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The Cartier Street Review

Literary and Arts Magazine

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Cartier Street Review Joy Leftow Principal Editor & Layout New York http://joyleftowsblog.blogspot.com Thomas Hubbard Editor Puget Sound Website: http://poppathomas.wordpress.com/ Marc Carver Staff London Brad Eubanks Staff Texas Bernard Alain Founding Editor Ottawa Website: http://www.bernardalain.blogspot.com/

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Contents Enrico Miguel Thomas Cover: The G Train Roxanne Hoffman 4 Enrico Miguel Thomas 8 Marc Carver 9 Enrico Miguel Thomas 10 DJ Swykert 12 Joy Leftow 19 Enrico Miguel Thomas 21 Susana H. Case 22 & 23 Enrico Miguel Thomas 25 John D. Harper 26 & 28 Enrico Miguel Thomas 27, 30 & 36 Daniel Barbare 31 Kevin O’Rourke 33 Thom Woodruff 37 Enrico Miguel Thomas 39 Mike Radice 40 Thomas Hubbard 62 Enrico Miguel Thomas 64 Mike Finley 65 Artist Statement 67 Enrico Miguel Thomas Back Cover

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Roxanne Hoffman

ENGLISH ONLY SPOKEN HERE!

Veering to steer clear of my peers.

Muy Macho Muchachos! Latino blood brothers

carting boom boxes, Budweiser’s and blades,

hooded in black satin fight jackets,

alcohol-breathing White Dragons emblazed,

backed up against the schoolyard chain-link fence,

wielding clouded red eyes looking wild and intense,

sneering and jeering at La Gringa Loca as she skirts by.

Giving her the finger, giving her the eye.

A crucifixed and medallioned battalion, swinging hips and bike chains,

they hang with squads of hops scotching, Bazooka popping, pony-tailed babes,

bopping to the non-stop beat of Carribean Conga waves.

Cuidadese con la chica muy bonita! Watch the pretty mama!

(With the razors tucked in her braids!)

"Fea! Fea!" they cluck, "Ella es muy stuck up."

What a bunch of shmucks!

Another generation of already boozing, soon-to-be using losers,

I choose not to be confused with,

I say under my breath as I duck.

Not even twelve years old and already fucked.

Already up-chucked like stinky pink vomit onto mean city streets.

How long do you figure till you find one of these Latin Lovers

shot up, face down on the concrete?

Or his smart-mouthed eyebrow-plucked sista sucking dicks,

turning tricks for her next fix of sweeter than candy pop treats?

Can these peers really have the power to persuade

me to live life on the edge of a razor blade?

Talking big, acting tough like they’ve got it made?

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Getting ready to rumble, planning payback for a fellow Dragon filleted?

Can these peers really have the power to persuade

me to live life on the edge of a razor blade?

With one eye looking over that chip on the shoulder,

making out like they ain’t afraid?

Can these peers really have the power to persuade

ME to live life on the edge of a razor blade?

Thinner than the worn-down knees of my too tight corduroy jeans

stretched out to last another year by letting out the hem,

extended with rows of rainbow-striped ribbon Momma stitched onto them.

Thinner than the pancake-flat heels of Big Sister's too big hand-me-down shoes

or the toes of the white tube socks I double-up inside

to keep them from coming loose.

Thinner than the American cheese sandwich in my Barbie lunchbox

or the sweet pickles slices Momma tucks into the soft white bread

in her efforts to make sure I’m nourished and well fed.

Thinner than the postcards tacked to the walls of the door-less room

I share with Big Sis.

Picture postcards of parrots and llamas from a tropical paradise

I’ve never been to yet miss. Ultra thin. Ultra sharp.

Like the pain in Momma's voice, hoarse from raging

against another winter without enough heat and enough meat to keep us warm,

arguing with landlords and shopkeepers that cheat and bill collectors and turn off notices

that warn that soon they will have no choice but to cut us off.

Sharper than the pain in my gut after throwing-up a steady diet of Chiclets, Cheese Doodles, Ring Dings,

chicken wings, Twinkies, frozen pizza, Sabrett hot dogs and pistachio nuts,

Washed down with Kool-Aid, café Negro, Alka Seltzer and Hi-C Hawaiian Fruit Punch.

Sharper than the pain in my chest after coughing up blood from smoking back-to-back packs of

Marlboro Reds,

thinner and sharper than the line Momma draws in the quicksand

between me and my peers. When she says,

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“English Only Spoken Here! We speak English only here!”

Like the belt strap she swings when I forget and cross that line,

but I don’t ever forget who I am nor the Latino Heritage that is mine!.

Inside my Gringa skin beats the wings of an Ecuadorian:

Like the condor who soars over Amazon valley and Andean mountain,

I see it all. I take it all in.

And though I may rise above where I have been,

I keep these childhood memories tucked within:

Of Momma packing me off to school with a sandwich and a kiss,

Of the door less bedroom and late night conversations I shared with Big Sis,

Of the country and culture our momma had dismissed,

Of the people, my Latino blood brothers and salsa sisters, I tried so hard to resist.

Me llamo Roxanna. I am Roxanne.

Soy Americana-Ecuadoriana. Forever Hispanic.

Forever Hispanic-American.

Forever White Dragon …

Cuidadese con la chica muy bonita! Watch the pretty mama!

With the razors tucked in her braids!

January 18, 2005 Revised February 25, 2005

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English Only Spoken Here first appeared in The Bandana Republic: A Literary Anthology by Gang Members and Their Affiliates, Edited by Rivera, Louis Reyes and George, Bruce, Soft Skull Press, 2008.

Roxanne Hoffman worked on Wall Street, now answers a patient hotline for a New York home

healthcare provider. Her words can be found, on and off the net, in Amaze: The Cinquain Journal,

Clockwise Cat, Danse Macabre, The Fib Review, Hospital Drive, Lucid Rhythms, Mobius: The

Poetry Magazine, The New Verse News, The Pedestal Magazine and Shaking Like a Mountain; the

2005 indie flick Love and the Vampire; and several anthologies, including The Bandana Republic: A

Literary Anthology by Gang Members and Their Affiliates (Soft Skull Press), Love After 70 (Wising

Up Press), and It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure

(Harper Perennial). She runs the small literary press Poets Wear Prada with poet, fiction writer and

translator John “Jack” Edward Cooper. Her elegiac poem "In Loving Memory" with illustrations by

Connecticut artist Edward Odwitt was published as a chapbook in 2011.

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Enrico Miguel Thomas

Marc Carver CARER The woman

who looks after

my mother now

used to be my girlfriend

thirty years ago.

When we used to make love

she used to cry.

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Enrico Miguel Thomas

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“English Only Spoken Here! We speak English only here!”

Like the belt strap she swings when I forget and cross that line,

but I don’t ever forget who I am nor the Latino Heritage that is mine!.

Inside my gringa skin beats the wings of an Ecuadorian:

Like the condor who soars over Amazon valley and Andean mountain,

I see it all. I take it all in.

And though I may rise above where I have been,

I keep these childhood memories tucked within:

Of Momma packing me off to school with a sandwich and a kiss,

Of the door less bedroom and late night conversations I shared with Big Sis,

Of the country and culture our momma had dismissed,

Of the people, my Latino blood brothers and salsa sisters, I tried so hard to resist.

Me llamo Roxanna. I am Roxanne.

Soy Americana-Ecuadoriana. Forever Hispanic.

Forever Hispanic-American.

Forever White Dragon …

Cuidadese con la chica muy bonita! Watch the pretty mama!

With the razors tucked in her braids!

January 18, 2005 Revised February 25, 2005

"English Only Spoken Here" first appeared in The Bandana Republic: A Literary Anthology by Gang Members and Their Affiliates, Edited by Rivera, Louis Reyes and George, Bruce, Soft Skull Press, 2008.

DJ Swykert

Hooch Monkey

Two appointments were already missed, but I had two ahead, and I would need money as

there was no further work until Monday. I was careful to keep my weekends free for enjoyment, for

the great binge, the warpath this hooch monkey goes on every weekend-this black hole where nothing

escapes.

I’m a stoner, fucked up as often as not. But I’m an informed stoner, a juicer of the nth degree.

