Learning Situation

There may, especially in times 
of civil int’resting unrest,
be hid ‘midst heroes – who’d solve crimes,
believing weaker folks’ good best –
badged rogues who’d stop at no excess –
to savagery against suspects,
karate-chop pat-downs, regress;
on courage, honor, cast their hex,
leave victims sexually tortured.

Idealists who took a stand,
Once let out of this devil’s-orchard,
must face their love, although unmanned.
Their love is beauty, nothing less,
who knows to love where courage grows
but now finds love a harrowed mess –
distrait, stand-offish.  Why?  Who knows?

One may have suffered worse groin pains
in downhill bike falls, but – it’s strange –
this ache won’t go away.  The change
will bring unbid but oft’ his brains
all addled vivid bright recall
of dingy green precinct back room,
his hands upon the chilly wall,
his legs spread wide in civic gloom.


We’d cellmates been in protest time –
while I too had attacked a pig,
foolhardy vainglory for rhyme
it was – hardly a thing as big
as bravery.  (Though like outrage
they’d dealt me, small discomfort lingers –
my first night free did much assuage.
I’m just glad they spared my fingers.)

They’d thrown him howling through the door:
“Strike, coward scum, and from behind –
thus justice mock since law’s no more
where peacekeepers have lost their mind!”
He ceased his anguished hoarse harangue
and climbed onto the upper bunk.
Our cell door slid closed with a clang
as back into my bed I sunk.

His thrashings kept waking me up
for long into ceaseless glare.
I gave him water in a cup,
he fin’ly slept without nightmare.
Then after quiet hours went by
wherein he didn’t even snore
I guess he must have heard me sigh
for, leaping to the iron floor
he said his name, stuck out his hand.
I shook it, told him “Call me Jack.”
He taught up at the college, planned
This lecture for when he got back:

“When any revolution’s inchoate
if it’s at all, such autocratic lock
the Powers have on ev’ry human fate
the chance that dissidence with fight will mock
the pomp of armed enforcers isn’t great.
Few act upon disgust that many feel.
But character, integrity will rate
with some despite the odds, which are surreal.
Then luckily the losers themselves find
In what we call a learning situation:
What ruthless motherfuckers do them bind
Is matter for the wonder’s contemplation.”

I said that would his students well
Forearm.  He thanked me.  We discussed
specific treatment, what befell
us both since brought in on this bust,
and which side in particular –
they differed ‘tween the both of us –
received insult testicular.
He then reflected – with a cuss:

“It seems this adds another facet
to passions positive as well – 
how tell my girl now in tacit
accents exactly what a hell
her country is, what fiends its cops,
what force ensures wage-slave docility,
what gratis ache that hardly stops
our bliss infects and my virility – 
No! – she must be carefully shunned.
A note with disengagement ring
will say, ‘Sweetheart, love’s moribund.
You’re not to blame, though, that’s the thing.
You know you take it personal
when griefs hit folks that aren’t their fault.
But now the ghetto I’ll home call
while you continue to exalt
delight – but new guy overjoy –
for I this shaman must consult
to help your mad ex-lover-boy
again in ecstasy exult….’ –
I’ll not write that, just disappear.
To flee’s the better part of valor.
Of missing history buff she’ll hear,
I’ll spare her any further pallor.”   

Poetry Is Labor and Work

 

Poetry is labor and work.

 

People should be paid for their labor and work.

 

Asking people to pay to consider their poetry is exploitative.

 

Taking advantage of people’s desire for an audience is exploitative.

 

Taking advantage of people’s desire for exposure is exploitative.

 

Exploiting labor isn’t thoughtful or beautiful.

 

Yes, this goes for contests as well.

Too Late


If you find yourself

Thinking that

Marriage counseling

Might help

Your troubled marriage,

You are

Almost certainly

Too late.






Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”

I have often thought about the relationship between what was and what is and about the motion of the stillness that is “now” (see my attached homage to Mondrian). In “Still Is , As Is“ I’m using the vastness of definition and context and the vision that language and paintings provide in order to illustrate my experience of living within the vibrant, alternating current of yin yang alternatives – the back and forth, the yes and no, the right and wrong of real life….things move ahead within the stillness of now. They move through time in order for the chaos to become what is. What is, is born from what was, while remaining still, as is. It’s the oxymoron of still moving.

Phil Demise Smith

Poet, musician, artist, gallerist, teacher. Was the editor /publisher of Gegenschein Press and owner/producer at NYC performance loft- The Gegenschein Vaudeville Placenter from 1976-1978. Published in numerous magazines mostly in the 1970’s and 80’s and has had numerous chapbooks published including What I Don’t Know For Sure (Burning Deck), Periods, selected writings 1972-1987 (Gegenschein Press), History of Pre-Diction w/ drawings by Gérard Sendrey (Gegenschein Press). Has given numerous poetry readings in the U.S. and Europe. Began playing music in 1975 and has written over 200 songs and performed with numerous bands at NYC clubs (i.e. CBGB’s, Max’s Kansas City, Folk City, The Bitter End etc) – most recent recording (2021) being a vinyl record album Growing in the Dark with AnDna. In 1987 began to paint and since has had numerous one person and group shows in the U.S. and Europe including an exhibition at the The Musée Création Franche in Bégles, France and has work in many collections including in the collection of the Musée d’art brut, Montpelier, France. Was owner/gallerist of Outsider Art at A Gallery @ Wares For Art (1996-1999).

