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Seven Times #53: George W. Bush at the Wal-Mart in Danvers, MA


Last Friday night on my way to go fishing with some old friends I realized that I did not have a fishing license and that I also did not have a reel that I knew how to use. So, I stopped at Wal-Mart in Danvers. Even though it was the opposite direction of the place I was going fishing with my friends, Swampscott, I chose to go to the Danvers’ Wal-Mart because I find that it is cleaner and less crowded than the Salem one, which would have been on the way.

While at the Danvers’ Wal-Mart I spent a lot of time waiting for someone who knew how to process a fishing license. When they finally found someone who could do it, they rung me up for the reel and also processed a saltwater fishing license for me.

I then asked the gentlemen, who had a tattoo of the Monopoly guy on his right arm, and who had processed the license, where I could find the rest-room, but I used the word bathroom instead. He told me and I half-listened as I was distracted by some random thoughts as is usually the case. I understood that I was to go down to the other end of the store and take a left and I had in the past used their bathroom so on some level I knew where it must be.

I turned around and walked in the appropriate direction. I found the bathroom. I went into the bathroom and proceeded to use the urinal. While peeing, I noticed that the man standing perpendicular to me at another urinal was George W. Bush, the former president of the United States of America. At first I was unsure how I knew that it was him and I stood a while after my urine stream had stopped staring out of the corner of my eye. He wore a blue vest.

I had never ran into a president in a bathroom before this. Although I may have ran into many other world leaders of other countries and didn’t even know they were world leaders. I am somewhat ignorant. And I may have even run into a future president here or there without knowing it since it was not their time to be president yet. And I did once run into David Ortiz, the DH for the Boston Red Sox on the commuter rail. He was conducting and was very friendly. He had grew a beard and lost his accent and he looked more of European decent then of African, but I’m certain it was him. Just as I was sure that across from me in the bathroom of the Wal-Mart stood George W., a man who was the president of the United States on that famously tragic day of September 11, 2001.

He looked different than I remember him on TV in the classroom of kindergartener’s reading books to the children that day. He looked different than the man that stood in front of a banner that said mission accomplished on board an aircraft carrier proudly speaking about something I absolutely have forgotten about at this point.

I was also surprised when his cell phone rang and he answered the phone in perfect Spanish. I myself do not speak that particular language fluently nor do I speak any language with much fluency including English, but I could tell. I just knew somehow that he spoke perfect Spanish. He spoke as he walked out the door and I followed him with a little stealth. I thought I was sneaky.

He went out the door and to the women’s section. A customer had gone through a bunch of clothes and left them all over the floor in a careless manner. George got off the phone and went through the clothes putting them back on hangers and then back on the rack. I thought to myself, huh. The thought stopped at huh because I didn’t know what else to think.

At this point I knew I had to get going because I had to meet my friends and go fishing, but I made a mental note to myself to write it all down otherwise I’d forget and my story would be unknown even to myself. So I left and made the mental note and then this morning on my way to work I wrote down the details that I could actually remember from my mental note of my experience at the Wal-Mart in Danvers.


Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.


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Nonfiction by Donal Mahoney


Back Then and Write Now

When I began writing in 1960, there were no website “magazines.” Print journals were the only place to have poems published. Writers used typewriters, carbon paper, a white potion to cover up mistakes and “snail mail” to prepare and submit poems for publication. Monday through Friday I’d work at my day job. Weekends I’d spend writing and revising poems. Revising poems took more time than writing them and that is still the case today, decades later.

On Monday morning on the way to work, I’d sometimes mail as many as 14 envelopes to university journals and “little magazines,” as the latter were then called. Some university journals are still with us. Some are published in print only and others have begun the inevitable transformation by appearing in print and simultaneously on the web.

“Little magazines,” especially those published in print without a presence on the web, are rare in 2012. One might say, however, that their format has been reincarnated in hundreds of website publications that vary in design, content and frequency of publication. Depending on the site, new poems can appear daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly, semi-annually or annually. For many writers, these websites are a godsend. Some “serious” writers, however, still feel that a poem has not been “published” until it has appeared on paper.