I needed to get to my two swimming pool cleanings. I needed to explode from the darkness like the

first fiery particles of the origins of our cosmos, and I needed fuel, solids in my stomach. I got in my

car and stopped at the first McDonald’s. I walked inside. I needed to pee first. As my stream splashed

into the receptacle my stomach erupts, and frog legs, fries, grease, bread, coleslaw, and the juices of

my lovemaking with the bourbon spill into the toilet along with my urine. I grip the walls of the stall,

holding myself upright as I retch myself inside out. The toilet paper roll becomes a makeshift towel

and I clean myself off, my shirt, my mouth, as best I can. I look for blood in the in the toilet but see

none. That’s a relief. A bit sticky and putrid I wade out of the bathroom and get into line.

“May I help you?” a rather chubby girl with narrow lips and extra wide hips says from in

front of the cash register.

“Two quarter-pounders with cheese, large fries and a large coke,” dribbles off of my sour

tasting tongue.

“Is that for here or to go?”

“Uh, to go,” my tongue managed.

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She took the last of my money, set my bill down and filled the order. Out in my car I inhaled

the burger with large gulps of the pop. Inside the glove box was a bottle of aspirin. I took six of them,

sandwiched between mouthfuls of the burger in my mouth. I’ve done this before, many times, this

routine of doctoring myself, trying to stave off the shaking and paranoia to follow. I wish I had some

Valium, or Serzone, or better yet, Xanax. But those require prescriptions, which take a doctor visit

and I’m low on the funds needed to perpetuate my daily intake of Mad Dog. There’s no money for

doctors and meds. But when available, the meds allowed me to slug away at wine or vodka, or my

favorite, bourbon, and awake buzzed enough on downers or anti-depressants to feel almost normal, to

function normally, function like everyone else. But in their absence, the food and aspirin will at least

get me through the afternoon of pool cleaning so I can collect a couple of checks to sustain me with

alcohol through the weekend. Until Monday I can doctor myself once again, and begin all over that

evening. It’s a cycle, a circle of highs and lows, up and down and around, and where it stops, well,

we all know, every last AA member in God’s green universe knows, it will end in death. The most

memorable speaker at any AA meeting I’ve ever attended concluded his talk with these penetrating

words: “Most of us in this room will die with alcohol in our veins.”

Everybody thinks stoners are irresponsible. But it isn’t true. We have to be very responsible to

meet our needs as our lives are complicated and require it. The average day of a junkie, alcoholic,

wino, juicer or pill popper is more complex than the average person. It takes detailed planning to

function as a wino-junko: you’ve got to get money, find a reliable source, get the dope, keep the

dope, hide it from your friends and then find a time and place to use your dope. The reality is an

alcoholic, or junkie, has no friends. Fuck, they will steal your stash; drink your booze, shoot your

horse, inhale it, sniff it, snort it, smoke it. You can’t trust anybody. You have to be careful of who

you talk to or you’ll end up in jail, and jail, even a short time, can be a death sentence. If another

prisoner doesn’t kill you the DT’s might. Withdrawal can kill you as certain as someone trying to

steal your stash.

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And if you think your job is tough, try doing it with a banger, hung over. Just trying to think jangles

your nerves. You jump at the least little noise. You worry someone at work will recognize the

symptoms of your lifestyle; the slight tremble, red eyes, nervousness. You’ll get fired and then have

no money, you’ll have to steal. And if you’re already stealing as opposed to working, there’s the

worry about getting caught and going to jail and death. Dopers and alcoholics can’t do jail. It’s not a

sentence, it’s a form of torture, better they just water board you or kill you and get it over with. Then

there’s the ever present worry about your stash of alcohol or dope. Even if you don’t get fired, or go

to jail, you may just come home and find it missing.

On a good day, when you get off of work, you get home and your stash is intact, you can

momentarily relax and enjoy your fix or shot or shoot or snort or whatever you do. But it’s a

momentary relief. You relax, enjoy your life for a short while, feel good, and sleep. But in the

morning you’ll wakeup with the same banger and set problems you’ve got up with ever since you

became an alcoholic-wino-junko. It’s not an easy life you have chosen.

Or should that be was chosen for you? I do not feel as if there was any conscious choice on

my part to be who I am. There is no reason I am an alcoholic drug addict, I just am. I just became. It

happened and I had nothing to say about it. A lot of people see it as a character defect, but at least

half of the medical community would disagree with them. The further science studies genetics, the

more science lines up on the side of the inherited camp. What I do was predestined, scheduled for me,

but this is not the entire picture. There are choices, disciplines like AA you can follow and alter any

predisposition. You can set aside inclinations and take a higher road, a better way to live. But it is

difficult, for some it’s impossible.

At this moment, though, I am not on a better course. My morning, my cycle, has not caused

me to look at alternatives to this life of dope and debauchery-I have not fallen hard enough, yet. Right

now what I need is money to procure not only further druggings, but some of life’s essentials,

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like a place to live, to sleep. I cleaned my tray of wrappers, finished the coke and left McDonalds for

one of the two appointments I hadn’t missed. On the way I phoned the two early pool cleanings and

thankfully was able to reschedule them.

The first cleaning was a newbie, one I hadn’t done before. A large woman greeted me in a

very tight two-piece bathing suit that revealed a lot more than anyone needed, or probably wanted, to

see. The bathing suit fit so tight she looked like a side of hanging beef dressed in a bikini. No, she

looked worse, make it hanging hippo wearing a bikini. “Jack Joseph, I’m here to clean the pool.”

She not only was a biggie, she was surly. “How much?”

“What I quoted you on the phone two days ago,” I snarked, “Sixty-five dollars, which

includes chemicals.”

She grimaced, nodded her head. “So, clean it already.”

I noticed one thing about cleaning pools with a severe hangover. The shaking doesn’t impede

my vacuuming. It causes the brush to sort of wiggle and scrape across the bottom of the pool and

helps to lift the algae.

This pool had more muck than a swamp. I expected to suck up frogs or piranhas out of the

slime. I imagined her tiptoeing across the pool, jam from between her chubby toes oozing into the

water, and shuddered at the thought.

At pool number two there was nobody home, there never was. They were a couple of young

professionals who always left the check in the pool shed, for which I had a key. The check never

bounced.

The cleaning went quickly, without any interference. My head still hurt, but functioned. I

liked the mundane rote work of cleaning pools. It allowed me uninterrupted time to think, which I did

a lot of back in the days when I yearned for physics and believed we were on the threshold of

developing the elusive Theory of Everything, or T.O.E. as physicists referred to it. A unified theory

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that would provide a model that explained everything. But the theories were flawed. The equations

worked as a hologram, but not in three spatial dimensions. Mathematics proved the church is wrong,

the earth is round but space is flat.

Finished with the pools and checks in hand, I was done for the day. No more pools until

Monday. My own space was my foremost problem, Theories of Everything and answers to the all

could wait for another time. I needed a real bed to crash in tonight. With the money from the two

pool cleanings in hand, there was enough for a cheap room and a few bottles of the grape to quiet my

quaking stomach and cure my shakes.

With a fifth of vodka and two bottles of Mad Dog in my arms I filled in the Motel Six

register. I put the pen down and waited for the key.

“That’ll be forty-nine forty-three with tax. Do you want this on your credit card?” the pert

blonde asked.

“Cash,” I mumbled, and set the bag with the vodka and wine down on the floor as my hands

searched my pockets for the bills.

The desk clerk picked up the three twenties. “I’ll get your receipt,” she said, pulling a plastic

key from the file under the counter and setting it in front of me with my change.

I considered my options: there really weren’t any. Elle won’t have me; Delilah’s husband is

home, Rosemary’s husband is home, that only leaves Rita Simone. And if she’s home, she’s probably

not alone.

“Here’s your receipt, sir.”

The key is in hand. My room and the vodka await. I’ve secured a place for the night, and

tomorrow, and tomorrow is a long time away, an eternity if you perceive it that way. Time has no

reality. It’s what we say it is. It’s not a distance or a destination; it’s not an amount and has no

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substance. It’s just a human construct to prevent everything from happening at once.

The room was sparse but neat and orderly. The fresh made bed summoned me. I opened the

vodka and gulped down all but a few jiggers, then washed the vodka down with the Mad Dog 20/20.

My head leaned back onto the pillows and I closed my eyes and waited for the alcohol to land, to

settle me, turn my world into bliss.

