Jun '02 [Home] As My Father Used to Say… (cont'd) Memo from Void Jim McCurry as my father always said, look for me in the agate glint, the squirrel's eye… those photos your mom saved from Yellowstone the self-reference is what you will purge tomorrow by mixing 1.5 oz (3 measuring tablespoons—NOT tableware) FLEET PHOSPHO-SODA with at least 4 oz cold clear liquid and sitting on the throne while Sacramento hands the Lakers their Aztec heads on a platter how can one doubt— and appearing at 6:30 a.m. to be reamed and cleaned and viewed from within by the camera eye. Stay empty —Old Man jim mc curry/ 10-3-43 los angeles, california/ instructor at carl sandburg college/ galesburg, illinois since fall 1980/ poems recently accepted by DROUGHT and SNOW MONKEY ; less recently by BIG MOON, BOUNDARY 2, COLORADO REVIEW, FARMER'S MARKET, QUARTERLY WEST, WRITER'S FORUM, and others ¡Que Vivan! Ginny Wray The women worked in flowered smocks, open at the bosom in the summertime, making buttons and bows for my refugee father (sun worshipper, millionaire) in his garment center factory on West 38th Street. He watched over them, and spoiled them —especially Little Eva— and as my father always said, ¡que vivan las mujeres! When I was very young and asked him what it meant, he said, Long live women! And what about men? I asked. Men! he said laughing. Men are good for nothing. The only thing we're good for is making women happy. We write songs to them and adore them, and paint them in pastels stepping out of the bath. Then he asked me what I planned to be when I grew up. I said I planned to have men paint me stepping out of the bath. (A little song would be all right, and some adoring.) Yes, I think I'll be a woman. Be a woman! he said. What a wonderful idea! ¡Y que vivan las mujeres! As My Father Used to Say Haiku Richard Pearse Keep your t-shirts clean, your hands to yourself, and don't salute a non-com. When you case a bank don't whistle nor sing with verve. Mist on cedars? Please. You're turning your hips ahead of your hands again— why you strike out, jerk. Your weight in groceries. And save some cash too—payday not til Saturday. Whatever you swipe, don't come straight home with it, or to anyone's place you know. Be secret as the fog that lazes in, rusts our best Buick.