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 Volume #2                      April 3, 1995                      Issue #2 

                        CONTENTS FOR VOLUME 2, ISSUE 2
     Column: From the Belly of the Dough Boy . . . . . . . .  Matt Mason

     Column: Start the Madness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J.D. Rummel

     Still Life  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Maree Jaeger

     Dear Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  d. edward deifer

     Liquid Legacy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Mastroianni

     Seven Rains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Daudazyurkye Xene Axis

     at night  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A.J. Wright

     my name is my rock  . . . . . . . . . . . .  Daudazyurkye Xene Axis

     Entropy Increases . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Mastroianni

     How does Psyche Kiss? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Maree Jaeger

     Masterpiece Theater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  d. edward deifer

     some suburban evening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A.J. Wright

     tattoos on the mind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A.J. Wright

     Third Grade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . d. edward deifer

     Amphibian Hand  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. Otis Beard

     The Joyce Kilmer Service Area . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jeff Brooks

     About the Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors

     In Their Own Words  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors

     Suggested Reading:  The Blue Penny Quarterly  . . . . . The Editors

 Editor                               +                       Poetry Editor
 Robert Fulkerson              The Morpo Staff                Matthew Mason                  +

 Layout Editor                                               Fiction Editor 
 Kris Kalil Fulkerson                                           J.D. Rummel                         
 _The Morpo Review_.  Volume 2, Issue 2.  _The Morpo Review_ is published
 electronically on a bi-monthly basis.  Reproduction of this magazine is
 permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the
 issue remains intact.  Copyright 1995, Robert Fulkerson and Matthew Mason.
 _The Morpo Review_ is published in Adobe PostScript, ASCII and World Wide
 Web formats.  All literary and artistic works are Copyright 1995 by their
 respective authors and artists.

                                EDITORS' NOTES

   o _From the Belly of the Doughboy_ by Matt Mason, Poetry Editor:
   Well, I've spent the last few days trying to figure out what to write
   this column on. I started a musing on the opening line to Allen
   Ginsberg's poem "Howl" ("I saw the best minds of my generation
   destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...") but that quickly
   went nowhere. So I started editorializing on why anyone who gets to
   the highest levels of national politics is most likely a deceitful
   bastard whom we should discuss with shame rather than support blindly
   since they seem to lie a little less than whoever or whatever comes
   from the opposing party. But that, also, quickly sputtered out after a
   few angst-filled belches.
   So I've decided to write about cows, instead.
   Why cows? Sometimes it's just necessary. We live in confusing and
   depressing times. I think of "Howl" and can't help but think that if
   it was written today, Ginsberg would start: "I saw the best minds of
   my generation enter law school.." and I don't know if that or the
   original version would be more harrowing. And politics? The word
   itself has become synonymous with "deceit" or "self-aggrandizement."
   No, today I talk about cows.
   Gary Larson said, "I've always found [cows] to be the quintessentially
   absurd animal for situations more absurd." How true! That's why I
   bring them up today, they act as a sort of balance to my more
   depressing subjects.
   Imagine if TV news handled things similarly. They would have one story
   on an important news item, then balance it with a story about a cow
   (say, the cow shot by Irvine police after it broke loose and ran along
   the San Diego Freeway). Then they'd have another news story, then
   maybe an expose' on Matild, the cow rumored to have fallen into a
   crevice during San Francisco's 1906 earthquake.
   Granted, this would require a lot from the media. It would, first of
   all, require them to cover actual news stories to act as balance for
   the cow info. Then they'd need a complete Bovine News Crew to research
   and find the best cow news to be found locally, nationally, and
   Just imagine! All the reporters covering O.J. would have to leave the
   L.A. courthouse, they'd be ideally suited to form the new Bovine News
   Crews! No more hype about Rosanne, Fergie, or Tonya Harding, but
   fascinating tell-all stories about Bessie, Elsie, and la Vache Que
   It just might make the world seem more tolerable, more in perspective.
   Anyway, enough digression, on with cows.
   Uh. Well. I guess I'm about out of room so that'll have to do. Enjoy
   this issue of _Morpo_ and maybe scoot off a quick letter to your local
   TV stations asking for more cow coverage in their reporting.