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DJ Swykert is a former 911 operator. His work has appeared in The Tampa Review, Detroit News,

Monarch Review, Lunch Ticket, Zodiac Review, Barbaric Yawp and Bull. His books include Maggie

Elizabeth Harrington and The Pool Boy's Beatitude. You can find him at:

www.magicmasterminds.com/djswykert. He is a wolf expert.

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Joy Leftow THAT WORK THAT IS SO FINE My painting invested with four months of life oil colors on canvas three feet wide interpreting the artists' studio The room burnished with earthen colors the ceiling high and wide represented as a clear blue sky with clouds of varying shades from white to grey Using colors to reveal my feelings inspired by my master investigating my strengths through his wisdom, usurping his vision How do you get this effect or that Make a cloud look billowy and soft Train your hand to make an image and still relay your feelings with training, craft and skill? While I shyly bowed my head, the master declared my work showed great strides, my growth in perspective was a triumph for him He was astonished how I used colors to accomplish these effects Four months, three hours a day, two days a week I slaved to nurture my untrained abilities to complete my still life My lover was fascinated by the color, the depth, the room where the ceiling became a sky with no limit, the inner space that stretched to meet the cosmos of time

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Please, my lover begged me Give me that work that is so fine that piece of you, your mind, that inner space that I can claim is mine Please give me that work that is so fine in which you invested great quantities of self and time I gave him my work of art because I believed he loved me There came the day I stood outside his door found that he had gone away I stood pondering and saw nothing amiss Then suddenly I looked up and saw Atop the lamp post that stood outside his door, my cherished work of art, its insides crushed and torn, the lamp post protruding through my blue sky, my grey white clouds, my heart Published 2006, Spot Of Bleach, Big Foot Press, A Diaspora Publication Published again: Alex Bustillo, 2009, http://bustill.blogspot.com/2009

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Enrico Miguel Thomas

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Susana H. Case

Causeuse

a small couch, tête-a-tête, origin, Fr: a talkative woman Telemarketer on the phone, you ask: name every brand of soda you can think of. Finnibrun, I answer, Mesonoxian, Diet Lopeholt. Don’t get me started on Aveniform High Voltage, I’ve had too much caffeine. Last night, my man accused me of running out of love; I cried it’s nothing either of us did and maybe it’s inevitable, an empty larder, that loss of fizz. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I’m running out of the ability to name. Eccedentesiast, someone who fakes a smile—six-pack of fake smile next to the defrosting steaks. Can I take this moment to talk about flesh? Let me give you a by-the-way about a tribe in Australia: the midwife names all the living relatives of a baby, who gets assigned the one called out at the moment in birth the placenta drops off. Wikmungkan, the tribe. Sodas, you prompt, and I volley Sabrage, which is not a brand at all, but the heavy hand of opening a soda bottle with a cavalry sword. Not the act he promised when we first fell in love, though that’s what it’s come to, his forcing words into my mouth, tell me you love me... and maybe that’s how he thinks he can avoid wanweird, unhappy fate. Sabre in Arabic means patience, and, as I chide you, not the one I should be talking to, patience’s a better choice than sword.

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Susana H. Case

The divorce decree arrives a day

before Valentine's, a stamp from

the court signed and dated, thick,

exhausted sheaf of absolution

from your mask and dreams.

How well I know those dreams

in which you slice me open,

how well everything's now gone

cordial, like a nauseating sweet drink,

how well you made clear your

preference for control of me over

love, but we never talked about it,

never truly talking. In the silence

of the moment after I open

the envelope from the court, I need

to remind myself of the disaster

we were, a highway pileup, how I'm

wary of cuts from any papers

associated with you because there are

always two versions of why we came

not to want one another any more.

Because so many of us lie for a living,

how I needed to repeat for years that

I didn't want you, until I believed it.

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Susana H. Case is a Professor and Program Coordinator at the New York Institute of Technology.

Her photos have appeared in San Pedro River Review and Blue Hour Magazine, among others.

Author of several chapbooks, her Slapering Hol Press chapbook, The Scottish Café, was published in

a dual-language version, Kawiarnia Szkocka, by Poland’s Opole University Press. She authored the

books, Salem In Séance (WordTech Editions), Elvis Presley’s Hips & Mick Jagger’s Lips (Anaphora

Literary Press), and Earth and Below (Anaphora Literary Press). 4 Rms w Vu is forthcoming from

Mayapple Press in 2014.

Please visit her online at: http://iris.nyit.edu/~shcase/.

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Enrico Miguel Thomas The Apple Store 2

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YEARNING FROM ICE It’s inside, where your arms go into the universe— Adjacent-seeming to the inmost sense— It’s a dream you’re anything more than now; and there’s no such thing— At first, bring in your warm shawl deep— Please enter the moment’s sacred space; accepting even your refusal to do so—

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John D. Harper

DÉJÀ VU OF A RECKLESS ENGINE You live within a dream; so how can I be upset with you? The same confusion applies to me— We’re both lost to making sense; the mind appeals to the very thing it makes; it calls out and we answer it, forgetting whom we’re speaking to –

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Some of John Harper’s poems have been published by literary journals like DIAGRAM, FIVE

QUARTERLY, MID-AMERICAN POETRY REVIEW, and CUTBANK. His chapbook, PEEK-A-

BOO TERRAIN, was published by Little Partner Press, in 2005. He graduated from the University of

Iowa’s MFA program in 2001. Harper adds that he doesn’t know what he is doing, but is enjoying

life all the same.

johndharper3@gmail.com

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Enrico Miguel Thomas

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Daniel Barbare The Poem and the Janitor I’m writing a poem polishing it to a shine a squeaky clean window so I can see in the light of things.

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Danny P. Barbare resides in the Upstate of the Carolinas. He works as a janitor at a local YMCA in

Simpsonville, SC. His poetry has recently appeared in Assisi Online Journal, Blood and Thunder,

The Round, and Doxa. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net.

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Kevin O’Rourke A poet’s harp, made of the breastbone of his muse, sings the Unnamable   Sixteen years old, too young to utter G-d’s name,  midway across the bridge to the Underworld,  Jack held John Berryman’s jacket when he jumped  and broke his body on the rocks below.    When Sylvia in her London flat put her head in the oven,  Jack placed towels to keep gas from seeping  beneath the door of the children’s room  where they were sleeping.    Jack heard the saddest poet who ever sang of love  spin the chamber and pull the trigger.  Seagulls cried Brautigan Brautigan and circled above  oceans of watermelon sugar.    Jack recited last rites for Anne Sexton,  and absolved her of bipolar-driven sins  when she closed the garage door  and started up her car within.    Jack breathed New York City smog  as Dylan Thomas inhaled his pneumonia.  Jack drank Glenlivet in the fog,  as Welshman’s wet brain swelled within his cranium.    Jack raised Kerouac’s last empty to the light  as he drowned in esophageal blood.  Saw the beat poet’s ghost trapped, so Jack shattered the glass  and released Kerouac’s Dharma to the road.    Jack sat beside Woody Guthrie’s bed  in Creedmoor asylum, and gently squeezed his hand.  He exhaled his last breath . . .  poet’s mind and body becoming this land.

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Jack stood at the crossroads at midnight  learning blues poems from Robert Johnson.  When the devil showed up, shook hands all around,  then Old Nick and Robert went on down.    Jack sang Sundance songs as he mopped up brains  of Iron Range communist and friend Al Nurmi,  salvaged his manuscripts of poems and tall tales  from the public-assistance high-rise.    In the alley behind the Memphis blood bank  Jack’s old mentor chants The Idea of Ancestry and recites toasts.  When he drank, he crapped his pants and stank.  Jack still tells lies to Etheridge Knight’s ghost.

~

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Kevin O'Rourke is of mixed ethnic ancestry, from a long line of Freethinkers, as comfortable on the

Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota as in Ireland, Scotland, ghettos of Chicago, Synagogues in

Minneapolis, or among poor whites who work on the barges on the Mississippi River. His work

encompasses modern and traditional poetic plus story telling forms including epics, ancient Gaelic

and Norse forms, Appalachian and blues forms, jazz forms, folk histories, social essays, and the

writing of novels. Kevin works on a grassroots level with mostly men and some women who search

for healing from nihilistic rage brought on by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He has taught street

kids to draw and write comic books, build geodesic domes, yurts, tipistolas (tipis), solar cookers,

sustainable gardening, how to build fire with bow and drill, and has hustled donations for baseball

equipment. O'Rourke has run poetry workshops in prisons and homeless shelters, and is proud to do

this type work.

