POETS PLACE
July 2023 Edition
Hello everyone!! It’s July people, and its hot as heck!!! I would imagine that it’s gonna get even hotter here in Cali, what with climate change and the rapidity with which negligent people in our world are fucking up the planet. Oh well, can’t beat my head up. Maybe I can join Robert Downey Jr’s quest in decreasing car emissions by changing my Toyota Avalon gas eater to electric. Got a million bucks to spare anyone?? He has several mil. Suxx not being rich - but I am rich with friendships - especially those who write stories and poetry and share them here!!!
POETS PLACE has grown in richness since its beginnings in January 2020. Remember how 2020 was so laden in deaths and misery? Such a fearful time in our lives, and I still see remnants of those days: dirty masks lying discarded and lost in the streets, the homeless crisis increasing 10 fold because the city didn’t follow through with creating much needed housing, and people like Mnuchin giving away billions of the Covid relief money to their buddies. Well that’s what I heard anyway. I think I should write letters (see Peter Yates’ piece) to the organizations that I disapprove of about my qualms about this stuff. That will make an impact!!! HA!!! Where’s all the tax money going for the homeless housing Yo??? “A California city was making a difference on homelessness. Then the money ran out” “Los Angeles agencies returned $150 million in federal funds to house homeless people”. What a racket. I’m glad I’m finally out of the rat race. Although I never really ran in it. I like being able to say, “I’m retired, I’m no longer paying attention”. I know it’s not PC to admit that you don’t care what happens to society in general. But…
As I’ve mentioned before in my writings, it’s a helpless/hopeless situation this homeless thing. There was a guy who moved into the hillside across from our house recently. Brought an already assembled shack and planted it right on the side of the hill. I decided along with my neighbor, to go have a chat with him/Lane. He said that he is an artist working downtown, with another well known artist (name forgotten, but sounded familiar). He (Lane), said that he was going to get paid some $4,000.00 the end of the month, and then get a moving truck and move from this location. Sounded good and well intentioned. I’ve heard many such stories while working as a social worker with the ne’er-do-well populations.
Any who… I compiled a list of local homeless resources for him and told him that he couldn’t cook there since the hillside is a high fire risk. He agreed, but looked at me like I was interfering in his life plans, with a smirk underneath his could-care-less facial mask, and responded “yeah sure, ok”. My neighbor and I left meeting other neighbors who were concerned down the hill to discuss our options and plans to get the city involved.
We discovered through Zillow, that the hillside is private property, and that we needed to find and contact the actual property owner to make the move to dislodge this unhoused interloper. We did locate the manager of the property who was useless, asking us to take the reins and get the person off HIS land. What a joke! We also emailed our council person at Eunisses office on several occasions, without response.
Unfortunately we then discovered that just 20 minutes after “our talk”, “Lane” had started a fire which brought out the fire department (thankfully called in by our neighbor). The fire department said that homeless folks have “a right to cook”, and that they really had no authority to cite or remove them. Lovely… Using my binoculars, on one occasion I did see several outreach workers attempt to contact Lane, but he wasn’t home that day. No doubt working with his famous artist friend downtown.
However when the end of the month arrived, he had surprisingly rented a truck, packed up all his belongings, and left no trace. I watched him move everything by himself. It really was quite remarkable how he tied the shack to the end of his truck to haul it up and off the hillside. Our neighbor had taken pictures of his shack, and on the door he had written “if you want to destroy me please call 213-718-1193”. We didn’t call him.
Life in the slow lane
By Linda Kaye
Life in the slow lane, illuminates the body, with new bruises and pulled muscles. Waiting for that extra boost of stamina to puncture my brain and send me spiraling on an upward climb.
Life in the slow lane provides time to check out new detours.
Metaphors that chime
resonating slurred speech
forgotten lines and words that rhyme.
Life in the slow lane brings more comfort, but less time to relax, to watch the maturation of the garden.
Life in the slow lane allows permission to sit and watch birds look for crumbs on the ground
to contemplate and fantasize, about nothing, then drift off into oblivion.
Life in the slow lane has a constant stopwatch affect.