   o _Start the Madness_ by J.D. Rummel, Fiction Editor:
   Lately, I have been contemplating suicide. Hold on, now! Don't start
   sending mail to Bob, blaming him for driving us Morpites too hard. I
   only mean I've been thinking about why people take their lives. You
   know, there's lots of ways to do it. Some do it real fast, but others
   spend their whole lives at it. That's what I was thinking the night of
   the storm.
   The night of the storm I was wide-awake-tired. The guy on the news
   said I should stay in. I was old, but I was sure I used to walk to
   places in this sort of weather. I looked out the window of my safe
   place at the falling, drifting snow under the streetlight. I was sick
   of myself. I wanted to go out there, to defy the t.v. guy. I wanted
   So I announced that I was going for a walk. The Aunt said I was crazy,
   but she also said if I was going out, I should shovel. Even crazy
   people should accomplish something.
   I went out, but I didn't shovel.
   Function. Purpose. Accomplishment. Responsibility. Promises. I wanted
   none of them. I just wanted out.
   Out the back door south was how I started, but after a time, I
   reversed and went north, into the wind. Into the wind, something said,
   face the wind. For a while my face burned, but the burning didn't
   last. Soon I felt nothing. The streets were barren. No traffic. I
   walked down the middle of once busy thoroughfares and all I heard was
   the sound of snow crunching under my boots. If I stopped, I heard
   nothing in the whole city. I watched white snow swirl down off of
   roofs and silently congregate.
   I walked through an old neighborhood, remembering old friends and
   broken promises to stay in touch. Somewhere else in the night time I
   heard tires spinning and nothing else, just a frustrated sound, an
   insistent, angry whining. I knew that feeling. I wandered on,
   frightening one young woman as she stepped from behind a van. "How are
   you?" she said, her eyes large in the storm. The question came from
   some place that read the paper and filled her with fear of men out
   walking late. I wanted to ease her fear, replying, "Kinda cold," and
   laughing. She laughed, but she would feel best when I was gone. I
   walked past apartments, and houses, wondering who was behind all those
   dark windows, guessing at their faces and lives. Rarely, a car would
   pass by, intent on unknown destinations.
   Illuminated with bright flood lights was the mortuary that handled my
   mother's funeral. A long ranch style structure steeped in frost. I
   have forgotten so much. The parts of her that remain I cannot name.
   At some point I went into the park, surprised to see that the
   playground I expected was gone. Whiteness stretched out before
   me--gathering on the rolling, dipping hills. My feet vanished beneath
   me. Below, down in a deserted parking lot off in the edge of the
   streetlights, I saw a single truck, idling, windows fogged. A couple
   snuggling, or a killer and his victim? The choice was mine. I had to
   Life or death.
   I chose the lovers.
   They weren't cheating. No, tonight only there were no complications
   from human interactions, no misunderstanding, no lies, no heartache,
   no disease. Tonight, these lovers were playing for free in the snow.
   In that clean, crisp air, distantly I heard it, an arrhythmic metallic
   clanking from the train yards. I followed it, leaving the lovers
   behind their clouded glass. I plodded through the powder, sorry to be
   tearing the virgin snow, walking, making my mark, legs sinking and
   rising, no hint of fatigue. I was the only one here. With misty words
   I said my name in the pale night. All that white reflected the barest
   light and the earth glowed underneath me, stretching to meet a
   strangely grey sky. I kept walking , licking the flakes in the
   whistling wind like a dog, pressing on past the caves where I played
   so long ago. No one knew where I was, and I felt bubble light for just
   an instant.
   A fence halted my march. It separated me from heaps of discarded iron.
   The source of the clanking was still beyond my vision. Past the scrape
   I saw clouds rising up, lights beaming rock steady in the chill, but I
   could never make out the source of the sound. It was one of those
   things you just can't reach, I knew. I walked the fence, but it never
   yielded. I didn't think it would, but the action was one you do
   anyway. My beard was stiff and my chin was numb. The cold was
   beginning to press me, so I had to c lose the circle. It was time to
   be safe again.
   I went north yet again, and the wind was mean. I dipped down a hill
   into a valley of pavement and houses leaving the wind above me.
   Grinning, full of myself, I felt like some ancient voyager, some trail
   boss who had outwitted the weather and bought his mission some time.
   Nothing happened on the last few feet to my home. I didn't disturb the
   mounting snow on our steps because it was so pretty. I wound back into
   the alley the way I'd come, seeing the steps I'd made. In the house,
   the Aunt knew where I was once more, and she told me I was crazy.
   And being crazy felt good.
   Find something crazy and do it.