Editor’s note: Kevin O’Rourke’s following poem took first place in the Cape Cod community radio station poetry contest and won $1000 prize. Marge Piercy selected it. Another very fine poet, Emily Lloyd suggested O’Rourke cut the last two verses from his original version. He did and came up with this. He thanks Emily. We published O’Rourke’s poem, Assassination Of Jimi Hendrix in summer issue of 2012. We are pleased to offer his poetry again and to assist him in bragging rights.

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Enrico Miguel Thomas

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thom woodruff

A Way Of Life when ships still were seen

as a way of getting around

i scraped the rust from the bottom of each hulk

slave labor/we were galley slaves

deep in the dark of ships

i scraped a living when young

Now ships are stories /ghost ships gone

Cruise ships travel the world for a song

They still dump waste into the deep

i still scrape a living from stories like these

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Thom Woodruff, also known as “the world poet,” lives and works in Austin. “He keeps

the Austin poetry scene going single-handed,” is what fellow poets say about Thom

Woodruff.

Thom World Poet is an improvising bard who works best with improvising musicians. He

hosts EXPRESSIONS and is a Founder of Austin International Poetry Festival. He believes

in open mikes and jamming with consonant souls. Worldpoet@rocketmail.com

Woodruff’s books can be checked out at http://www.worldpoetry.org. The following website publishes many of Woodruff’s poetry. Woodruff asked me to

share this site as it may be of interest to many poets and performers:

http://www.gonzoweekly.com/

http://www.gonzomultimedia.co.uk/about.html

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Enrico Miguel Thomas

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Mike Radice

The Ziegfeld Cure

It was Billie Burke’s annual Halloween party at Burkeley Crest, her three-acre estate on the

Hudson River, and she had plans for Vera Camtro, a guest who should arrive any minute. Billie had

even dressed for the role in a black widow spider costume. A web topped her head like an open

Japanese fan.

She checked the clock -- 7:35 p.m., not much time to act. Flo Ziegfeld, her husband, would

be home in a half hour, and she needed to get Vera crawling on the floor. Flo was a Broadway

producer and sire of The Ziegfeld Follies, a series of annual variety shows parading half-naked

women on the stage to live music. He’d been staging them for 22 years. Vera, his floozie, was one

of the women.

The Broadway theater world was here tonight, the ideal audience for Billie's show. She'd

embarrass Vera in front of Irving Berlin, Ruth Etting, Eddie Cantor, gossip columnists, and the 100

or so others milling about, a crowd Vera would want to impress. They were actually here to

ingratiate Flo and Billie, the king and queen of Broadway, but she’d give them a little extra. She was

an established Broadway lady in her own right, and she could make or destroy a career just by

whispering in a producer’s ear. She'd exercise some of that power tonight.

Billie had never done anything like this before, and she wished she didn’t have to. But she

was on the defensive and had no choice. If there was anything this business had taught her over the

last 30 years it was to "take the stage or be buried by it," and she'd shove Vera into the wings. After

all, Vera had pursued her husband. It wasn't because she loved him -- none of them did. It was

41

because she wanted better parts in his shows. Vera knew Flo’s flesh was weak, and she'd gone right

for it.

That floozie hadn’t been the first. Flo had had a string of affairs over the 15 years of their

marriage, and some had been in the papers. She’d tried to stop them by using techniques most wives

did: screaming, smashing plates, then threatening to kick him out. He'd apologize, mean it, and then

do it again. Most men could stop, but Flo couldn’t. It was an addiction for him, like gambling or

drinking was for others. But tonight, he would stop. People quit drinking and gambling after a

dramatic event, so she’d create one for him. Billie loved Flo and didn't want to lose him. She also

needed to protect their 13-year-old daughter, Patty. She was daddy's little girl, and it had been

wearing her down too.

Keeping news about the affairs from Patty had been like trying to hold back reporters from a

Lindbergh crash. When gossip hit the press, Billie threw out the papers and didn't discuss his

shenanigans when Patty was home. But her daughter attended school where gossip travelled from

parent-to-child-to-Patty faster than a Duesenberg could carry it. Whenever Patty had found out,

Billie would try to smooth it over by saying things like, “You know how things are, dear. Scandals

sell papers. These women are just Daddy’s friends. It’s good to have friends of many kinds.” But

she wasn't fooling Patty anymore and was starting to lose her daughter's trust. How could a mother

teach and protect her daughter without trust?

Billie’s fans were also starting to doubt her, and that put her career in danger. She lived to act. She

lived for the applause. She lived to create imaginary worlds. But reporters had started implying that

she wasn’t satisfying Flo’s needs and wasn't supportive of his work. The nerve of those men, trying

to damage her career to protect Flo’s. If the fans turned against her, they'd quit caring and would stop

buying tickets. She used to get letters from admirers saying, “I named my daughter after you,” and

“Miss Burke, I want to marry you.” But now, they read, “I thought you were better than that,” and

42

“You should be a wife first.” Her heart sank every time she read one.

She didn’t know why she loved Flo, but the thought of losing him made her heart race. It also

made her feel angry and confused. She needed him, and he felt the same about her. But would their

15 years together be enough to hold him? Could he get the same feeling from someone else?

It was 7:40 p.m., and Billie was waiting in the foyer for Vera, passing the time talking to

composer Richard Rodgers. He was a delightful young man with an open face and almond-shaped

eyes, and this morning he'd put the final touches on the music for the February opening of Flo’s show

Simple Simon.

“Which is our favorite song?” Billie asked.

“Oh, I like them all,” Richard said, raising his hands in a truce.

She lightly touched his arm. “Pick one. Our secret.”

“I guess it would be ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’.”

“Sing a verse for me.”

“It doesn’t have many lyrics, and Mr. Hart wrote them.”

“I know that, but you know the words.”

“I’m not much of a singer.”

“Don’t sing loud, then. Really, I’d love to hear it.”

He sang with a tremor in his voice. “She dances on the ceiling, over my bed, on my side

through the night.”

Bad choice. She'd been talking to him to avoid thinking about what she had to do tonight. A

dancer had bedded her husband. She didn't need new imagery to make it worse.

She held up a stop-sign hand. “Lovely,” she said, trying to stay cheerful.

“You didn’t like it?”

“Oh, I loved it.”

43

Then a cold breeze saved her. Mr. Jamieson, her butler, had opened the front door for some

guests.

“Sing me some more later,” she said as she squeezed his arm and excused herself.

Billie walked to the door and flipped on her hostess role. The first to walk in was a Follies

girl, Mary O’Connor, dressed like a butterfly. As Billie greeted her, she saw three more Follies girls

behind her: a witch, a bunny, and a magpie. The magpie was Vera, and on her head was a black cap

with a bobbing yellow beak.

This was Billie’s chance. She’d been up half the night figuring out how to pull this off. If it

worked, she’d feel safer. If it didn’t, she’d be embarrassed. But whichever happened, Vera's beak

would be swinging like a palm branch in a hurricane by the time Billie was through with her.

Vera saw Billie, stopped in the doorway, and turned to leave. Billie reached for the girl's arm

and grabbed her black sleeve.

“Dear, please come in,” Billie said with a smile, pretending she didn't know about the affair.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. There are at least four here, but they won’t hurt you. Please

come in. I’m so happy you’re here.”

Vera hesitated. Billie reached for her hands and clasped them in her own. Vera's was cold.

She had a blank look on her face.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Burke,” Vera said, her voice thin, her lips tight. “I thought

you were in Chicago.”

“Flo’s mother is better, and I certainly didn’t want to miss tonight.” She squeezed Vera’s

hands a little tighter. “Really dear, come in and enjoy yourself. It’s cold out there.”

Mr. Jamieson took their shawls as the bunny reached out to Vera and pointed toward the sun-

room. There, a group of people danced to ragtime music. As the young women passed Billie, the

bunny sneered. Billie sneered back. She'd stay aware of the bunny.

While Vera danced with a vampire, Billie made the rounds of the bartending stations –

44

enclosed porch, front parlor, and finally the sunroom. At each stop she let the mixers know that Vera

was here. Billie waited 10 feet away from Vera while the eight-piece band finished playing Ain’t

Misbehavin’.