A Hawk’s Meal

Kelly was mowing their front yard when the snake landed on her arm. She figured it was from a tree, and it tightened its grip on her arm like a boa constrictor and lunged at her face hitting her glasses and cracking them. She ran right over her rose bush, the lawn mower spitting red petals and thorns, and she screamed “Help me, Jesus” twice, shaking her outstretched arm. Her disabled husband heard her and moved down the ramp of the carport with his cane as quickly as he could, hearing Kelly holler for Jesus.

Jesus didn’t come swooping down from heaven to save her, but the hungry hawk that had picked up the snake in a field of peas about a half mile down the road and then lost its grip and dropped it onto Kelly circled back and nose-dived toward her arm, its claws slicing her arm while grabbing hold of the snake. As Bud made his way to the yard, he waved his cane and hollered, “Get!” several times.

When the hawk had a firm enough grip, it took off with the snake writhing in the sky, and Bud got Kelly to the emergency room where she was treated for lacerations and bruising. The doctor told Kelly that the right glass in her eyeglasses was cracked and kept the snake’s venomous bite from her eye even though her readers had to be trashed.

Ghost of Lincoln

We never thought we’d see a ghost through binoculars in the White House from our view on E street by the South Lawn. We’d hiked from our hotel early in the evening with a light fog settling over the city. Along with our binoculars, we had a 35-millimeter camera with zoom lens, so we could get any close ups of the Obamas, but my friend Grant said, “Damn. That looks like Abraham Lincoln standing by the window.”

            “Let me see,” I said. “By God, you’re right. Get some pics. He’s wearing a dark suit and a top hat.” He took the camera, focused, and snapped about twenty shots.

“I hope I caught him. He didn’t move and then evaporated.”  

“We might even be on one of those reality TV shows if his image is on the film once it develops.”

“That would be cool.”

“Yes, it would.”

The Lincoln room was just a couple of windows to the right of the rotunda on the second floor. I’d looked at it online, since I knew those areas were off limits on our tour the next day. Lincoln may have been the most iconic of all the ghosts seen in the White House. He’d been seen by first ladies Grace Coolidge, Lady Bird Johnson, and Jacqueline Kennedy. He’d also been seen by Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands, both of whom had been guests in the Lincoln bedroom. First lady Eleanor Roosevelt also reported feeling Lincoln’s presence as she worked in her office in the Lincoln bedroom, and President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s valet once ran screaming from the White House after seeing Lincoln’s ghost. Even the Ronald Reagan family had some experience with Lincoln’s ghost. The Reagan’s dog Rex stood at Lincoln’s door and barked and barked, and Reagan’s daughter Maureen and her husband had reported ghostly images when they stayed in the Lincoln room.

“Why would he haunt that area? It wasn’t his bedroom. It was his office and his Cabinet room at the time.”

“I’m not sure. I think Laura Bush redid the room, but the rosewood bed was purchased by Mrs. Lincoln along with some of the furniture. It was where Lincoln first read the Emancipation Proclamation to his Cabinet, and there’s a copy framed and hung on one of the walls. Of course, Lincoln himself had ghostly experiences there when he was President. He reported hearing the ghost of former President Jackson swearing and stomping around.”

“That’s wild and wasn’t there something about a child?”

“Yes, the Lincoln’s son Willie died at twelve from Typhoid Fever and had been seen by some staff of President Grant. Maybe he’s looking for his son or maybe he’s just thinking about the massive loss of life in the Civil War.”

“Most places aren’t nearly as haunted.”

“Why do you think that is? Age?”

“No, I think it’s because of the stress and the energy expended. Lincoln’s term had to be one of the most stressful. I’m sure all presidential terms have their own anguish, but his must have been incredibly difficult.”

“Yes, I think so.”

When they returned home to Illinois, the two friends had a great ghost story to share, and of all the photos snapped, one of them showed a grainy image of what might be perceived as Lincoln.

“Looks like that picture of Jesus someone saw on a slice of bread.” We both laughed.

“Or the Virgin Mary in a cloud.” We laughed more.

“Or what about that potato ship shaped like Elvis?” We laughed less because the joke was already getting old, and we both saw our reality show appearance evaporate just like the ghost of Lincoln.

“Yeah, they call seeing images that aren’t there pareidolia. Maybe we didn’t see Lincoln at all.”

“Maybe.”

Niles Reddick is author of a novel, three collections, and a novella. His work has been featured in over thirty collections and anthologies and five hundred magazines and journals including The Saturday Evening Post, PIF, New Reader, Forth, Citron Review, Right Hand Pointing, Nunum, and Vestal Review. He is a five time Pushcart, a two time Best Micro nominee, and a two time Best of the Net nominee. His newest flash collection If Not for You has recently been released by Big Table Publishing.