 "Still Life" by Maree Jaeger

Orange crayon-like paint
with dimples
Still Life one
and Still Life two
side by side
I don't like still lives
I like my flowers
connected to the root
and my fruit bowls

 "Dear Saturday" by d. edward deifer

        These weeks so many now
        Counting back from this frosty corner
        Shut in snow-drifts of winter's windows
        My time slowly falls through autumn
        Content to be alone with you, Saturday
        Your photo-album returns again

        Together we stood
        In the shallows of Little Lehigh River
        Those yellow wafts of light
        Bouncing from our heads through trees
        Wearing a comfortable sweatshirt
        Careening over the tall grasses and weeds
        Brown dungarees stained with earth
        Our memories fade, though, my favorite one
        Boondockers, with sturdy thick soles
        Brings me back to where I started
        Dad's old army hat shadowing my eyes

        On pebbles between banks
        I contemplated my soul
        Caught in mid-stride with a walking-stick
        A sling-shot and a pocket-knife
        (all captured in a photograph)
        It was a day of sunshine
        When I first found peace
        Panhandling springs of perpetual gold
        I Danced on that river

 "Liquid Legacy" by David Mastroianni

 Sometimes when I enter the sanitary gallery
 I get no choice in the flushnrun rush.
 I step up whenever I can,
 study the wall,
 pull the plunger and leave.
 An honorless duty.

 But this is a moment of luxury.
 Alone, I have four drooping white lips
 inviting me.
 I make a measuring frown, I pace like a sergeant.
 Three sterile puddles, transparent and lifeless
 (very well).
 But the fourth pool is marked
 by one who was here before me.
 A rich amber spring of lifestuff.
 Lean in and find it fragrant with the scent
 of human endeavor.
 Some may call me a follower or worse
 but I sure don't pass up the chance of joining a great cause.
 I feel the warm thickness of my blood at the thought
 of contributing to one man's work
 to make it something greater.
 Respectfully, I approach this forbidden aqua vitae
 and let spill my humble gift,
 my wet, closest flesh-friend of the past fifteen minutes.
 No plunge into the deep below for him,
 I shan't cast him down.
 He shall shine in this room,
 an acrid beacon to the parade of release.

 Once I saw a masterpiece
 nearly the color of coffee.  Sadly,
 I was too dry to join that effort.
 That stuff is pregnant with power.
 The Waters of Creation too were dark.

 I back away.  An ochre ghost dances under the surface
 for a few seconds, and fades away,
 sacrifices himself to further gild the water.
 I feel myself a solid achiever, in love with myself and my kind,
 who dare to build glory from the simple
 or crude.
 Someday I may call on them all to march with me.
 And they will come, not my followers,
 but brethren,
 aspiring to take part in bringing forth
 humanity's one great monument.
 Coarse carvings in stone come and go like bugs or weeds,
 but water is something eternal.  It will pull down the world
 before it passes away.
 Put aside chisels and paintbrushes,
 and let the primordial flow freely from your guts.
 It has an honesty you won't find in any art gallery.
 Do you truly want to leave great works behind?
 Have you slipped out of your sanitary bit and harness?
 Then join me.
 Form a row along the shore.
 Together we can turn the oceans bronze!