Over the years, Billie had learned of Flo’s affairs from a variety of sources. She'd learned

about this one from Follies girl Elsie Earl. Elsie was one of three dancers Billie had tapped to tell her

about Flo's dalliances and intrigues, each beholden to Billie for her job. She’d discovered them as

waitresses, bit players, and office clerks, and would recommend them to Flo for the Follies. She

knew what her husband liked, and he always hired her suggestions. After the girl’s first performance,

Billie took her out to lunch and made two things clear: stay away from my husband, and you’re

going to be my eyes at the theater. In return, Billie assured the girl she’d remain employed. The

Ziegfeld Follies was the most professional and well-paid opportunity in New York and had launched

the careers of many women and men, including Fanny Brice, Myrna Loy, and Will Rogers. Once in,

a performer wanted to stay in.

When the last chord of Ain’t Misbehavin’ played, Billie froze. Would this really work?

Would the floozie cooperate? She nervously tapped the girl on her shoulder. “Darling, you’re such a

good dancer."

Vera turned around, and the vampire raced to the bar. Billie studied her. She was the classic

Follies girl: slender waist, erect posture, peaches and cream complexion, straight white teeth. Billie

understood why Flo wanted her.

“A blood and sand, dear?” Billie asked.

The girl looked left and right, searching for an escape. Billie was tickled by her angst and

enjoyed the torture, but she had to move on to the next stage: befriend the girl. A drink would help.

“Miss Burke, really, I must--”

“I’ve heard so many good things about you from the girls. And you dance so beautifully.”

Vera looked tense and confused.

45

Billie glanced at the cocktail table and gave a quick wink to Sammy the bartender, a thin,

attractive young man with dark hair and sharp features. He winked back. He knew about Billie’s

plan and was happy to do it. His wife had abandoned him two years ago for another man, leaving

him with two kids under five to raise. He'd been the head bartender at The Savoy before Prohibition,

and had made tonight's liquor and hired the mixers. Billie’s parties paid for his Ford Model A

woody.

Sammy brought over two drinks. He gave the blood and sand to Vera, who accepted it with a

polite smile, and then gave Billie a glass of tomato juice. Billie didn't drink alcohol; it wrinkled her

beauty. She might be 45, but she looked 30 and wanted to stay that way for as long as she could.

“Do you have a part in Simple Simon?” Billie asked Vera. “I can’t remember.”

“No. I’m doing the Follies tour.”

Billie stopped breathing. Flo would join the tour in a couple of weeks. She’d better stop the

affair before her left.

Vera sipped. “My, this is good.” A little smile snuck out.

As Billie sipped her juice, she noticed a wedding band on the girl’s finger. She didn't know

Vera was married. Usually, the floozies were single. She felt sorry for the girl's husband; he could

be part of Billie's team. He might be valuable later, if tonight's plan failed. Certainly, he'd want to

know.

Vera pointed at Billie's glass and asked, “What’s in the juice?” She'd made it sound like a

polite joke.

“Just juice. I have to keep my wits about me. Now, I'll let you in on a little secret.” She

leaned in and patted Vera’s arm like a best friend would. “Every cocktail table has a different drink

using Sammy's special recipes. It’s mint julep on the porch, and the ones in the front parlor include

his special bee's knees. You should do a complete tour of the tables. I’ll take you around."

46

"Oh, I'm not much of a drinker.”

Terrific news.

"This is a party," Billie insisted.

"Oh, I--"

"There's delicious food and drink everywhere, and it cost me a fortune. Sample it all." She

made a sweeping gesture with her arms; the spider web unfurled beneath. "And dear, where’s your

husband? Too bad he couldn’t come.” She dropped her hands to her hips.

Vera’s smile faded. Her eyes turned to slits. “He hates these things.”

“Such a pity.”

Billie felt an ounce of worry for the girl. Did Vera’s husband ridicule her? Did he cheat on

her too? She hoped he wasn’t physically abusive. She wanted to stop the affair, not kill the girl.

She'd check with Elsie before she contacted him.

"Where are you from?" Billie asked.

"Ohio."

"Oh, what a coincidence. Where? My parents were from Ohio."

"Cincinnati."

"My father was from Knox County and my mother not far from Cincinnati. How did you get

to New York?"

"My father died when I was a baby, and my mother died when I was 17."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear." Billie felt a twinge of empathy. She touched Vera's arm. "Both of

mine died years ago."

"How horrible."

"It's been awhile. I've adjusted.” She felt a sudden ping of loss and took a quiet breath.

“Now, you were saying?"

47

Vera took a sip of her drink, which was down to half full. "I've always wanted to be an

actress, you know, like Mary Pickford. I didn't want to live with my aunt anymore, so I hopped on a

train and came here. I got bit parts and worked in a dress shop. But then I got in the chorus of

George White's Scandals. People thought I was pretty good, so I went to Mr. Ziegfeld -- uh, your

husband -- and got an audition."

As Vera drank, she went on her about stage work, her love of New York, her cat, Penelope,

and her family scattered across Europe. She hadn't mentioned her husband. Billie nodded and said

things like “that’s interesting” and “of course.” Vera seemed to need a friend, and that made her feel

sorry for the girl. But then Billie saw someone’s husband flirting with the butterfly. The feeling

vanished as fast as it arrived.

"Your glass is empty," Billie said with renewed determination. "Let's get you another. We'll

try the mint julep on the porch."

"I really should join--"

"Nonsense." Billie waved the comment away. “When she’s ready for you, she’ll find you.

This is a big house, but it isn’t the Waldorf.” She took Vera’s glass and set it on a table.

"Well, it was delicious,” Vera said.

“Besides, I want to hear more about your grandmother in Ireland. My father's family was

from there.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that."

“Come, dear.”

Billie took Vera’s hand and led her through the foyer to the covered porch, keeping her eye

out for the bunny. She didn't see the floppy ears, thank goodness, but she moved quicker just in case.

Once there, the space felt relaxed, quiet, and there were only 10 people milling about. She winked at

the bartender. He winked back.

48

Vera eyed the buffet covered with cheeses, meats, and deserts, all choreographed on silver platters,

making them look like cathedral rose windows. “I’m hungry,” Vera said, patting her flat stomach.

Follies girls rarely ate, so the alcohol must have flooded her self-denial. Billie offered to

prepare a plate, not wanting Vera to eat bready things that might absorb alcohol.

“Go easy,” Vera said.

“Certainly, dear.” Billie realized she could fatten her up too; Flo preferred trim women. She

filled a small China plate with salty things – cheese chunks, olives in brine, Brazil nuts, and then gave

it to Vera. The bartender walked over and gave the girl a drink. Vera set the plate down on a small

table, popped two cheese squares into her mouth, and took a sip.

“Yummy,” Vera said. She ate two Brazil nuts and took a gulp. Her normally ice-blue eyes

were turning smoky-gray.

“Tell me about your grandmother,” Billie said.

The bunny appeared. "There you are," she said to Vera in a loud, lilting voice. She gave a

strained smile to Billie as she reached out for Vera’s hand. “Come join us. We've found the most

wonderful men in the parlor. Come, come."

Vera finished the drink, set it down, and took the bunny's hand. "Escuse me," she said to

Billie. “It was lovely talking to you.”

Billie placed her glass on a table, grabbed the girls’ joined hands, and squeezed. “But we

haven't finished our chat." She pulled their hands apart, held Vera’s, winked at the mixer for another

drink, and motioned to the bunny to move on. "She'll be there in a minute. We’re talking about

Ireland."

“But I just met Mr. Shubert,” the bunny said. “He’d like to meet her.”

Lee Shubert was a competing theatrical producer. Follies girls switched to his company when

they wanted more serious roles. Did Vera want to become a genuine actress? Billie had seen her

49

perform. Lee wasn’t going to hire her.

"I’ll come back in a shminute," Vera said to Billie. But she was in no condition to meet Lee

Shubert.

“I’ll bring her over,” Billie told the bunny.” It won’t be long. Go. Enjoy yourself. Have you

tried the bee's knees in the front parlor?”

“Yes. I’ve had two.”

“Splendid,” Billie said.

The bunny pointed at Vera. “Find me when you’re finished.”

