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      May 16, 2011Up Shit’s Creek With No Sense of SmellNina Corwin

      Continue to contaminate your bed, and you will one day suffocate in your own waste.
      —Chief Seattle to President Franklin Pierce, 1854

       

      There’s another Ozone Alert in this kiln
      of a city. Empty pockets roast
      in tenement ovens while ties and twin sets
      shiver in unceasing steams of central air.
      Forests are dying of thirst. Kindling
      for the next six alarm fire. We’re out on a limb,
      as always, thinking we’ve got the answer—
      cut down the tree by sawing off the branch

       

       

      we’ve settled on. Wile E. Coyote’s burning
      fuel like tomorrow is wearing
      a parachute. Chases Roadrunner right
      off a cliff. Doesn’t plummet till he looks
      down to see the wide nothing below.

       

       

      We’ll be OK. We won’t look.

      from #26 - Winter 2006

      Nina Corwin

      “Having played jazz guitar for many years, I found my way back to poetry by way of the music and dynamism of the performance poetry scene. A few years later, I moved across the street from the main branch of the Chicago library. Racks and racks of poetry waiting for my eyes and tongue to discover and devour them, a veritable feast! And so I proceed: to eat and to cook, to cook and to eat.”

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