Life in the slow lane sure enough to lose your mind.
Destination: Nowhere
By Lin Rhys
I hadn’t seen a soul for days…
Well, except the fish. And the birds. My animal companions. But, the beach was empty. Only my footprints marked the pristine stretch of sand, glowing in the dusky light. The waves were loud, louder than I expected. Somehow, I was already used to the noise. I’d only been there for two days. I already felt completely relaxed, which was unsettling, as I was not used to the feeling. It made me restless, and I wandered the beach, picking up shells, or the odd unidentifiable bits of things. I took my collection back to the cottage, and laid them out on the table. I sketched each one, in detail. Then, added some color.
The day stretched on infinitely, until, suddenly, the darkness had taken over. The colors of the objects were difficult to see by lamplight, so I abandoned my sketchbook for the night, and stared outside, at the softly moving waves. The moon was rising, and I wanted to watch forever, but I moved to the kitchen, and began preparing to cook.
Soon, the smell of fish, in butter and lemon, filled the air, masking the salty, ocean smell. I opened the wine, and enjoyed my delicious meal with a quiet heart. So quiet, so calm. So unlike me. I felt like a ghost of myself. Where were all those anxieties? I almost felt the loss of them. I felt like one of those empty shells I’d found on the beach earlier, the occupant — missing. It was frightening.
I put on a shawl and walked outside. The moon had risen further, and now shone brightly on the reflective surface of the water — a long, white finger, pointing accusingly at me, as though it knew my secrets. I turned away from the finger, not ready to confront it or defend my feelings, and instead, walked along the water’s edge.
I spotted the soft glow of jellyfish, and tangled piles of washed-up seaweed. I collected a bit, to serve as tomorrow’s sketch subject. The cry of the gulls had quieted down, as had the waves. The beach had settled in for the night. I walked, and thought, and walked, and thought some more. Finally, I retuned to the cottage to sleep.
The sun rose, and eventually, I woke.
I was excited — a day of action lay ahead! Today was boating day. I would go out on my first real boating experience. Danger, excitement, adventure… or maybe just hard work and tedious activity. I didn’t know. There was a long checklist of things to do before I went out onto the open water, and, finally, that first feeling of freedom from the land. Returning to the sea, whence we all came. After a long while of dials, gauges, and charts, I could finally relax for a bit and just enjoy being nowhere. The perfect destination.
'Lin Rhys runs a small conservation nonprofit. She's also a nature therapy guide and artist.'
The kindness of strangers: A Generation X story, part 2.
By Emily Kupinsky
We have recently moved to a house in Studio City. When I get home from school as usual, the house is empty. I discover a note from my mother informing me that she has made arrangements for us to eat dinner at our new neighbors house down the street. I am to go there at a certain time and she will join us after work. I have never met these people and am angry as this is often how she manipulates.This is, in short, a free meal. These kind, unsuspecting people have been conned into acting as make shift sitters. I’m growing increasingly tired of these games, the lies I must tell, all the acting like I am normal, like my Mother is normal. Nothing is normal about a 9 year old walking 3 blocks in the dark alone to a strangers home for a dinner my Mother will probably not attend. Her anger once ignited is explosive and volatile, so I do as I’m told. I decide to change into presentable clothes that are more feminine than I would normally choose for myself as I understand the power of first impressions. When I arrive, the Mom welcomes me with a hug as though we are already acquainted. My body tenses, arms frozen at my sides, as I am unaccustomed to being hugged. She assures me that she has just spoken with my Mother who will be here shortly. I smile as she leads me to the dining room and take my place at a very long, elegantly set, formal dinner table. I am unfamiliar with the etiquette required to dine here and don’t know which fork to use for the salad as it is served. I buy myself some time to observe others, three children, the Mom who greeted me at the door, and her husband, by paying compliments and asking questions about the various dishes being served. The preppy kids all start with the outermost fork and now so do I. We make small talk about my school, where I lived before moving here and then a string of interesting questions begin from the Mom about my parents being divorced. I turn bright red blushing with the knowledge