Vera was too fogged to carry a conversation, so Billie kept it going. The girl wasn't quite

drunk enough for the next step, so she had the mixer give her another drink. As the girl sipped, Billie

chatted about Patty's short stories, the repair costs for the tennis courts, and on other mundane topics.

In the midst of describing the 10 different kinds of cheeses on the platters, Vera finished her drink

and put her hand to her mouth to cover a belch. Her eyes had a sleepy-time look. She was almost

ready for the next stage.

Billie helped Vera onto a chair and then heard commotion in the foyer. She stretched her

neck and saw that Flo was home; the noise was from the dozens of guests shouting out to him. She

was happy to see him, wanted to be with him, and needed to get out there and show the crowd that

they were a loving couple.

She motioned to the bartender to get Vera another drink; he nodded. The girl was pretty gone,

but not all the way there. Billie needed someone to watch her while she joined her husband. She

looked across the room and saw singer Ruth Etting in a clown costume sitting on a bench. Ruth's

exaggerated red lips formed a smile as Billie approached. Her husband sat next to her dressed as a

gangster, a costume fitting his personality.

"Ruth, dear. Could you keep an eye on that girl in the chair over there?" She pointed. “The poor

50

thing got a bit tipsy, I'm afraid. I’ll come back and sober her up. It’ll only be a minute. Her

name is Vera, and she likes to talk about her career. Maybe you can help her.”

Ruth smirked. "Does she work for your husband?"

"Yes.'

"I Thought so. Sure. I'll watch her."

Ruth's husband butted in. "Can't you see we're busy?" He had a reputation for

possessiveness. Ruth cowered, so Billie backed-off and apologized.

The noise grew louder in the foyer as Billie hunted for someone else. She saw Fanny Brice at

the buffet table loading a plate. Fanny worked for Flo as a comedienne, but tonight she was a

flapper. She probably didn't know about the affair (she was out of the gossip loop). But it didn't

matter. Most who worked for Flo respected Billie.

The bartender gave Vera another drink. Vera guzzled it, spilling some on her black dress.

Billie motioned to him for another. She’d keep the girl drinking until she was licking the floorboards.

"Just keep her in here and out of sight," Billie said to Fanny. "I’ll be back in a minute to help

her."

"She looks gone, Miss Burke," Fanny said as Vera drank like a boy slurping an orange soda.

"What are you gonna to do with her?"

"I’ll think of something.”

“Alright, I'll do it." Fanny scanned Vera with eyes of disgust.

"I shanta wanta drink," Vera said.

"You shanta wanna nothing,” Fanny said. “Do you want to get fired?”

Vera shook her head "no." Billie left to join her husband.

In the foyer, Flo's valet had taken her husband's gray Homburg, mahogany cane, and suede

gloves and hung them on the coat tree. Billie wiggled through the crowd; it was freezing in there.

She grabbed Flo's arm, put her head on his shoulder, and he kissed it. He felt so warm, so strong, so

51

loving. She wanted to stay like this for forever and wished she didn't have to through with her

plan, but she hated the thought of losing him.

“Mr. Ziegfeld,” Joseph Urban yelled from 10 feet away. Mr. Urban was Flo's set designer, a

portly man with a triple chin. He motioned for Flo to follow him. “I have something to tell you.”

“Mr. Ziegfeld,” yelled Eddie Cantor, dressed as an aviator. He ran in from the sun room.

“How the heck are you?”

And on it went, greeting after greeting, men saddling-up to her husband. Their immediate

needs stole her moment, which made her think of Vera. She had to get back to her. She whispered to

Flo, "Dear, I have something to tend to." She let go of his arm, regretfully.

"Certainly," he said, turning up his public smile and squeezing her hand.

As she waved goodbye to everyone, she saw the bunny eyeing Flo from the rear. Her whole

body tensed. Was the bunny next? How many more would she have to deal with? There had been

dozens already. Maybe if she made a huge scene with Vera, the bunny would get the message and

back off.

Billie returned to the porch with fast steps and determination. She found Vera sitting in the

same chair, head drooping, her dress stained by tomato sauce. Fanny must have given her some

meatballs to sober her up, but it'll take more than that. Billie smiled. She had her own cure for Vera's

drunkenness, and she was ready to administer it.

"I think she's had enough," Fanny said to Billie. "She asked for another, but I said nooo."

Thank you, dear. You did the right thing. I'll take over from here. Could you go out and remind Mr.

Ziegfeld that Mr. Urban wants to speak with him. Ask Mr. Jamieson to take them to the library."

She needed to clear the foyer so she could Vera upstairs without causing suspicion.

"Will do, Miss Burke."

Fanny left.

52

Vera belched. "Ooo. I'm a bit sloozee."

“Would you like to freshen up, dear?” Billie asked. “I’ll take you upstairs. Flo asked about

you.” She lied. “He'd like to see you refreshed. And we have to get that stain off your dress."

“He's here?" Vera managed a crooked smile and looked up. Her flimsy fingers tried to adjust

her hat.

"Oh, he can't see you like this."

"S'pose you're right."

Billie looked in the foyer and saw Flo and Mr. Urban heading for the library. The others had

left for food, drink, and dance in the other rooms. The space was clear, and enough people had seen

Vera drunk. The next stage was meant to be private, and she didn't want people to suspect anything.

She helped Vera up and put the girl’s arm over her shoulder. Vera was a few inches taller than Billie

and at least twenty pounds heavier. Billie puffed and strained, but adrenaline kept her going.

“Here, lean on me,” Billie said as she plodded through the foyer to the oak stairs. She

checked for the bunny and saw her dancing in the sunroom with the vampire. He grabbed her behind

and she slapped him. That vampire was really something. She wondered who he was.

When Billie reached the first step, the Venetian vase she'd bought in Italy blocked her. She'd

asked staff to place it there to keep guests from going upstairs. She couldn't move the vase and keep

Vera steady, and she couldn’t drag her around to the back stairs off the kitchen. That path would take

them through the dining room and past a group of Follies girls playing cards at the table. They'd

insist on helping and would asked questions.

Billie moved to the left of the vase and tried to take Vera around it, but the girl bumped into

it, rocking it to-and-fro. The price of that vase equaled two months of Patty's tuition, so she threw her

leg out to catch it and motioned with her chin to the returning Mr. Jamieson for help. He took two

steps toward her when Eddie ran in from nowhere.

53

"Can I help?" Eddie asked, his eyes showing concern.

Billie was caught in her sin. But then again, Eddie didn't know what she was up to. "You can

move the vase," she said, nodding toward it, hoping he'd leave afterwards.

Eddie strained to lift the vase and set it on a table along the wall. "Can I help you up the

stairs?"

“No. I’ve got it. Thank you.” She wasn’t proud of her plan, and she didn’t want him to see

any of it. She liked him, and she cared about what he thought of her.

"Really. You can't manage it," he said. "She looks awful. Isn’t that Vera?” He put his arm

around the girl's waist.

“It certainly is.”

He gave Billie a warning look. “Watch out for her.”

“Oh, believe me. I know. Now, Eddie. This is a woman thing. You can't go up with us, and

I'm just fine.”

He gave her a twisted look.

"Oh, my gosh," Vera said, trying to hold her head up.

"But Billie," he said. "You can't possibly--"

"Really. I'm fine," she said, trying not to snap at him. He certainly was a helper. It was one

of his good qualities; but it was also one of his bad. Billie's back and arms were getting weaker, so

she glared at him. "You can't come into the powder room. I can handle this."

He removed his arm from around Vera and backed up.

“Good luck,” he said as he waved and left.

On the way upstairs, Vera got vocal. "Oh shmy. Yessa, yessa."

“Shh, dear.” Billie put her finger over Vera’s lips.

“I’m frine.”

54

“Shh.” She tried to speed things up, but Vera was too heavy.

Once in Flo's bedroom, Billie sat the girl down in a red velvet chair and then caught her

breath.

Vera patted the tomato sauce stain with her fingers."Whatch ya gonna shoo?"

"I'm going to freshened you up. And we’re going to clean up that dress too.”

"My shair."

"You have a hat on and you're in costume. We just need to tidy you up. You don't want Mr.

Ziegfeld to see you like this, do you?” She almost said "my husband."