I can’t remember what postage cost in the Sixties but it was very cheap. Nevertheless, it would often take six months or more to hear back from many editors of university journals and little magazines. Sometimes I would get no response despite my enclosing the mandatory stamped self-addressed envelope (SASE).

Submission etiquette at that time required that a writer send nothing other than the poems, usually a maximum of three, and the SASE. What’s more, simultaneous submissions were universally forbidden. I don’t remember any editor wanting a biographical note until the piece was accepted and sometimes not even then. All that mattered was the poem and how much the editor liked it.

Today, in contrast, some web editors want a letter from the author up front “introducing” the poems and/or some aspect of the author’s life. I’ve never been comfortable providing that kind of information in front of poems I’m submitting. I can’t imagine lobbying for poems that I hope speak for themselves.

In the Sixties, my average acceptance rate was roughly one poem out of 14 submissions of three poems each. Two or three poems accepted rarely happened but my hopes were always high.

The rejected poems I’d revise if I thought they needed it; then I’d send all of them out again to different publications. Often the poems would have to be retyped because the postal process or some editor’s fondness for catsup or mustard would result in messy returned manuscripts. I followed this pattern of writing, revising and submitting for seven years. I loved it because I didn’t know any other way. I had no idea that in 30 years there would be an easier way to submit poems, thanks to the personal computer. What a difference. No more carbon paper. No more catsup or mustard.

In 1971 I quit writing after having had a hundred or so poems accepted by some 80 print publications ranging from university journals to hand-assembled little magazines. I even made it into a few commercial magazines and received checks for as much as $25.00. I was on a roll or so I told myself.

The reason I quit writing poems is because I had accepted a much more difficult day job as an editor with a newspaper. Previous editorial jobs had not been that taxing. I still had enough energy to work on poems at night as well as on weekends. But the new job wore me out. The money was good and helped me deal with expenses that had increased as my responsibilities had increased. Other demanding jobs would follow in subsequent decades. As a result, I didn’t return to writing poems until 2008 after I had retired.

I hadn’t really thought about working on poems in retirement but my wife bought me a computer and showed me where I had stored–37 years earlier–several cardboard boxes full of unfinished poems. It took a month or more to enter drafts of the 200 to 300 poems in my new computer. It took longer to revise and polish them. Finally, I sent out the “finished” versions by email to both online and print publications.

It took a few weeks at the start but eventually lines for new poems began to pop into my noggin. Alleluia! I was ever so thankful to “hear” them because it answered an important question–namely, could I still write new poems after such a long hiatus?

I found submitting by email a joy. For a while I sent an occasional poem by snail mail to journals that did not take email submissions. But in six months I stopped doing that. I did not want to lick envelopes any longer. Looking back over the last four years, I’m thankful for the response my work has received from various editors in the Americas, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Since I am an old-timer writing and submitting poems, I’m sometimes asked if I notice any difference in the “market” for poetry in 2012 compared with the Sixties. I’m also asked if I would I do anything differently if I were starting out today.

Yes, I notice a difference in the “market” today, and, yes, I would do some things differently if I were starting out now.

If I were starting out now, I would revise poems even more than I did when I was young. I revised a lot back then and I revise a lot today. I believe strongly in something Dylan Thomas once said—namely, that no poem is ever finished; it is simply abandoned.

It’s taken four years for me to gain some sense of how the “market” for poetry has changed over the last 40 years. In preparing my own submissions, I have had a chance to read a lot poetry by young writers, some already established and many unknown. Sometimes I compare their work in my mind with the work of poets I remember from the Sixties.

Artwork © Richie Montgomery
Artwork © Richard Montgomery

Although Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso, among others, had their followers back in the Sixties, and still do today, I find that in 2012 “confessional” poetry has become even more prominent. Some of it strikes me as good, both in content and technique, but that is a subjective assessment. Much of it, however, strikes me as “raw,” for want of a better word. In some cases I also find it difficult to distinguish certain poems from prose disguised in broken lines. I don’t remember “prose poems” as a category unto itself when I started out. Today prose poems seem to be very well accepted in some circles but I suspect they would have been a hard sell in the Sixties.