that it’s inappropriate and impolite conversation. People often mistake those that blush as being embarrassed by something that was said but in my case It’s what I’m not saying. I find it amusing that she is fishing for such personal information. I silently remind myself of my appearance and the fact that we don’t know each other. She sees me as a 9 year old product of divorce and this line of questioning is meant to reveal my woes and misfortune so that her children will realize all they have to be grateful for. I can’t help smiling because these kids who are all older than me, are even more uncomfortable than I am. They are wealthy, go to private schools and probably everyone they know lives similarly. I am one of “those people” to them. I represent the lower class, privileged to dine with them this evening. The Dad keeps trying to stop his wife from her interrogation but she shushes and dismisses his objections. She wants to know what my Father does for a living and where he lives, how often and when do I see him. What is my bed time, what are my grades in school. The eye rolling from her embarrassed children is all the food I need. I decide to dazzle them all with what a typical day for me is like. Instead of lying, I reveal exactly how I get to and from school walking Ventura Boulevard alone everyday to catch a bus and how I exist on cans of Chunky Beef Stew I cook myself because I’m so self sufficient. She’s horrified but riveted as I explain my Father is a traveling Salesman who sells industrial tools, electronics, and even fake designer watches out of an old bread truck he bought and repainted with his company name, “Universal Distributors” on the side. I then confirmed what she suspected all along, my last name is in fact a Jewish one even though we celebrate Christmas and no one in my family speaks a lick of Hebrew. I know very well the humiliation this will cause my Mother, I just can’t help it. It’s all too much, to be made her ambassador, to lie, to grift meals off of strangers, the looks the kids are giving me. Fuck everyone and everything I think as I take bite after bite of delicious food knowing I will never eat here again. I have only dessert to wait for before thinking of an excuse to leave. The Mom has tried twice to call my Mother at work getting the answering machine. She is now two hours late. I suggest she may have gone home to change first. I really want dessert. I know very well my Mother isn’t coming. When we’re done, I offer to help clear the table just to see her mad dog her kids into action. I apologize for my Mother’s absence explaining how hard she works as a single Mom. I’m a charming little waif again as I thank her and because she feels sorry for me, she makes me a doggy bag to bring home to my Mother. She waves and sends me off into the dark street in the residential suburbia off Ventura Boulevard in Studio City, California. I walk quickly away from her beautiful house and her beautiful life. Once home, I let myself in and close the front door to find the trail of my mothers shoes, purse, Thomas guide, and real estate listings leading to an almost empty bottle of wine and her passed out on her bed. I shut her light off and quietly close the door to her room, it’s a small victory not to have to face her tonight. Happy Wednesday to me!
Emily Kupinsky is a Breast Cancer survivor making every day count, feeding her soul making art using recycled doll parts. If you would like to see Emily’s Cute & Creepy creations, you can find her on Tiktok @Emily Kupinsky, Instagram @emmysez, DollFrankenstein on Etsy, or at The Hive Gallery & Studios in Los Angeles where she is currently a resident Artist.
Sexy Stuff
By Lee Boek
(First done for Linda Kaye gig at bookstore in Highland Park)
What is “sexy?”
You know it when you see it.
May not all be seeing the same thing
“The eye of the beholder….”
Sexy Stuff is a Tit-elation
A Butt-elation might do it.
Can be a wink of an eye or even the gleam in one
A flick of a hip or a wrist
An alluring look….A beautiful body….
A strong physique……
A body part…………. Reavealed!!
2.
An ankle, a toe, fingers, hands, hips, lips and finger tips
Nose, Hair, (No not nose hair!!)
Hair…Black, Brown, Red, Blonde…..Auburn…….Silky…long
Short and bouncy
A long or a short beard, clean shaven, soft cheek
Chest hair
The pubs, the pits, hair, no hair…(No not nose hair!!!)
Aw…but a chin!!, A jaw!!
One stands in Awe!!
BREASTS!!!!
A Dominant or Submissive Personality Trait
3.
A bald head.
“Sexy is as sexy does.”
Sexy is healthy, but slightly purient
Something promisingly dirty, if done right
My aunts chattering in the living room when I was a boy playing nearby; they’re talking about having babies. Who is “preggers” who isn’t or couldn’t or why and when and who would like to be…..laughing as if they were talking dirty.