 "Seven Rains" by Daudazyurkye Xene Axis

six simple red rains and
the leaves exit to the north
flying like wooden winter
and smelling of rock talking
about seeing the sea seething black
worried white with a fish wall
and trying to make us do it's will
but we would not
we were busy walking to the left side of the world
and could not find it
some say that it is in the fists of moss
we tried to pry them open with no success
some say that it is in the cloud of wasps
we didn't try that
instead we sat and waited for the seventh rain
and it was very wet

 "at night" by A.J. Wright

my young daughter always
kicks the covers off

as if to say
here i am

see the way
i can curl

and uncurl
during darkness

like those morning glories
above your grandparents' porch

see the way
i can toss and turn

like that beached fish once did
for you and uncle richard

as if to say
i'm only three years old

as if to say
pull no white sheets

over me yet

 "my name is my rock" by Daudazyurkye Xene Axis

my name is my rock
face of fire fish father,
it is an egg, a book of days
and little bridges in a box of snow
sad glue of gold, meaning of walking
through closed doors with no less
than five feet of ash...

my name is my harbour in
mirror countries,
it is an ice bush mask and
the lake closed with a keyword island.

my name is four umbrellas of present tense,
the  beak of running mountains,
a picture made by eating salt and peaches.

my name is a valley with the neck of bamboo.

 "Entropy Increases" by David Mastroianni

 I hang limp between the grays of my dreams and my life.
 Reasons to get up forgot me long ago.
 Way back the factory's guts worked themselves loose
 from fittings of metal turned to rusty toast
 and spun out and kicked the husky walls.
 That was after my job went over the cliff with everyone else's,
 after Norman, marching the building,
 squinting and held erect by a necktie,
 scraped at his face with a hankie on such a warm dusty day,
 until we found him swimming on the floor,
 his head sanded down to a small wailing potato.

 I used to tell Honey (for I think that was his name)
 how the world was full of such strange harbingers.
 He'd say "Ruth" (for I think that was mine)
 "The world ends not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with a"
 and sit there for a minute with his pointy little smile.
 And now I see it, maybe better than he did.
 The universe is a pendulum too tired to stop swinging,
 though you couldn't see it moving some days.

 You couldn't mark the date when everything started failing.
 It crept up on us and slowly soiled our lives.
 In an age of decay, our marriage was bound to be
 first thing on the compost.
 He decided panic was the most rational choice after all,
 took off to try to get himself killed
 where no man had been killed before.
 That was the fad then, but now it's hip
 to stay in bed, last I heard.

 I don't have to attend to the baby anymore either.
 Gave her the bottle once and walked off,
 later came back to find a gray pasty-tasting gruel
 reclining in her crib and empty diaper,
 piddling out and finally sleeping on the floor.
 Took a couple days to clean up.
 Later on I remembered that I was supposed to cry,
 but I couldn't get wet over this spill.
 I was so stupid,
 the doctors had told us to quit liquids,
 but I found this jug of milk in the fridge
 from before the FDA ban, and habit took over.

 TV was last to go, as far as I remember.
 Toward the end they ran these stream-of-consciousness sitcoms,
 and anchormen complained about their personal griefs.
 It was hard to take your eyes off,
 even when the programs stopped,
 I sat for days in a static trance.

 And once not too long ago I actually took a walk.
 My toes crushed the brittle concrete,
 and my joints argued with me the whole time,
 setting my rusty cables sparking.
 Only saw dust-devils around,
 but maybe that's what other people look like these days.

 Now my sheets arch over me, protecting my lungs from the air.
 Crawl out carefully, so as not to tear or break anything.
 Look at the floppy snail shell stomaching my pretzel-stick bones.
 The stain, my last friend, has faded away.
 The brown multicolored stain from the pipes across the room,
 in the shape of the face of a storybook grandfather,
 the last drop of color I could find,
 has finally been defeated by the dusty film
 which gets between my fingers and my lips.
 I sigh and blow a graceful little smoke ring,
 a cold little jellyfish that wanders into the wall and bursts.
 I feed myself back to my bed.
 I offer my head to the mercies of my pillow,
 trying not to crack my skull.
 I'm an ancient dried out corpse, but death has forgotten to come.
 It's sleeping in a gutter somewhere,
 with a clipboard ruffling out reams of names
 to be forgotten to the wind.
 Maybe it will come, eventually,
 blinking and slicking back its mussed-up hair,
 call me, "Ruth,"
 and blow me apart like a sand dune.
 But not in a hurry.
 Nothing comes easily when the world is ending.

