birth of the perfect terrorist by DB Cox

3 a.m.
the sound of the t.v.
wakes me
i smile at the sound
of america dying
rattlesnake hissing
& shaking as it strikes
again & again
at its own tail

cameras roll—
digital images unwind
through time
holding the future
of a country’s demise
perverted suicidal paradox
the peculiar intersection
of victim & killer

night cat moans—
mind troubled
by recurring dreams
hating the night
because there is no rest
hating the day
because it moves toward night
scattered thoughts
like loose bits of sand
the harder i squeeze
the faster they slip away

solitude—
the condition of my existence

rage—
the element of my being

if the earth
were filled with t.n.t.
i’d put a match to the ground
tear the night air
with absolute noise
bloody birth
of the perfect terrorist—
no religion
no politics
no causes
no agenda
taking no hostages
making no deals

Two Poems by Linda Lerner

It’s Because

long before someone filled the word with explosives
and sound reached vocabulary
to echo out of voices across America
I heard it in a mother’s because I said so
seen it  a boss’s eyes, a doctor’s set expression
when I asked, are you sure it’s necessary
picked it up in the unspoken way things are done
in my mother’s nursing home
when someone who changed tables at lunch was
ordered back, as if she’d illegally crossed a border
that line that divides order from anarchy
line craved in stone….what stone  has anyone ever seen it?
when a seven year old  in a Sharon Olds’ poem
says to another boy his age,
“we could easily kill a two-year old” at a birthday party
I heard it in an ex president’s  because I can
why
settled in one word and was laundered thru our lives
why to stop black markets from financing it
companies tightened restriction on
cigarette marketing in underdeveloped countries
why the PO refused my check without an address
why I must give my ss number to use a xerox machine
the college bought for that purpose, why
I asked a professor and got the same response as
from the clerk at the PO, from the druggiest
who needed to see ID to purchase cold meds
from the bank who said my ID was insufficient
to cash a $25.00 out of state check

and though I didn’t hear it after the Dec. 26th blizzard
as streets went unplowed, people left stranded
at airports, in stalled trains, cars and in ems trucks
waiting to be rescued, why a sanitation truck was
parked outside a pizza store, I am still waiting
to hear the mayor  explain why weather reports
went ignored, what caused the distraction
say
it’s because of terrorism
__________________

Ex Wives Caught in the Jam

it felt as if he had thrown the jam right at her
when he returned to their table
where they usually sat
saw the measly amount in the cup
heard her say she noticed it immediately
and didn’t say anything to the waiter, he roared
heads turning their way saw him
fling his two ex wives at her who
would have spoken up for him
telling her exactly when both had
…she didn’t remember what else was said
as they left the restaurant and he became nice again
but knew that no matter how hard she tried
she’d never entirely wash off all the jam from her face

I Keep This List by Angela Consolo Mankiewicz

I keep this list
of faces

that I’ve lost
over some years
some places.

A few come back
more than once;
the heartier ones don’t

they stay away
or dial wrong numbers
from hardened spaces

like I do.

A few send sand
to fill the holes
they left behind.

Most do nothing.

I check regularly
for milestones
to update my list

and note the dates
of traces, however
scant, of faces
looking for me.

ACROPHOBIA by John Tustin

all these years
I have had a fear of heights.
but only if out in the open,
like on a roof.

and today,
I stood out on an angled
roof

clinging like a vine
onto the chimney

my heart audible
in my ears

hardly able to do
what I needed
to do

and I realized
my fear was not
that I would fall

but in that
distracting desire
to jump.

Weight of your feet by Lynne Hayes

I remember the summer we would meet,
every Wednesday
at the diner in between our towns;
four stools and four leaning booths.

The building itself
seemed to lean into something,
never quite sure what.

Across from each other we sat,
feet touching
as hands stirred coffee
that never really cooled.

You always ordered eggs
sunny side down,
said the yellow orbs
burned your eyes.

I dipped my burnt toast
in the aftermath of your attack
as the waitress in the too tight dress
always undressed you
with her fuck me eyes

You never missed a bite,
held her gaze,
only laughed as my toast dipped harder
onto your ravaged plate.

You would read me poetry
from some obscure writer
that lived life harder than you.

I fed on your breath
and lived.
You loved me then.
I love you still.

I never eat breakfast midweek
and ride past that spot
often these days.

The building still leans
only now
in the opposite direction,
towards you.

Battle Scars by John Bennett

The name John Bennett is a not a new name to the small press by any means but is new to the Rusty Truck.  In a new book published by Henry Denander at Kamini Press, Battle Scars by John Bennett gives us a glimpse of America, life and himself with word portraits,  with short poems that had me nodding my head and saying I wish I’d written that:

Tea Baggers

Tea Baggers
will
go down in
history as
flag- waving
maniacs who
put the
good name of
Lipton
to shame.

In my house I have an extensive library of small press poets.  I now have added Battle Scars to my collection and one John Bennett book will not be enough.

(cover art by Henry Denander)

Happy Birthday Issue featuring A.D. Winans, Misti Rainwater-Lites, William Taylor Jr., Bradley Mason Hamlin, & Hosho McCreesh

NEW YEARS EVE POEM 11 by A.D. Winans

some things stick in your mind
like dental cement
like your first kiss
the JFK assassination
the wild years, a trip down
highway 101
foot stuck to floor petal
hugging the middle lane
at one hundred miles an hour
a wild tango that turns into a shuffle

I like five in the morning walks
alone with my thoughts when
the shops are closed
and people still sleeping
my neighborhood
a ghost town
still as a lion waiting
on its prey
the silence a monk in meditation
with no need for explanation
2010 gone…
the revelry put to rest

insomnia driven
I greet 2011 alone
with words that bleed
for company

A poem forms, nibbles
at my brain cells
a beggar hungry for food
but the cupboard is empty
as I retreat into the amnesia
of  yester-year
the lost treasure of my youth
a pirate with a graying beard
boarding a ghost ship
lisping aimlessly at sea

On the Strangest & Most Unexpected Nights… by Hosho McCreesh

Leaves dried up
and falling and
I’m caught hanging
in a lonesome night,
one spent wandering
past all the faces
I once knew,
and I tell myself that
I never knew them,
and they never knew me,
that we were just in
the same places
at the same time,
and that the things
we imagined between us
were not there–

On the Strangest & Most Unexpected Nights… by Hosho McCreesh

Leaves dried up
and falling and
I’m caught hanging
in a lonesome night,
one spent wandering
past all the faces
I once knew,
and I tell myself that
I never knew them,
and they never knew me,
that we were just in
the same places
at the same time,
and that the things
we imagined between us
were not there–