I was listening, learning, I guess, yes, but my Aunt Ruby gone and forgiven for all her sins, began to warn them of “ears eager to hear about something they shouldn’t.”
4.
I heard that and soon realized I was wearing them, “…..the “ears eager to hear about something” I shouldn’t.
Aw, don’t worry about it, grown up stuff.
But that “SHOULDN’T” Hmmmm!
Yes, that’s what causes so many extremely religious Americans to spend a lot of time and Money on Porno sites.
Credit cards, clandestine sites, Rendezvous
Secret places, out of sight
Park bathrooms, in the woods of Griffith Park
Under the pier, lonely roads, seedy motels
Our first Burlesque Show….two church boys…one of us jumped up on the stage, thinking it was funny…..
5.
Dad.
“Brother Charles says he saw you boys coming out of the burlesque theater in skid row as he drove by Thursday night.”
Any Thing Goes by Cole Porter
Times have changed
And we’ve often rewound the clock
Since the Puritans got a shock
If today, any shock they should try to stem
‘Stead of landing on Plymouth Rock
Plymouth Rock would land on them.
In olden days, a glimpse of stocking
Was looked upon as something shocking
But now, God knows, anything goes.
6.
Good authors too, once knew better words
Now only use four letter words
Writing prose
Anything Goes.
If driving fast cars you like
If low bars you like
If old hymns you like
If bare limbs you like
Or me undressed you like
Why nobody will oppose
When every night the set that’s smart is in
-Truding in nudist parties in studios
Anything goes
7.
The world’s gone mad today
And good’s bad today
And black’s white today
And day’s night today
And that gent today
You gave a cent today
Once had several Chateaux
When folks who still can ride in jitneys
Find out the Vanderbilts and Whitneys
Lack baby clothes
Anything goes.
And I’m gone.
Lee Boek: Artistic Director/poet
An integral part of Public Works Improvisational Theater Company since the 1970s, Lee took over as Artistic Director of the company in 2001 after founding member Marlene Rasnick’s passing. The California native, born in 1941, has had successful careers as a Fundamentalist Evangelist preacher, radio host, actor, writer, producer, union organizer, husband, father, grandfather to many & champion for the under-served & wronged. A staple of the Silverlake arts community, Lee continues to be on the forefront of accessible, socially-relevant performing arts productions
Treasure Hunt
By Mona Jean Cedar
Everybody’s Searching – for their Visions in the sky.
Hoping, Wishing, Craving, Wanting .
so Afraid to Die.
Not Trusting their Emotions,
or Following – their - dreams,
just Mindless Repetition, Unaware of the Full Scheme.
It’s just:
WorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWorkWork &
RushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRushRush &
Every-Year’s the Same thing, Every-Year’s the Same thing, &
I can’t Stop, no Stopping, I don’t Know how to
Stop!
So just Relax & Give – In,
& Allow Life to Happen.
No Controlling or Forcing,
just Accepting Gifts Given.
for Gifts, they Flow Freely; Gifts are Given-from-heaven
For the Heart and the Healing
To Strengthen the Soul; You Know
Heaven wants to Help you; Uphold you Forever.
Like it Has – Been for Millennium,
Moving Heaven and Earth,
Orchestrating the Universe
in the Creating of You.
Waiting for You to Assume
Your Rightful Role
and this Role…? is Simply You
You Know You Don’t Need
All the Crap that they Feed - you
the Cars or the Bars, the Cash,,, it’s All Trash.
That Bullshit Become Your Burden.
You’re so much Better Than that.
Cherish Yourself; You Are As a Pearl.
Precious in Your - Self – ness
Shining; Needing Naught.
Know! Pearls Need Not Seek for They themselves are Sought.
Your Longings will Lead – you
Your Passions will Pull- you
in Pursuit of your Muse,
you can Never Lose
the Treasure is with-In you,
the Hunt with-In Your Heart.
