Features: Cathy Barber, Jene Erick Beardsley, Beth Cagle Burt, Dave Church, Darrell Epp, Jean Esteve, Arthur Gottlieb, John Grey, Joe Hall, R. Kimm, Lyn Lifshin, Gerald Locklin, Janine Margiotta, Edward Michael O'Durr Supranowicz, Peter Schwartz, Pearl Stein Selinsky, S.J.W., and Patricia Wellingham-Jones.

Read our Silty rave reviews. Sample poems from Issue Eight:
 

i’m afraid it’s not the economy, stupid.

gerald locklin

i don’t even want to admit
how few of my books
were sold and signed:
a handful while i was in town,
less than a handful afterwards.

it’s okay: i’d warned the bookstore
not to over-order. bookstores hate returns;
publishers hate them even more.

students everywhere are on limited budgets.
their teachers are spoiled by freebies.
i’ll leave a few chapbooks behind for dave
to give to his friends who are now mine also.

when bukowski went to europe, he said,
“shakespeare never did this.”

i do what i have to, and i’m seldom
sorry that i did. i’m glad for every copy sold,
and gladder for each one that’s read.
 

War

pearl stein selinsky

The wolves of war are howling in their den.
Their fangs are bared; their snarl leaves little doubt
their preference is the missile, not the pen. 

The question now is not if but when,
as they demonstrate their fearful clout.
The wolves of war are howling in their den. 

So many of us wonder at this yen
to launch another arid desert bout;
their preference is the missile, not the pen. 

Through history, this happens far too often,
and late, we learn what it is all about.
The wolves of war are howling in their den 

to rage and slake their thirst for oil, and then
they’ll boast of how they drove a villain out
with preference of the missile, not the pen. 

We need to count the human costs, the men
in body bags, a populace burned out,
deter and keep those wolves within their den;
their preference is the missile, not the pen.
 

Memos

john grey

Another memo
parachutes to your desk.
Last week,
one trumpeted the coming
of a new automated system
like it was a king.
You cheered on cue.
Monday, another said sorry but
your expendable head
is the first one
for the royal chopper.
You nodded to yourself:
in this business climate,
such things are regrettable
but necessary.
This memo, though, lands
here by mistake,
the one you’re not supposed to see,
from the social committee
begging for donations
for your farewell party.
You read it,
slip a five dollar note
into the attached envelope,
sign the card, “We’ll miss you.”