I suppose as a stripling and now as a codger I have written what some might call “confessional” poetry, both good and bad. Nevertheless, I think a young writer does well to write about someone or something other than one’s self. Observing other people carefully and writing about their mannerisms and aspects of their behavior can help to develop one’s craft. This is important because as most writers know, writing poetry or fiction is as much a craft as it is an art and without craft, writing may never reach the level of art.

Perhaps it is my imagination but it seems that over the last couple of years there has been an increase in poems written about broken relationships or other distressful matters of the heart. The writers of these poems seem to be primarily women who sound very angry and no doubt with good cause.

Apparently male poets find it easier to move on from a break-up and seek love or companionship in all the right or wrong places. I don’t think that’s a new development, men being who they are. I hope it’s not chauvinist of me to suggest that the power to motivate a man to behave better usually lies with the woman. I feel that a woman has a gift she should not unwrap too quickly no matter how eager a man may be to undo the ribbons. Not many ribbons were undone in the Fifties prior to vows. In that era, of course, women were old-fashioned by current standards. The ones who were not “old-fashioned” were called a lot of things but not “liberated.”

There are other types of subject matter common in poetry today that didn’t appear too frequently in the Sixties. Graphic sex, science fiction and horror seem to appeal to many male writers, although some females also like to write about these subjects today.

I’ve never been interested in horror and I doubt that I would have the imagination to handle it well. I never fantasize about anything that even borders on science fiction. Sex, on the other hand, is a different matter. But sex has always struck me as the easiest subject to write about. I could write about sex well, I believe, but why should I? Why should I make my wife angry? Even if I were single, I suspect I’d be restrained by a line from Emily Dickinson that I first read it in college. Ms. Dickinson wrote, “how public like a frog.”

In contrast with my early years in writing, I am never satisfied today with a poem even when it has been published. If I go back and re-read a published poem a year later, I am certain to find something “wrong” with it and I feel obligated to fix it. Sometimes I can’t fix it but in the process of trying, I occasionally find that I am suddenly in the middle of writing a different poem, an offshoot of the original piece or something entirely different. I’ve found benefits and problems in that.

Rodin’s “The Thinker” is set in bronze and marble and not subject to revision but few if any of my poems acquire that status in my mind. And if one of them does, I eventually come to feel the poem could be improved, even if at that moment I might not know how to make it better. Maybe in six months I’ll read it again and hear something errant in the lines that I will suddenly know how to fix. It doesn’t hurt, I believe, for a writer to listen to a poem the way a mechanic listens to a motor. Both want to get everything right.

My purpose in writing this piece has been to record “for the ages” what it’s been like writing and submitting poems in two distinct eras. I certainly like the ease with which technology today has enabled me to compose a poem. The “delete” key is wonderful. But there is something to be said for the anticipation caused by finding an envelope in the mailbox from an editor, the way a contributor might have done back in the Sixties. One knew immediately by the thickness of the envelope whether all three poems had been rejected or one or two of them had been accepted. That was a wonderful time for a young writer to cut his or her teeth.


Nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, Donal Mahoney has had work published in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Richard Montgomery: “My philosophical surrealistic drawings are known for their unique twist on life and our perspective of it. The “hidden in plain sight” details of my work are ruminants of the great masters like M.C. Escher and Salvador Dali. I have been drawing my entire life and have had no formal training other than just my own desire to create from the time I could hold a crayon or pencil. I enjoy many different types of art yet surrealism holds my passion the most.”


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Bamboozled No More! Fickle New England


In February we were buried in snow. Even the diehard fans of winter weather were silenced.

And then I heard about folks begging for a bit more snow to ‘break the record’ for snow falls.

Are you folks for real? Did you forget the hours spent digging out and defending your parking spaces? How about those delays on the MBTA and traffic jams?

There are no prizes for the survivors of cabin fever. And another thing…, breaking snowfall records doesn’t require skill, intellect or training. If anything, breaking the record for snow falls brings us closer to increased global warming! So stop the chanting for more snow!


Janet Cormier is a painter, writes prose and poetry, and performs comedy. JC prefers different and original over pretty. She loves collecting stuff, but cleaning not so much. Janet also talks to strangers… a lot. Her column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.


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When Artists Go Bad by John Kotula

busy in the fleshWhile passing through

The Albuquerque airport

I saw Caravaggio in chains;

Thick ones on his wrists,

Thin ones that tinkled

Around his ankles

Hobbling his stride.