Mona Jean Cedar has been composing poetry and choreographing dances with American Sign Language for over twenty years. She is RID certified American Sign Language (ASL) interpreter, has an AA in Dance, a BA in Deaf Studies from CSUN, attended The National Theater of the Deaf, and the Juilliard School in NYC for Theatrical Interpreting on Broadway. With her musician/circuit bending husband they have performed at Burning Man, in Europe and all around the USA. Presently she is the resident interpreter for the National Poetry Slams and a co-founded of ASL Cabaret – a celebration of ASL performing artists!
Rico
By Michael D. Meloan
“I’m sick of all the bullshit. And my own bullshit too—hating, bitching, using, scheming, weaseling. Sick, I guess, of needing. It’s strange—borrowing from one world to try to get into the next. So that I can be transformed and never be in this predicament again.
When I would walk around The Haight, I managed to despise everybody I saw. (sings) People are strange, when you’re a stranger, faces look ugly… Jeannine says I’m becoming a ghost, that I’m disintegrating. It’s true. I can see it when I look in the mirror. I’ve got the eyes.
As the ninth beer goes down, I can feel the shades being drawn. My journal is all that’s left. That, and wrecked potential. Wrecked by death and dreams and drugs.
What about re-birth and cocooning of the brain/soul? Mysticism vs. global slut materialism and the yo-yo effect of my double genetic whammy. I’ve got it from both sides—father dead at 43 from drink, drugs, and gambling; working stiff mother pouring brandy in her morning coffee, then off to the track with any man she could find.
I don’t know about potential. Everybody has always said I have it—all my life. Now all that’s left is the desert. An electric eye follows me everywhere I go. The aperture opens and closes mechanically—glimpses of another world. I’ll see you on the other side.”
***
This is the last voicemail message. Following a week of silence, I go out to the desert. After locating the Belle campground at Joshua Tree, I find the yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in one of the campsites. But there is no sign of him. I set up camp and start hiking with a pack. After a half-day of wandering, I find a campsite in the shadow of a large steep rock formation. There’s a sleeping bag, dirty aluminum cookware, a propane stove, and five Old Milwaukee beer cans. The sun is high, it’s over 100 degrees. Flies buzz incessantly. I call out his name, in many different directions. I climb to the top of the rock formation to look around—360 degrees. Then I sit in his campsite and begin to read the journal he has left behind.
Michael Meloan's fiction has appeared in Wired, Huffington Post, Buzz, LA Weekly and in many anthologies. He was an interview subject in the documentaries Bukowski: Born Into This and Joe Frank: Somewhere Out There. With Joe Frank, he co-wrote a number of radio shows that aired across the NPR syndicate. His Wired short story "The Cutting Edge" was optioned for film. And he co-authored the novel The Shroud with his brother Steven. This fall, RUP press in Germany will release his memoir/novella PINBALL WIZARD.
Cooking equals love
7:11a.m.
6-30-23
By Mary Cheung
All the foods you use to make,
Looking at all of the photos,
It's now easy to see.
What you are creating, what you just did, just for me.
I have such fond, fond memories.
A smile plastered on my face.
Just seeing these photos,
Joy that can’t be replaced.
I remember that wood chunk of cutting board.
Round, weathered from use and love.
Our old oven with the broken door,
That had to be wired to hold in place, so that it wouldn’t fall onto the floor!
Cooking sauces lined up on the counter,
Cookie sheets, wooden molds from China,
The same rice cooker that now lives in my home.
Metal griddles for making egg rolls and more!
These images,
Yellowed and old brings back my childhood.
Filled with love, and a carefree time of being cared for by my parents.
Hits me in the guts and the tears start to pour.
In black and white pictures,
I see you making egg rolls here.
In color photos,
You, cooking our first Thanksgiving dinner over there.
So many memories they all come rushing back.
You gathered up your family,
Feed our minds and souls,
so, we would never lack.
Through cooking you taught us skills,
Passing down all that you've learned.
Teaching us how to survive, how to create, how to nurture,
taking back nothing in return.
And the time we spent gathered around that table.
Became a symbol of family, love and unity as one.
I get it now, how you fed our minds and our souls.
Cooking as your form of love. Memories of sharing, legacy and fun.
