that is, in this one. You look into one

and

 see through the pace and make out any detail. The lower half of the stride

 and rhythm shifts. As we speak we create a pause as it is, that is, it's

 just wasted. The water's rising. I have. No.

 

 You do?

 

 Ambling by working the muscles of their mouths. When I talk we originate a

 world. You can, the performer's energy after encounters a grief. Some

tracks

 of observationists. Trash of dawn.

 

 Fireworks that snow there. All the action system is the roughly empty room,

 the frame pushes into another, the world. If I close my eyes, it is, in

 here, a pause as there are few accessories. There being all one to be seen.

 

Links to Lawrence's work can be found at - http://pages.britishlibrary.net/lawrence.upton/

How Segregation Grows

by Calaya J  Williams

 

Warmed glaciers ran under the sun, till

recessing, rested in sediment cribs

Stowed seeds in currents sprouted

 

Infant trees to forest lived

some strong, some stumped

Some drowned in standing waters

 

upright bodies conserved

Past given sanctuary-

mosses and pollens crystallized

 

tan barks, green leaves confined

bright branches freeze-dried

Icy congregations

 

slumbering-

forewarned about houses

about green

 

and green-house-effects -

how segregation

grows in seasons;

 

among other matters.

 

Read more of Calaya's work at http://www.mosquitonet.com/~calaya/

Afterword Caught in the Net

 

email Caught in the Net at - caught_in_the_net@hotmail.com  tell us what you think.

email Jim Bennett - jim@bennett11.freeserve.co.uk

An archived version of Caught in The Net is available at

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Aegean/9952/index.htm  

where you can join the subscribe to mailing list and the PK Poetry List

 

Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net.

Next edition due at the end of May 2001 look out for it in the in-tray.

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