 "How does Psyche Kiss?" by Maree Jaeger

How did Psyche feel
when she received her first

The wings seem very thick
the material seems thin enough,
real enough.

The background,

She gives away a few subtle hints,
the whisper of
space between
finger and ear.

Finger and thumb
spanning the perimeter
of her breast.

Vacant face;
might of been there.

As I concentrate on
the whisper space,
the thin lips,
I wonder how
Psyche would kiss.

 "Masterpiece Theater" by d. edward deifer

               Your daddy warned you about me.
               I could tell from his asterisk eyes
               As we sat in the breakfast nook.

               The dingy wallpaper is starting to curl
               Aging his face into one canyons scar.
               The windows must've been painted shut.

               I stubbed my toe late last night
               Walking with a candle past
               The relative heritage of his fear.

               It was the same blood I tasted
               When I pierced your ear.
               The attic creaked that night.

               His books have settled into dust.
               Last time I looked his teeth have grown.
               The leg of your chair looks appetizing.

               The terrible black bat squeaking in
               And smashing his photographs
               Framing the upstairs memorial hall.

 "some suburban evening" by A.J. Wright

     i step out of the kitchen
     onto the patio and suddenly
     there's a hummingbird
     seconds from my face
     interrupted on his (her?) journey
     to the feeder just behind me

     and wings beating so fast
     all i can see is a body
     and a beak. the bird
     reminds me of the blonde
     i saw today in the grocery store,
     so cool and beautiful and unknown,

     the wings of her life
     invisible to the naked eye.

 "tattoos on the mind" by A.J. Wright

merely a fragment of moon floats
over the early evening sky

a crescent as white as bone
rising in my sleep

and nearly forgotten tomorrow;
as authentic and forsaken

as test patterns once decorating
dark rooms across america

as safe as fingerprints
discarded on the sand.

later in the night
as an image joins the skin

we can dream
the souvenirs together.

 "Third Grade" by d. edward deifer

Berenger's went out of business
We skipped school and bought eclairs there
My brother and I weren't allowed to eat in the school cafeteria
We would walk home for sandwiches dunked in tomato soup
It was a big deal when they built the cafeteria
In the basement of Washington School

Clay beat Frazier that year
Paul Kozman ripped out Dwight Shantz's ear
The fight spilled out into recess
Mr. Fatula broke up the fight
Principal Parks came to each classroom to calm everyone
And inquire about the missing ear
I kept a straight face and looked through my desk
When he asked me about the ear
'I don't have Dwight Shantz's ear' is all I said
Principal Parks talked to Mr. Fatula outside the door and left
Lucky he didn't ask my brother Rich cause Itchy would never lie

Gates' corner store is closed though the big window is still there
Covered with curtains
My brother and I  use to buy candy there before school
Mr. Gates wouldn't let us buy anything anymore
He just let us come in cause we were friends with his son, David.
We use to listen to Dave's sister's Simon & Garfunkel records
Up in his room
It was a big deal when she got the Beatles
Itchy showed me a five dollar bill that year
He bought a box of Topp's Baseball Cards
And he got me a box of Whacky Package Cards

After school we went to the woods above the scrap metal yard
With Doni Kipler and Scott Nonnemaker
To open up all the cards
I traded half my box of cards for Scott's birthday present
A new Timex watch
Doni was showing Itchy the best rocks to turn
For salamanders and nightcrawlers
All for a look at a moldy pierogi with dried ketchup
We filled our pockets with em and went home
While I counted seconds from my wrist

Mrs. Nonnemaker called our parents
'I traded for it fair and square' is all I said
Came down to the five dollar bill
Turns out Mom musta lost it in Itchy's path
I didn't say a word, just looked at my brother
Mom took my Timex watch
Dad beat the salamanders outta our pockets
I caught one on the way to our room
Without supper
And put it in the pickle jar with Dwight Shantz's ear