Vera didn't answer. She couldn’t answer. She was slumped in the chair. Billie removed the

girl’s shoes and the beaked hat, threw them on the white bedspread, and then pulled the chord for the

help. Within a minute, Deirdre, a tiny girl in a maid's outfit, appeared.

“Oh, Miss Burke. She looks awful,” Deirdre said. She put her hands over her mouth.

"Please get Mr. Ziegfeld from the library, and bring him here right away."

"Yes ma'am."

After Deirdre left, Billie got Vera on her feet and took her into the subway-tiled bathroom.

“Close your eyes, dear. Your makeup is running. You don’t want it in your eyes.”

Vera closed her eyes and touched her face. “Really?”

No, not really.

Billie opened the glass door to the shower. “Now, keep your eyes shut. There’s one step up.

Lift your right foot.”

Vera stepped into the shower. Billie turned on the cold water full blast, and then closed the

door. The wall jets sprayed hard from all directions, stinging and pricking Vera all over. In the mean

time, Billie grabbed three white towels from a shelf, set them on the toilet seat, and used one to dry

her wet sleeves.

55

"Oh, oh, oh. Get me out of here," Vera screamed as she banged on the door.

Billie set the towel down, leaned her back against door, and felt Vera's pounding fists.

"Shlet me out. Shlet me out,” Vera yelled, her pleas muffled by water jets and the closed

door. She pounded harder, and then pushed on the door.

Billie dug her feet into the floor and held her ground as the door bulged in-and-out against her

back. She was proud that she could keep a larger woman in there and wondered where the strength

had come from. It seemed so easy. But Flo had better get here soon. She wasn't sure how much

longer she could hold out.

"Let me out of here," Vera insisted, as the door rattled.

"In a shminute," Billie said, chuckling. "It's good for you. You'll be refreshed.” She turned

her head just enough to see the girl's face through the glass. Vera’s golden hair had come undone and

looked brown and clumped.

"My costume," Vera cried.

"We're cleaning it up. Don't worry."

Flo appeared at the door, hands on hips, brown eyes the size of boulder marbles. “What's this

about?"

“Flo?” Vera cried out.

He took one step into the bathroom, but Billie raised her arms. He stopped.

“Let me out,” Vera pleaded.

Billie dropped her hands and moved away from the door. Vera pushed and tumbled out,

slipping on the wet floor but then catching herself on a towel rack. Flo moved to help.

Billie stomped her foot. “Stand back,” she snapped.

He stopped.

Vera was a sopping, puffy mess. "Oh, God, look at me. Oh God."

56

"One of your dearest friends," Billie said to Flo.

Vera’s face showed embarrassment at first, but then she smiled, revealing her crush. "I’m glad

to see you, Flo,” she said in soft, calm voice.

Billie clenched her fists. “Towels are on the toilet.”

"What in the world?" Flo scratched his head. "What is she doing here?"

Billie stood between her enemies, vibrating with nervous energy. "Here's your floozie. How

does she look?”

"What do you mean 'my floozie'?" he said.

“Just cleaning her up for you."

"I'm not a floozie," Vera said.

Billie's jaw locked.

“She’s not--”

“Don’t, Flo," Billie said. "I know all about it. Last Thursday night when you came home

late, you weren’t at the theater. You were at your apartment in the city -- with her. Do you want me

to keep going? I have lots of details. I always do.”

He looked like a naughty boy unable to defend himself. He knew she had a system, but he

never seemed to learn. Men could be so stupid. He took a step forward, and Billie's arms went up.

She wasn't finished. Her body shook. He'd never hit her before, and he wasn’t a violent man. But

doing this to Vera was something new.

“Stay where you are," Billie said. "She got a little tipsy, your floozie, and I sobered her up.

She had five or six, oh, I don't know, maybe seven drinks. Really, Flo. Couldn't you find someone

better?"

He winced. "You did this to her."

“I had that many?” Vera took the towels off the toilet, raised the lid, vomited, then

57

pulled the chord to flush.

"She did it to herself," Billie pointed at Vera. "This is the kind of woman you want?"

Flo took two steps toward Vera, but Billie stepped in the way.

"Why is she even here?” he asked. "We never invite the girls."

Vera heaved into the toilet again. Billie’s stomach churned. "All the Follies girls were

invited." Billie swallowed to keep from vomiting. The toilet flushed.

"Who invited them?"

"I did. Only six or seven came, though."

Vera wiped her mouth with a towel. "Elsie invited me. She told me Miss Burke would be in

Chicago visiting your mother."

Flo inflated like a blow fish, his Roman nose widening. But Billie stayed solid, unafraid, and

righteous. His anger fed her power; it's what she wanted to see. She wanted him to explode with it.

When this was over, he'd still be hers, and she'd have had her revenge.

Vera patted her shiny soaked dress with a towel.

"How could you be so cruel?" Flo said to Billie, half under his breath. He ran his fingers

through his brown hair.

"Cruel. Me cruel? You’re the cruel one.” Billie clenched her fists. “You betrayed me. And

your daughter too.”

“Leave Patty out of it,” he shouted. His face turned red.

“I want to, but you drag her in. And you dragged the floozie's husband in too. Did you

know she was married?"

Flo's jaw dropped. "You're married?"

"She has a ring on her finger," Billie said, pointing at the girl’s hand.

"Still. You had no right to do this," he said.

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"You're correct. I had no right. I had an obligation. I did it to protect our marriage. I did it to

protect Patty. I did it to protect our careers. And I'd do it again."

"I need to get this dress off," Vera said. "I'm freezing. Do you have something I can wear?"

"Yes, dear. We’re almost finished here," Billie said.

Before the party, Billie had laid a white cotton sheet across Flo's bed. The girl could wear it

like a toga, sans undergarments, unless she wanted to wear her own wet dress, or perhaps Flo’s

bathrobe. It was the floozie's choice. Oh, how delicious this was. She couldn't wait for Flo to see his

floozie in her new costume.

“I’m sorry this happened,” he said.

"Who are you apologizing too?" Billie asked. "It had better be me."

“Maybe if you were a better wife, he wouldn’t have done it,” Vera said.

Did that floozie just say "better?" Did she imply that Billie was a shrew? Too old? Not

pretty enough? Not loving enough? Billie sometimes wondered if it were true. Wasn't he getting

enough from her? Were his affairs her fault?

No, they weren't, God damn it.

Billie lunged at Vera, grabbing for the girl's hair, but it was plastered to her head, so there was

nothing to grab. Billie had never fought anyone before and wasn’t sure what to do. Vera shoved her.

Billie shoved back, hard. Vera's back hit the shower door.

Flo grabbed Billie around the waist, pulled her to the side, and kept Vera away with his left

arm. Everyone panted. Billie struggled to get loose, but he was too strong. Every inch of her was on

fire. Her heart pounded. She wanted to pull out every all of Vera’s hairs, starting with the ones in

her nose.

“He never loved you,” Vera yelled.

Billie pounded Flo's arm to let her go. That floozie loved him, and that was far more

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dangerous. She felt better when she thought the girls were just using him. She wanted to tell Vera's

husband and let him kill her.

“Vera,” Flo snapped.

"You don't want her," Vera said. "You want me. You told me so."

Flo dropped his head and scratched his scalp.

That line was the last emotional sting she could stand. Was it true? He must have told her

that, or Vera wouldn't have said it. But her certainly hadn't mean it. He'd probably just used the line

to keep her interest. All men did that. Billie reminded herself that he came home to his wife and

child every night, so she stopped struggling and took a deep breath.

"You do love me, don't you?" Vera asked Flo, looking hurt.

How stupid had the girl been to risk her marriage for an afternoon in Flo's bed? Vera

deserved all the pain she was feeling.

Flo looked up. "No, I don't." Billie looked at his face. He meant it. She relaxed a notch.

Vera wept, and the power went out of Flo's hold. Billie slipped out.

This drama was ready for its curtain. Her heart raced as she walked to the door, turned, and

clasped her hands in front of her. She was looking forward to the toga-girl parade.

"Here's what's going to happen," Billie said. "Have Darryl pull up a car and take her home.

She can use the back stairs and go through the kitchen. If somebody asks where she went, tell them

she was sick and went home." Then, she addressed Vera. "And if you ever come near my husband

again, I'll tell yours."

The fight flew out of Vera's face. Her shoulders slumped. “No, no. Please don’t do that."