And now this is what I have left of you.
These golden moments and your cooking style.
That are a part of me and my character.
Emerging when I turn up the stove top dial.
The best care you gave to me,
To my childhood and when I came home.
Was the cooking you gave, always in hopes that I’d return.
And share a dish that you’ve perfected and honed.
And I have those favorites.
Those dishes that’s like a warm hug to me and more.
That made me happy to be returning home,
Stepping through your welcoming door.
There was so much love.
But I just couldn’t see.
It took until now, to step back..
And realize what you did for me.
So now I'm my adult years,
I see why it's important, this ritual of cooking together and making meals.
And I try to pass down what I've learned and pass on the love.
Hoping they’ll learn all the joy and love that I feel.
And learn how to stand on their own,
As well as the other important skills.
But mostly that cooking equals love.
A bonding in time, a memory in a moment, lessons to be learned still.
To see you cook in your life, well that just gives me the biggest thrill.
To know that the seed I planted has grown.
Magnificent and standing tall,
It gives me chills.
Cooking equals love,
What dish will it be?
The one that gives you a hug,
and brings you back to me.
Mary Cheung- she is an innovative Artist and Costume Designer. Her works contain a strong sense of story as well as a highly sensuous style. She mostly works in paint or photography and sometimes making art that is wearable and innovative. She states “I am usually more of a Visual style Artists and have only recently been open to sharing literally art/poems, often paired with visual art of my creation, birthing a new form of spoken word art as another form of expression”.
Yo soy una Mujer de edad…
By G. Billie Quijano
Another journey around the sun
The moon, my mother
Brilliant rays paint my aura
Sway of my hips
Sass on my ruby red lips
I embrace the loteria of love
Divine feminine
Conscious body in higher vibration
Grief and trauma in complex dimensions
My diva sublime
See the magical being
Jazz tones
Wrapping it's genius around my toes
I am a work in progress
Birth of transformation
La vida loca
Behind me, in front of me
And yet still chula after all these years...
G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los. Poeta, assemblage artist, photographer. This month marks another celebratory journey around the sun for me. I am evolving in a direction of wholeness, healing love. I am releasing rage and anger. The birth of a new transformation and looking forward to my best work yet. Much gratitude to Linda for providing this gift of space where I can share my words.
Fireless Smoke
By Anna C. Broome
The two
as if bound together
roomless without any room—
slowly begin an onerous living
womanless, manless
wingless, without dome
only a feeling of being hurried out from where drawn in
whether the hope
materializes or not—
within the hole
they live high in holes
like orthodox bats
hanging in the rafters—
or close to the bereaved
clothed in the
blackest of wing sorrow
both had vanished
inside their imposing selves:
the woman couldn’t stand the
reform to Earth— the very definite
change that comes with lost powers and thoughts
of next-day battles—
as the man, manless as a woman
eaten like sugar shivers out of
his whole body— for reasons
he can’t resist.
have you ever known a low
ceiling identity? gone from
the very soul as it shown
itself as you?
And extended that loss as whole— as dismember worship— as
frantic copulation— as
fireless smoke!
Anna Broome is a Los Angeles poet and producer of performance art. She earned her bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing, Poetry and English Literature and Language from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. Her first book, Orthodox Bats, was published in 2019.
Oh Absolutely
By Winfred Taylor
I want to ask a question
I need to know what I've already gathered
I see the start of a brand new old lesson
The writing is layered and the maps are all tattered
I need to know when free
is free and clear
I wonder now as I've questioned what I've always held dear.
Not quite the baptismal favorite I must admit
And rather staunchly taught
never be willing to quit
But have the thirst and drive of a legendary star
A demon up close A dream from a far.
Not to mention how to put blame on a society
Learning to justify dismissal of what I don't want to see
And fortunately for those who are blessed with fortune by fate
And others dreading an approach to a most opulent gate
Ways are set, bent and meant to be changed
without fear, questioning life seems strange.
For all not to enjoy this forever of mixed blessings
In a world that was built to be wondrous and perplexing
the mystery ,still, at least to me
Remains What we tread upon
yet do not see.