Yoccos' is still there
We use to spend silver dollars we found
In the basement
Playing pinballs and eating Yocco dogs
Just me and my brother
We stopped hangin with troublemakers
We didn't want to go to Catholic School

 "Amphibian Hand" by M. Otis Beard

He spoke a jagged language that no one understood
and camped out on the open palms of strangers
In his pocket was a lump of coal
Xmas present from the cracked vellum years
that had rolled off his back and gurgled in his throat

Magnets frightened him.  The aluminum foil hat he wore
repelled their evil waves and kept him safe
Safe from change, safe from harm
safe from eyes that tracked him, seeking wine
safe from tiny machines that craved his salty blood

Dumpsters held discarded secrets, held the scales
fallen from the eyes of sages far from shore
In shopping carts he stacked lost things he'd found
rooster's eggs and Dead Sea scrolls
philosopher's stones and mateless socks

If you asked, he could or would not tell his name
or where he was from, or when, or why.
He spoke a jagged language that no one understood
and crawled, new lungs choking on thin, dry air
up from the ancient sea to live on land at last

 "The Joyce Kilmer Service Area" by Jeff Brooks

   Greenest in the system. That's what a highway guide said. The New
   Jersey Turnpike Service Area 46E had chestnuts, oaks, elms, maples --
   72 of them, growing like canopies over the lawn, shading the corners
   of the parking lot, bending down to scrape the roof of the concession
   The trouble started when 31W became "Walt Whitman." Suddenly "46E"
   just didn't work anymore. They asked around for other New Jersey
   Poets: "William Carlos Williams Service Area" sounded too New York; no
   one had heard of any of the others. So they committed to Joyce Kilmer.
   At the rededication ceremony one bright spring morning, the Service
   Area Director stood on a picnic table, one hand in his pocket, and
   said, "Her love for trees is the quintessential spirit of our New
   Jersey Turnpike."
   "Joyce was a man," his assistant whispered.
   "His," the Director said. It was official.
   The 72 trees of the Joyce Kilmer Service Area seemed to like the
   attention. They sprayed out leaves like bouquets to the life of the
   Nation. That fall, the leaves turned yellow, red, brown, then dropped
   off, as usual. But the following spring, they didn't return.
   The best tree surgeons in New Jersey were called in. They stood around
   one of the trees in a semi-circle, hats off, looking up. Trucks roared
   past on the Turnpike.
   One of the tree doctors spat into the lawn. "Shit," he observed.
   "These trees are dead."
   The others agreed. They advised the Director to have the dead trees
   removed. "Mosta that's good hardwood," they said. "You could sell it.
   For money."
   The Director pounded his desk with his fist, making about as much
   sound as a robin's heartbeat. "Goddamnit," he said, "I can't cut down
   those trees. This is the goddamn Joyce Kilmer Service Area."
   He hired an artist from Camden to design and install artificial
   leaves. The artist was poor and desperate, but he had his pride. He
   made metallic purple lightning-bolt-shaped leaves and started wiring
   them to the branches of the dead trees. He'd covered about a third of
   one tree with his pulsing neon vision when Service Area customers
   complained and word got back to the Director in his office.
   The Director stormed out to the grounds, called the artist down from
   his ladder, and screamed at him before an appreciative audience. Then
   he canceled the artist's contract and had the leaves torn from the
   trees. "Goddamnit," he said. "It's almost summer. I need leaves on
   those trees."
   He tried everything. When he grafted live branches onto the dead
   trees, they wilted and gave off a sour odor. He injected the root
   systems with doses of vitamins, but the grass under the trees turned
   black and damp like seaweed. He even hired a shaman from the Indian
   Reservation out on Long Island who did a shuffling dance around each
   tree, moaning and smearing rust-colored pigment on himself and the
   trunks. Nothing worked.
   That left the Director with one option. He could take out the dead
   trees and transplant new ones in their places. "Not saplings," the
   Director said. "Adult trees. No shitty little saplings at the goddamn
   Joyce Kilmer Service Area."
   Of course, buying, transporting, and planting 72 live, full-grown
   quality hardwood trees would have far exceeded his Grounds budget, but
   the Director was a resourceful man: he siphoned his union's pension
   fund. It was that important--and this was, after all, New Jersey.
   The new trees looked even taller and grander than the originals; they
   smelled of lemon, basil, and mint. All summer, the butterflies chased
   one another through their leaves, and children leaped to touch the
   lower branches. In the fall, the trees flared out like torches. "It's
   just like Vermont," people remarked. The guys at Walt Whitman were
   Fall and then winter passed. In the spring the new trees of the
   goddamn Joyce Kilmer Service Area remained as gray and still as
   The poor Director was beside himself, but he didn't waste any time: he
   embezzled money from both political parties and had 72 new trees
   trucked in.
   Well, you can imagine the rest: every year, after a fine summer and a
   lovely fall, the trees of the Joyce Kilmer Service Area would refuse
   to come back to life in the spring, and every year new ones were
   brought in to replace them, all financed by the Director's illegal
   activities at great cost to the economy and moral fiber of the State
   of New Jersey. Which raises a question: Would Turnpike travelers find
   the irony of a treeless Joyce Kilmer Service Area too great to bear?
   "You bet your goddamn life," the Director would probably answer while
   72 healthy trees growing out of canvas bags were driven into the
   grounds of the Joyce Kilmer Service Area like an extended clan of
   summer people.

