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ELIZABETH PIETRZAK of Claremont, California, a previous contributor to The Chickasaw Plum, is a mostly-vegetarian multi-talented poet who spurns the meat of global over-consumption in favor of a sustainable, locally grown lifestyle. She received her BA from the University of La Verne and is pursuing an MFA at Antioch University Los Angeles. She is writing her first novel as well as a collection of poetry. Her first chapbook, The Scent of Kisses in the Dark, was adapted into a performance by Kirsten Ogden in May 2005. She has also co-authored a solo performance with Rob'n Lewis.

Milkstone in the Cave of Skulls

We entered the cave of skulls,

rain-soaked cotton clinging to our skin,

clumps of dirt stuck to the bottoms of leather

soles, and a sack of red potatoes

in Johnny’s hand destined for a morbid

sacrifice against the milkstone aberration.

Johnny was often called an aberration,

an oddity, a punk with a misshapen skull.

His face glowed in the dark, morbid

lines, molten rivulets under hard skin,

crisp like the burnt shell of a fried potato

or melted wax dripped onto rank leather.

The cave smelled of wet leather.

Our maglights danced with aberrations

of rough rock, pocked and dotted, like a potato

with eyes watching our every move, eyes inside skulls

and eyes darting in and out of sockets, skinny

slits and round red orbs. Still morbid

against the slick surface. Morbid

with the sound of water trailing across leather,

plunking through hidden hollows, beading on our skin.

Almost against the will of the trailing aberrations,

a hood flew back from one skull.

Johnny put down his sack of potatoes.

“This is the place,” he said, the first potato

in hand, his expression deep and morbid

under our torchlight, his shadow a skull

jiving on the cave wall, clad in leather

skins, headdress, fiery aberrations

from fingertips free of flesh and skin.

So began the dance of the potato

the shedding of the skin

the silent swaying of morbid

breeze against the milkstone. Aberrations

swallowed by sheets of leather

as lost as the secrets of skulls.

We left no more than morbid aberrations,

knots of leather coated skulls

and peelings of potato skins.

Flowers

for David Byrne

I climbed to the top of the tower

To get as close as possible to the sky.

I saw nothing but flowers.

I studied and meditated to invest power

Into me so I could expose all the lies.

I climbed to the top of the tower

With plans to free the world, not intending to devour

A living soul. Still I dwell upon all the screams and cries

Even though they're nothing but flowers.

I stood side by side as destruction would shower

From my fingertips, my shouts, my eyes.

I climbed to the top of the tower

Intent only to spread the good word power.

I never imagined that everyone would die.

Here they are, nothing but flowers.

Ridding the world of evil in my god-gifted bower,

These days I sit alone, without even an alibi.

I climbed to the top of the tower.

Now it's nothing but flowers.

Cézanne in West Hollywood

“I would rather smash my canvas than invent or imagine a detail.”

– Paul Cézanne

Fuzzy red bowler

holds down

tightly-curled

shoulder-length bob

above red

blouse & beige

sport coat, slacks,

molded

tennis shoes

with flaking

orange stripes

and red laces

walking down

Burton-Holt Way;

in Seattle

starlings paint red

Monet porches;

Los Angeles

pigeons adorn

bronzed

copper roofs

and rooftop gardens;

A ripped,

tattooed man,

clean cut,

clean shaven,

walks

a miniature pit bull,

and I remember

a sad breeze

through the olive

trees that

sang the red

sky good-bye

so that I may

someday comprehend

why Paul Cézanne

wanted to

make paint bleed.

Brett Wagner is a former Democratic congressional nominee, and currently serves as president of the California Center for Strategic Studies, a progressive public policy think tank dedicated to securing world peace, fostering human rights, and promoting environmentally sustainable prosperity. Brett's work focuses on arms control, curtailing weapons proliferation, and addressing human rights concerns. As a youth, Brett hoped to help change the world through his music,
rallying public support behind important causes and using that support to help convince elected officials to follow suit (Brett was, after all, a child of the 1960s). Brett continues to compose lyrics and music, but seeks to "leave out the middle man" preferring nowadays to engage our elected officials directly toward helping build a better world. Brett was born in Independence, Missouri, and now lives in Santa Barbara.

MYTH AMERICA

The ghost of Thomas Jefferson sits with me each night at six
watching wide-eyed at the news till both of us are getting sick
Washington and Madison whisper in each of my ears
"We knew when we started this it wouldn't last 200 years -

"But how could you abandon us
and leave us here for dead?
Lincoln's reading Exodus
and he won't get out of bed.

"If God's on our side
then why have so many died?"

Kennedy shakes his head.

"You'll have to redefine your myths"

but that is all he said.

And I'm heading out - - -
It's time we look in the mirror
and figure out what we're about

Myth America
Myth America
Myth America

The hour's late, the time has come
The battle line's already drawn
Second hands are on the move
You'll have to choose which side you're on

Streets of fire from coast to coast
the ones with bread will soon have toast
You cannot let your country die
and not be haunted by its ghost

"But how could you abandon us
and leave us here for dead?
Lincoln's reading Exodus
and he won't get out of bed.

"If God's on our side
then why have so many died?"

Kennedy shakes his head.

"You'll have to redefine your myths"
but that is all he said

And I'm heading out - - -
It's time we look in the mirror
and figure out what we're about

Myth America
Myth America
Myth America

(c) Brett Wagner & Larry Simmons, 1992

Poet and Artist Sir Gawaine Ross (Gawaine Caldwater Ross) of Boston, is a friend of long standing of The Chickasaw Plum.