Winfred Taylor, says, “I have and still equate creativity to healing and expressive language”. Born in Dayton Ohio, raised in the suburbs. Both parents had southern roots with a Christian foundation. “I believe some of what I do is both interpret and reconcile feelings and situations both old and new. I have done creative writing and poetry from an early age. I found that I could not immerse myself enough in life and the arts. Studying piano, joining choirs, doing athletics, crocheting, making jewelry, sewing, theater, ceramics, cooking, photography, weaving, gardening, and more. Schooling was with an Ohio business school then art school at the University of Washington, Seattle. Only recently making the move to California, I continue to follow inspiration and gain many new insights to life”.
REJECTED LETTERS
by
Peter Yates
©2023
BIRDSTRIKES
Dear Editor:
Re: Miracle on the Hudson
It was alarming to read of the increasing frequency of birds striking aircraft. Why are these birds attacking our planes? Worse, in most cases, you say no damage occurs. The animals are becoming more aggressive, but also stronger – surviving to strike again!
Yours, etc.
CLASS WARFARE
Dear Editor:
No one prefers to think of class warfare, but the thought is suggested by your report that the 85 richest people own more than the poorest half of the population. If the poor half – all 4 billion of them – were to meet the 85 and, leaning forward in curiosity, carelessly trample them, almost without thinking, how much responsibility would each of them assume? 85 divided by 4 billion would be 0.000000021, or for each perpetrator a responsibility of
21 billionths of a death. Is this unreasonable? Has each of us not already unwittingly caused 21-billionths of a death in another around us? Have we not occasionally hastened a demise by nanoseconds? Merely by living? Rubbing elbows? We need to focus that resource. Class warfare could be redirected, so that its randomness no longer cancelled out to zero.
Yours, etc.
HEROIN POLICY
Dear Editor:
There has been much debate about drug policy. Nothing seems to work. Tragically, the average heroin user dies in fifteen years. However, the average American lives to 76.
A more effective and humane policy would be to legalize heroin usage starting at 61. It would offer something to look forward to in later life, with no downside of increased mortality.
Yours, etc.
Shark Attack
Dear Editor,
Re: Apparent shark attack kills boogie boarder
To honor those attacked by sharks, let us contemplate our relationship with that fellow predator. Among the prey we hunt, sharks are rare in also being hunters. When they attack humans, they recognize their error and spit us out. Even so, last year, worldwide, they killed four. Still, we can be thankful. The toll would have been much worse had we not, in the same period, harvested twenty-five million of them.
Yours, etc.
SPORT MOTORCYCLES
Dear Editor:
I read with concern about sport motorcycles killing young men who lost control while driving fast on public highways. Perhaps we as a society could encourage manufacturers to develop new machines with greater torque and horsepower. By reducing tariffs, these could be made more available to those who know how to enjoy them.
Yours, etc.
Peter Yates In venues ranging from Lincoln Center and Italian State Radio to the art clubs of Salzburg and the wilds of Los Angeles, Peter Yates has produced over a thousand events as a composer, guitarist, writer and multimedia artist. His interest in things not done has led to a puppet opera about the Watts Towers, a DVD ghost-town opera, and several books of satire and philosophy. His activated teaching includes years on the music faculties of UCLA and Cal Poly Pomona.
Ode to Tom Clark
By Richard McDowell
The memory washed in and by moonlight Only footprints were left behind by the receding tide. Icarus was still alive. He tried to apply himself to the field of science, But it was hopeless. He could not survive the regret, The memory of the sun and how bright it felt, How near to it he had been Yet few people knew him before his horrible flight. At night he would sit by the lagoon and read books About faraway places, of journeys, of travel And delight in imagining himself there And when I last saw him near the tide pools, He was swimming back out to sea, singing “Neither the sky nor the ocean can hold me.”
Richard McDowell riding high on my first award in the sixth grade, I don’t believe I have submitted to a poetry contest since that time. It has been a journey to get to a place where I can hear my own voice and impart it through and onto a page.