Then it was true. Vera’s husband had abused her. Billie could see it in her face. She didn't

want to hurt the girl, but wanted the affair to end. She wasn't responsible for Vera's life, and Vera

didn't care about the Burke-Ziegfeld family.

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Flo looked back-and-forth between them seeming lost and not sure what to do or say.

“Let me get her something dry to wear," Billie said. "You, go and get a car to take her home."

She pointed to the hallway.

"We'll discuss this later," he said to Billie.

"You're damn right we will."

As he left the bedroom, he bumped into the witch, the one who had arrived with Vera. She

was standing in the doorway. He stopped, and the witch smiled at him, but he looked away and kept

going. Billie saw it in her eyes. She wanted to yank the broom out of the girl's hand and beat her

with it. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest.

"Help your little magpie friend out," Billie said. "But before you do, let me be clear." She

pointed at Vera behind her. "That was a warm up. You come near my husband, and you're next.

And it'll be worse. You're little magpie friend is fired from the Follies, and I'll see to it she never

works in this town again."

"No," Vera cried out.

"And the same goes for you," Billie said to the witch. "And realize this: I'll know. I'll always

know. And you'll never know how I found out. And tell the others, too."

The witch smirked. Billie looked at the girl's hands. No ring, so she couldn't use her husband

as a tool. But she'd think of something. She might have to.

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(c) 2013 Mike Radice

917-359-7641 -- Radice_Mike@yahoo.com -- http://www.MikeRadice.com

Mike Radice has been writing since childhood. He began his professional career writing book reports

for classmates and later graduated to managing his high school paper. In addition to creative works

such as short stories and novels, Radice writes articles, business proposals, and grants. One of his

grant proposals resulted in a $1,000,000 from Italy to replace a school roof. He admits that sometimes

he has had to work regular jobs to pay the bills.

Radic has a Ph.D in Public History/Arts Administration from The Union Institute and University an

M.A./M.S. in School Psychology/Counseling from Wright State University and and a B.S. in

Education from Miami University.

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Birdlovers Nobody notices the ghosts. This little shoe store on an uptown side street replaced a night club that, in the forties and fifties, jumped nightly, blaring live bebop onto evening's sidewalk. Charlie Parker once played here. Bird's audience, young bird-neckers and finger poppers, have since experienced broken teeth, broken hearts, auto wrecks fortunes, misfortunes… becoming sick, dying, many dead. Times change and change again. A young man treads up the aisle with two shoe-boxes, a customer removes one shoe, opens a shoe-box, tries one, removes it, sets it aside then opens the other shoe-box. Sometimes old music echoes. The shoes get sold, customers get shod, and biz goes on, here, where the bartender winked at the waitress while smoke and bop wafted together like lovers. Are the ghosts still here, watching? Long-forgotten, those audiences, and the forgetters forgotten but the bop survives on records, bringing back smoky clubs, and on live recordings — audience sounds. Birdlovers!

©May 2013 Thomas Hubbard

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Thomas Hubbard, a freelance writer, editor and writing instructor, serves on the editorial staffs of The Cartier Street Review, in New York City, and Raven Chronicles, a journal of art, literature and spoken word, in Seattle. He also performs spoken word, sometimes backing himself with his lap steel guitar. And in the wee small hours he whispers dirty jokes to his neighbor's dog. HiHO!

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Enrico Miguel Thomas

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Mike Finley

THE CLARINET IS A DIFFICULT INSTRUMENT

I was eating minestrone

When I heard something fall

Outside my apartment window.

Too dark to see much

But a pair of hairy arms slam shut

A window on the third floor

Of the building opposite mine.

In the morning all I found

Was a bent clarinet on cement,

Dented horn and pawnshop sticker

Saying nine dollars.

It reminded me of the French explorer

Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac.

He too had dreams, set sail

Up the St. Lawrence, looking for China,

And wound up settling in Detroit instead.

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This poem, The Clarinet Is A Difficult Instrument, was written in 1975, appeared in a several

magazines and anthologies: Storystone, Chowder Review, Delaware Valley Composers Newsletter,

Milkweed Chronicle, Light Year '84, Seventy Years Behind the Plough. It is also a video on

YouTube.

Mike Finley edits an exciting online magazine called LIEF. He is author of over 200 books of

poems, stories, contemplations and jokes. Mike frequently partners with Master Bread Baker Klecko

in various art projects. He lives with his family in St. Paul.

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Editor’s Note on Featured Artist: Critics have dubbed Enrico Miguel Thomas a “post-post impressionist artist,” and call him the “Rocky Balboa” of the art world. Thomas is also called the “subway artist.” Thomas currently lives and works in New York City. He shares his biography here to spread the message that “Art has immense power that can carry you through anything!” Enrico Miguel Thomas’ artist statement: Life began horribly for me. At three years old, I almost lost my life because my mom was trapped in an abusive marriage. Surrounded by horror and violence, my father burned me in a scalding hot shower. I ended up with third degree burns on sixty percent of my body. Because of significant scarring on my face and scalp, I endured three reconstructive surgeries. Growing up with shame, and wearing deep scars, affected me socially, and I experienced anger. So I turned to drawing. My natural talent helped me forget about the pain of my physical scars but I never “fit in.” One day while I was living at a homeless youth shelter I ended up in a fight. The man who attacked me and his friends lied and said I hit him with a pipe and tried to rob him! I was charged with a felony. I felt as though my whole life had vanished before my eyes! I felt as though I were in outer space and had fallen into a black hole! I wasn’t in space though; I was in the real world and was in big trouble! Deputies escorted me from jail and hauled me into the courtroom, I was in a booth sealed off from the court by glass window awaiting the arrival of a court appointed attorney. Suddenly a loud and powerful voice yelled! “Do you know why you’re here? You’re being charged with a felony!” Although completely exhausted, I spun around and paid attention to every single word he spoke! He was a tall African American man with a large Afro and dark sunglasses. I didn’t know it at the time but I had an angel on my side in the form of a super-powerful attorney! My lawyer was Kevin Sylvan, one of New York City’s top criminal lawyers. Mr. Sylvan was there as a volunteer! His voice towered above the prosecutor’s, smashing every argument she had for keeping me behind bars. Within minutes I was released! A month later, Mr. Sylvan had me in front of a grand jury. After they heard my case, the felony was reduced to a misdemeanor. I returned to the youth shelter requesting counseling for my anger, and turned back to my art for solace. I’d been drawing since eight years old. I was lucky enough to avoid prison, thanks to Kevin Sylvan, who recognized me for who I was. Now, I speak to youth in prisons who were not so fortunate as me; youth who are angry, disenchanted, hopeless and lost, just like I was. This is why I share my story. If I can offer hope and inspiration plus a valuable message to keep moving even when life seems hopeless, then maybe I can reach even one young guy who is facing the very situation I faced years ago.

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Art has helped me through many difficult times in my life. In the last youth shelter where I resided, my advisor encouraged me to continuously draw and paint and helped me apply to art school. Next thing I knew I was attending Pratt Institute! Pratt is one of the world’s top art schools and I felt blessed to be there. I graduated in 2006 with a Bachelors of Fine Art degree. Today, I am nationally recognized for my subway drawings. I am now painting using acrylics and larger canvases too. I am also known for my Sharpie US TV ads. They flew me out to Chicago for a three-day shoot and created two TV commercials because I use their markers when I sketch instead of pencils. Here is the link to their ads. http://www.nobodyslooking.com/17183/679146/gallery/sharpie-enrico-miguel-thomas Featured artist NY1: 2008 http://www.ny1.com/content/news/83258/subway-artist-turns-mta-maps-into-works-of-art

2010 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DxvnjO5x8g8 In The New York Times! http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/05/13/after-an-artist-steps-away-from-his-bag-a-summons-and-a-legal-battle/ http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/21/artist-uses-the-subway-as-subject-and-canvas/ Other publications: Google me for more! http://www.salon.com/2013/05/19/subway_artist_battles_the_mta_for_right_to_make_art_partner/

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/enrico-thomas.html

http://samanthabarthelemy.blogspot.com/2010/12/font-face-font-family-courier-new-font.html My websites: http://www.EnricoMiguelThomas.net http://emtart.wordpress.com/2013/01/24/the-immense-power-of-art-can-get-you-anything/

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