He was being transported

By federal marshals

For crimes against orthodoxy.

busy in the fleshOne was muscular, handsome, Hispanic.

The other wore a Hawaiian shirt

And an expression

That said

Murder is always justified

To maintain the status quo.

Even humbled by captivity,

Caravaggio had a somewhat sinister air.

So did the tears tattooed

In the corner

busy in the fleshOf his eye,

And the spider web on his elbow.

The artist and his two guards

Were given special handling

At security.

I lost sight of them.

But later they were seated

On stools at the counter of

All Aboard Noodles.

Caravaggio was seated in the middle

busy in the fleshEating from a steamy glass bowl

With a porcelain spoon,

Slices of pink pork

Like poker chips

Floating in golden broth

White noodles looped

Like calligraphy.

Trying not to stare

I passed them by.

When first class was called

busy in the fleshFor my flight to DC

I made a last minute trip

To the bathroom.

Caravaggio stood at the urinal

Dick in manacled hands

Pissing loudly.

The Hispanic marshal

Stood one step behind him

A respectful distance

But within easy arm’s reach.

busy in the fleshThey spoke like

Business acquaintances

Which I suppose they were.

“When we woke up this morning

I had to scrape the ice off

The fucking windshield.”

“Where did you guys

Stay last night, Los Alamos?”

“I don’t know where the hell we were.

He was driving.”

busy in the fleshThe marshal spoke perfect English,

But Caravaggio had a heavy Italian accent.

I was surprised

He spoke English

At all.

I wanted to say,


Over the years

Your art has given me

So much pleasure.

busy in the fleshThank you for creating

All that beauty.”

I wanted to say,

“That bowl of noodles

Made my mouth water.”

Under the circumstances –

The US marshal,

The chains,

Carravagio vigorously shaking his dick –

I said nothing.

busy in the fleshThey walked out together

Law enforcement holding the elbow

Of a ground breaking artist

Gone bad.

I was filled with regret

For gratitude unspoken.

For passing on the noodles.

busy in the flesh
Busy In the Flesh © 2013 James Conant
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We are the Gas. You are the Match by Jason Wright

See this is a scene

“The Blue Sphere” Shahnawaz Achhiwala © 2010

Where dreams take shape

Shift like riots on tv

Where the walrus speaks

And says.

“We are nothing but arms and legs

We are nothing but spikes and pegs”

Drugs and dreads

“We are nothing but what we say we said

And what we did.”

“We are nothing but a gang of green

We are nothing but imbetween”

A flashing icon on a computer screen

We are everything , but the battery”

We are empty, but the weather man

Says Tuesday will shine

suntans and mammograms

a cancer in the stand

A cancer in the stand

A wave of water

With leftover fathers

And microwave mothers

“We are the imbetween

Of a street sign that lights

Neon. And a black and white


That speaks clingon

Wears nylon

And grows everlong

through a towering massive building

we are nothing and everything.

we are the kings and queens of this fair city

we are the gas and you are the match.

“The Blue Sphere” Shahnawaz Achhiwala © 2010
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I talked to you today,
i sounded dumb
my voice ugly,
my strong arm, loose
my mind, melted
my soul signing dotted lines
the truth is I miss you
because you are a friend
someone who reads Pablo Nuruda
and fights for civil rights
I am not alone in this world
where trees groan, and snow melts
and broken people do broken things
it seems lonely though, because I
am not the same person…I have changed.
Maybe I was never the reason
the sight of the season, the ragweed allergin
but I always thought that I meant..something
to you.
Maybe my world is in chaos, I’m sure yours is too.
but you can gracefully bough out.
you can put your hands on the curtain rod,
shut the blinds of light.
But you refuse too…I wish I was alot like you

I have always admired your sense of self
knowing the world may be ugly, but you find ways to make it beautiful
and I know I am not the thing I used to be.

and i know that scares you.

I am just as alone as I ever was.
I am just as alone as I ever was.

But to you, I might sound terrific
but it is a parlor trick, I am just
as numb

as I ever was.

numb as I ever was. but I realize
pain is a journey.

so is love.