                    ABOUT THE AUTHORS, VOLUME 2 ISSUE 2, TMR
   o Daudazyurkye Axis ( is a fine specimen of
   extraterrestrial frog, currently living in the Canadian "Baldness
   capital of the world" habitat, otherwise known as "Toronto". His
   ambition is to become a glistening opal tooth in the mouth of Truth.
   You can learn more about Daudazyurkye on the World Wide Web at
   o M. Otis Beard ( lives in Anchorage, AK. He is a member
   of Loose Affiliation, an organization of Alaskan writers currently
   working on an anthology of prose and poetry funded in part by the
   National Endowment for the Arts.
   o Jeff Brooks ( lives in Seattle with his wife, son, and
   daughter. He writes junkmail and radio infomercials for a living, but
   plays Double Bass to keep his soul active. His fiction has appeared in
   a number of paper and electronic literary magazines. One of his
   current projects in "Giovanni Bottesini: A Life", which is a satirical
   semi-fictional biography/criticism of a 19th century Italian opera
   composer and Double Bass virtuoso. Critiques of this project are
   welcome. "Giovanni Bottesini" can be found on the World Wide Web at
   o d. edward deifer ( is a thirty two year old
   computer network specialist at the University of Pennsylvania. He is a
   published poet, a founding editor of _CrossConnect_, which is a new
   literary review based at Penn. A consecutive Poetry Slam Champion for
   Philadelphia, he is looking forward to the National Slams. You can
   read more about him and peruse _CrossConnect_ on his World Wide Web
   home page at _
   o Maree Jaeger ( has had work published
   in books, magazines and anthologies in Australia and internationally.
   She is also a seasoned performance poet. She has a B.A. and a Masters
   degree. She has suspended her third degree to pursue her acting
   career. Loves the moon, the sea and swiss chocolate.
   o Matt Mason (, _Poetry Editor_, is.. uh..
   well, ya see he's.. uh.. well.. gosh..uh, let's just say he's in
   transition right now and'll get back to you as soon as details are
   o David Mastroianni ( could not be reached
   by press time for a biography.
   o J.D. Rummel (, _Fiction Editor_.
   Sometimes, in the course of human events, through a strange
   combination of fate, genetics, and blind luck, a man rises above
   mediocrity, forging himself into a character of unique vision, a
   figure whose presence improves his surroundings and makes the people
   around him richer. J.D. Rummel once used the same urinal as such a
   o A.J. Wright ( is Clinical Librarian,
   Department of Anesthesiology, University of Alabama School of
   Medicine. His other writing interests include the history of
   anesthesia and the history of medicine in Alabama and the U.S. South.
   He is guided by the words of Marshall McLuhan, "Even mud gives the
   illusion of depth".