America: July 2023
By Ronald G. Carrillo
Oh America, why have you betrayed your constitution
Seeped in blood since its inception
Your democratic ideals only remained words
In some English man's mind and pen
Escaping from royals and inherited entitlements
Our founding fathers chose a selected vote
White revolutionary intellectuals departing from monarchy
Once again the rule of law rotted on the vine
Before the grapes of democracy produced their wine
We are back to special interests groups
Yet Stalin and Mao killed millions of their own people
Is it no wonder thousands flooded to the American shore - those wretched and poor
The new Jerusalem a revived Atlantis
Now 2023 these new Atlanteans await disaster
The harbingers of Israel and Abraham now released
In floods, oil spills and terrorism in the heartland
The great chastisement will settle scores of empire
Only to have another philistine king fill America's space
Oh America focus your guardianship light on thy people
Rein in thy greed, dispel these evil men
Of familial insanity generation after generation
Of sin, blood-letting and hierarchy
Clean the house of democracy
Repel rigid religious right zealots
Reset our morale compass
Let us not be beset by liberty’s lethargy
But recharge her battery of justice
The stripes and stars of our history
Must still manifest her righteous destiny
Replenish the garden of our republic with good seed
Remove the weeds of liberty’s enemies
Let the pomp and parade of independence
Once again light up American skies
From west coast to east coast
From the golden shore of California
To the eastern shores of the thirteen colonies
Let her land be rich in diversity
Reaching optimal potential for all her people
Lady Liberty shine your light to guide us forward
Dreamers, workers, seniors, children, the homeless
Parents, teachers, civil servants, the marginalized
We can still do better
Our constitution is a living document
We must water her words
Sometimes with the blood of patriots
To manifest our true democratic destiny
Looking inward with conscious reflection
Is a healing balm for the people
Reviewing our standards setting a new direction
Moving forward with spiritual intention
America risen from the ashes of adversity
Rise again and lead us to the promised land
Ronald G. Carrillo is a native Lincoln Hts Angelino, living in Eagle Rock and a retired LAUSD educator and influencer. He writes of his passion and rebirth into the golden age of living. He has been writing since high school and was initially influenced from the songwriters, Keith Reid, Joni Mitchell, Laura Nyro, Neil Young.
Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.
Please submit your written work to: lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.
Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, produces spoken word and art events and produces a poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS throughout the Los Angeles area.
Linda’s poetry events have included several summer poetry salons, and shows at the Align Gallery, 50/50 Gallery, Gold Haus Gallery, Ave 50 Gallery and Rock Rose Gallery in Highland Park .The Manifesto Café in Hermon, Pilates and Arts studio in Echo Park, and Native Boutique, Zweet Café in Eagle Rock, The Makery in Little Tokyo. And at the Neutra Institute Gallery and Museum in Silverlake. Her first short documentary film “BORDER POETS” was a socially and politically inspired event with poets and musicians filmed at the border wall near Tecate, Mexico on the Jacumba, Ca. side of the US. The film co-produced by MUD productions is available for viewing on her website and on youtube. https://youtu.be/5Te4-dlhxco
Her rap music video project in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg This video was accepted into the Ontario Museum of History & Art show “We the People” Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. February 2- April 16, 2023. So honored!!
And… February 19, 2022, she debuted her staged poetry production of “20 Years Left” at the historic Ebell Club in Highland Park! Two sold out shows with 2 standing ovations!! Check out the links to reviews and the video!
https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/
20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22
Linda Kaye is a native Angeleno who grew up in the San Fernando Valley. She claims to be both a first-generation Valley Girl, and The Original Hipster. Educated at Antioch University and Cal State Long Beach in psychology and social work. Linda, now retired from medical social work, was working for the last seven years as a psychotherapist and licensed clinical supervisor for an out patient mental health clinic. She was a licensed medical social worker for 30+ years working on the front line of healthcare, a private consultant for Physicians Aid Association and for skilled nursing facilities throughout California and Arizona. She was also an adjunct assistant professor at the USC Suzanne Dworak-Peck School of Social Work. Oh yeah.
Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry
http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/https://
shoutoutla.com/meet-linda-kaye-poet-poetry-and-theatrical-producer-filmmaker/