• Poem for the Poets – Shanna Baldwin

• Possession – krista schwimmer

• Blessed – Rex Butters

• A Soldier’s Prayer – Mark Lipman

• Del Taco #57 – RF Wagner, Jr.

The Ravings of People – Jim Smith

• Secrets to the Moon – Hillary Kaye

• Venice Eco-Fest – Panos Douvos

• IOU, All – Tina Catalina Corcoran


Poem for the Poets, 

Stuart, Jimmy, John, Bill and Tony

July 1961

Out of the abyss

a cry of another

in the shape of a kiss                                                                                                                                That poet my brother

the seagull sounds of Venice

like rusty swings

In an long forgotten                                                                                                                               empty playground

the swift  shadows

silently grow

and fade into shade

And the Lady wears black

        So the blood wont show

I wore red..  so no one

        would notice

                 My   Eyes.                                                                                                                                                                                        

– Shanna Baldwin



About spirits

most mediums really

know nothing.  One woman

i met claims to contact

every dead person she agrees

to contact.  100% of the time,

she says grinning, her long, blonde hair

static against her royal blue dress.

So easy, it seems.

i know the lies.

i know that the spirits

who come around

who will not leave

are still hungry for it all –

smell of burnt toast

taste of lover’s tongue

cool dip

in a twilight lake –

hungry, hungry for it all.

i know these spirits

stop at nothing

to possess a moment in life, 

or rarely stand so

far away & speak mere platitudes.


Don’t open

the floodgates.

Spirits moan there

waiting for redemption.  Moan there

to reclaim their lives.

That medium is too calm

too certain.  She has

no idea.  She has never

crossed into the Abyss.


Or, perhaps, she resides there


– krista schwimmer



for Erin


just back

from the Burma/Thai


shaking her head

her pen pal children

victims of cyclone and repressive regimes

fill refugee camps

no food

no clean water

no dry place to sleep

but here

in 21st century SoCal



Santa Monica

we bicker about

fat mattresses

and golden toilet seats

stuck on more

and never enough

majoring in minors

fighting for footnotes





shaking her head

her pen pal children


families lost


like so many

in New Orleans


the tornado torn and flooded




while sun shaded comfortable

bored and despairing

vultures grow fat

tearing up their dead


-Rex Butters


A Soldier’s Prayer

By Mark Lipman

Dear Lord, God above us all, bless me on this day,

For I go into battle, to slay Your enemies,

Hallowed be thy name.


May You bless my rifle and the bullets that it carries,

May they all strike their targets, be it man, woman or child,

For this I solemnly do pray.


May our cruise missiles blow to smithereens,

All their hospitals, homes and temples.

Thy hated ones shall be left with no refuge.

Glory unto You, oh Lord.


Through Your supreme wisdom, I pray that You give council to our President,

The bearer of Your will here on earth,

And guide him to letting us Napalm villages again.


May our cluster bombs maim and kill the last of their children

And may the milk flow red from their mothers’ breasts,

In Your infinite mercy.


And for our loved ones back home,

I pray that they may remain blind,

At least until after the next election cycle.


Oh Lord, as You are a loving and caring God,

I humbly ask this of You, upon my knees,

Not to let our enemies burn the oil fields.


In Your name, I do ask that this may be a most successful and holy crusade.



Del Taco #57, Lincoln Blvd., Venice…Reminded of the Alamo, am I./ Surrounded by the thousands, doomed to die,/ impaled on bayonets, by bullets, torn./ Run through with sabers; worse, to fee the scorn/ of affluence in judgment of my soul/ and others just like me. They’ve dug a hole/ in which we might be buried. Seems to me/ resistance is but gross futility/ for those of us who watch the mighty pull/ of economic juggernauts who call/ the shots this time. It seems that I was born/ to go down fighting. Watch the pages turn/ on history. The dollar bills imply/ that money hast the last word. Time to fly…………20:15 Saturday, September 13, 2008, Del Taco #57, Lincoln Blvd., Venice…Don’t call me homeless, rambler though I am,/ I’m just an honest gypsy, always game/ to leave when I’m not wanted, just one step/ ahead of litigation. I am hip/ to efforts to eradicate my kind./ Those blatant bastards surely think we’re blind./ Well, dig this, brother, go ahead and hate,/ with knights, bishops and rooks, form your checkmate./ Drive me into oblivion; don’t mind./ This drama’s getting boring. Let me find/ the mirrored words reflecting how your trip/ reveals the pig inside you. I am hep/ to moments, timely exits, and I claim/ no power-of-attorney: just my name.

-RF Wagner, Jr.


The Ravings of People

By Jim Smith

All day, all night

week in, week out

The Ravings of people

about the games people play,

and about the people who play games

sad to say, amount to so little

but they keep the sound going

The sound that keeps us safe

from the void.


Secrets to the Moon

by Hillary Kaye


Does the world understand its sadness?

Does the force of time care about such things?

Is the sun longing to explode?

the moon waiting to melt?

the tides do they hunger

for stillness?

Is the river weeping?

the earth tossing and turning?

are the clouds telling a story?

are the stars dreaming?

is music the first word ?

is loss a metaphor ?

and what for?

is pain beyond pleasure?

Will the rocks show us how to endure?



By Panos Douvos ‘08

Three-ring Venice green-circus

Blossoms Windward by-the-sea as majic

pot-luck variety show fronts

the grassy-knoll lolling Venetians

Eco-fest eco-sexy say scribes

Lanky crane-like models stride

crane-like in rapid prance

with frown-brows of concentration

shown hemp and bamboo skin

Flamencas in gradations of form and function

swirl in unified possible exactitude

castanet-clacks unclacked

star Flamenca takes solo

Anxious band grabs 50 minute gig

poets 10 alternating inanity

nature poet right-now bombarded

by rabid-fire drum attack

he stops midsyllable yell-rages

give the kid a break  dammit

maybe next year

maybe not



By Tina Catalina Corcoran

I am One, Lucky Lady.

And, I owe it ALL to YOU!


When – I didn’t know what to do.


So – From One Lucky Lady

Please accept my I O U

You picked me up when I was down


Just – By being you!



You are my FANTASY


You’re my SYMPHONY


So – From one Lucky Lady

Please accept my IO U

And, if your “Lady Luck” runs out


Here, I am, for YOU!

Categories: Poetry