                   IN THEIR OWN WORDS, VOLUME 2 ISSUE 2, TMR
   o _The Joyce Kilmer Service Area_ by Jeff Brooks
          "There really is a Joyce Kilmer Service Area on the New Jersey
          Turnpike. I believe naming things after people can have
          unintended consequences; this story is an exploration of that
          concept. The story was once rejected by an editor who asked,
          'Why did the trees die?' I didn't have an answer then, and I
          don't now. If anyone can help me out, I'd appreciate it."
   o _Seven Rains_ and _my name is my rock_ by Daudazyurkye Xene Axis
          "I have absolutely no idea why I write what I write. I just
          have a strong compulsion to do so. My friends accuse me of
          being a graphomaniac. I usually indulge in this mania before
          the sun rises and I'm too tired to think."
   o _Dear Saturday_, _Masterpiece Theater_ and _Third Grade_ by d.
          edward deifer
          "These three poems are all reflections from youth. I tried to
          write from my experience/language; as a third grader in _Third
          Grade_, from a photograph of myself as a 10 year old standing
          in a shallow creek, where I felt a oneness with nature in _Dear
          Saturday_, and my relationship with my first Jewish girlfriend
          at age 13 in _Masterpiece Theatre_."



                             SUGGESTED READING

                          The Blue Penny Quarterly

"The Blue Penny Quarterly is an electronic journal of fine writing and art.
 Our mission is to act as a bridge between the literary small press publishing
 world and the electronic communities -- as such we publish fiction, poetry,
 interviews and essays by both beginning and established writers who are
 serious about their craft. (Some of our authors include Deborah Eisenberg,
 Guggenheim winner Robert Sward, and Canadian Journey Prize Anthology
 contributor Richard Cumyn.)" 

The Blue Penny Quarterly comes in three formats:  as a self-contained
Macintosh file, in PDF (Adobe Acrobat) format or as a plain ASCII text file.

You can retrieve back issues of The Blue Penny Quarterly via Gopher at under Zines/BluePennyQuarterly, via anonymous FTP at under /pub/mac/misc/BPQ/ and under the directory
/pub/Zines/BluePennyQuarterly or via America Online in the Writer's Club
Ezine Library (keyword "writers").

To obtain submission guidelines or make a submission to the staff of 
The Blue Penny Quarterly, send electronic mail to



                        WHERE TO FIND _THE MORPO REVIEW_

Back issues of The Morpo Review are available via the following avenues:

   = Electronic Mail (Send the command "get morpo morpo.readme" in the body
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                       SUBSCRIBE TO _THE MORPO REVIEW_

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                         SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR TMR

Q: How do I submit my work to The Morpo Review and what are you looking for? 

A: We accept poetry, prose and essays of any type and subject matter.  To 
   get a good feel for what we publish, please read some of our previous 
   issues (see above on how to access back issues). 

   The deadline for submissions is one month prior to the release date of 
   an issue.  We publish bi-monthly on the 15th of the month in January, 
   March, May, July, September and November.

   If you would like to submit your work, please send it via Internet 
   E-mail to the E-mail address  
   Your submission will be acknowledged and reviewed for inclusion in the 
   next issue.  In addition to simply reviewing pieces for inclusion in 
   the magazine, we attempt to provide feedback for all of the pieces that 
   are submitted.

   Along with your submission, please include a valid electronic mail address
   and telephone number that you can be reached at.  This will provide us with
   the means to reach you should we have any questions, comments or concerns
   regarding your submission.

   There are no size guidelines on stories or individual poems, but we ask 
   that you limit the number of poems that you submit to five (5) per issue 
   (i.e., during any two month period).

   We can read IBM-compatible word processing documents and straight ASCII 
   text.  If you are converting your word processing document to ASCII, 
   please make sure to convert the "smart quotes" (the double quotes that 
   "curve" in like ``'') to plain, straight quotes ("") in your document 
   before converting.   When converted, smart quotes sometimes look like 
   capital Qs and Ss, which can make reading and editing a submission 


              Our next issue will be available on May 15, 1995.