The way the desert dunes must roil
                out there, past Rummy's point of view
                must challenge all your conceptions, boil

                back your patriotism a notch.
                The regime you killed for us, few
                would agree, was good, but none

            Well, you know it's true
            I go in the morning to the twenty-acre wood
            lodged between meaner homes.
            One day I'll examine one day getting by, getting shorter.

            Some broad American flower is growing
            on the prairie, opening in intervals,
            a heart. Walking from the train tracks
            the flat-faced drunks on Hennepin don't care.

Continuing to write away from the war and the violence of humans and machines, constructing this issue meant to me that I would search for poems that glorified the sensual and psychic spaces of the heart. Don't get me wrong. These are ways away from the war and its devilish consequences. Deconstructions of psychic, social, and emotional spaces, love, lust, desire, loss, absence: these all play a part in the spring issue of Maverick.

It's in amazement I write to tell you about space, not where the stars dwell
But rather where we live among the tall pine, sycamore and dogwood.
I can never tell you how to feel-its up to you to notice
The mad look in my eyes the television gave me, the look
I use to greet the businessmen and bureaucrats in hell.

You can't escape the feeling of disaster that pervades the country: at universities, culture studies folk are pasting the internet with urgent messages to remember the political history of US hypocrisy and self-interest in foreign affairs. The newspapers of Latin America, while sympathetic to our losses, remind their citizens and leaders of the crimes of imperialism and oppression that have lead us to such disastrous events. On the other hand, we have Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson claiming that the sins of America are the reason that His Almighty has rained fire down upon New York.

This is the second issue of Maverick. So I want to take this time to make some final points concerning the first issue:

Ché Guevara is working for us

We only really hate clowns and Republicans

We want your book reviews and editoral thoughts, as well as your poems

Where will all the music go if you bomb us?
Do the fashion magazines lie?
I hate to be serious, North Korea.

But there are stations playing all night here
and sometimes the disc jockeys spin
old dreams of love
almost no one knows, awkward frequencies
announcing us to the stars.