I’ve been able to restrain myself until this moment from writing about the O. J. Simpson matter, but now, with the return of the liable verdict against The Juice from The Jury — the time is ripe for picking a response. For over 2.7 years, the Goldmans and the Browns have suffered the loss of their beloved children while a dismayed nation looked upon their plight with pity and terror. While many of you are familiar with much of the case, allow me a moment to address some of the hotter issues as I see them.
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Dear Reader —
As we burn into the New Year, please allow me a rare and humble opportunity as Publisher and Editor-in-Chief of GO INSIDE, to spend a private moment and share the vision of where our hearts and minds will take you inside in 1997.
by David W. Boles
The PageNet Motorola Gold FLX alphanumeric pager is simply the best service and pager you can buy today — that’s a mouthful to read, but as you take in an eyeful of it all above, you’ll soon understand how the secret to screening the world can rest in the palm of your hand.
Golden and Loving It
Believe it or not, we are now living in The Golden Age of the World-Wide Web. Enjoy it while you can, for it shall not last long. Especially if the computer industry has its way. They want every noodnik with a modem and a hard drive traipsing around the internet 24 hours a day so they can provide the means for the traipser’s well-being while on the Web. It’ll be a never-ending tourist season of noodniks for us seasoned Webbers as we slay and wheedle away those unwelcomed gawkers armed with cable modems and unlimited Web access for $5 a month.
[Author’s Note: This poem also appears in my play, The Weeping Water Cafe.]
A face, tender as a porcelain doll,
cracks under the white hot mirror of
feeble at first,
then shouts into my living room.
and a wrinkled pea rolls off my fork.
Something about exploding fuel like erasers
and a lost cause
and bruised bodies
and They’re All Dead.
I can’t swallow my mashed potatoes.
They are called heroes.
Invisible chests are adorned
with the metals from exploded tanks
and their memories are bathed in the
salty tear from a child’s eye.
The apple cobbler doesn’t look so good any more.
The news comes in fast…
A blue sock hiding a charred bone washes ashore —
a bottle holding a plea for help
from another unknown brother in horror.
They didn’t know what hit ’em.
The paste, called gravy, hardens over my
mostly white meat.
Replayed before the bloodshot eye of ground pirates,
the white pencils explode carefully planned
and then some more.
And so the heroes are back in the clouds
where they belong.
And the potatoes,
and still unswallowed,
into seven chalky headstones.
[Author’s Note: This poem appears in my play, The Weeping Water Cafe.]
I was kneeling, pulling dandelions
when I heard it.
There, under the mock black cherry tree
a young rabbit flat on its back
a broken toothpick spine.
underside ripped clean of fur
exposing a pink
Across the lawn
are city clean.
I consider nursing
or twisting the head.
I name it Gregory.
His life stains my palms.
The eye closes.
An ear droops.
from my bleeding fists
and seep into patio cracks.
I open the garbage can,
place Gregory inside the
Gillette Dairy Ice Milk carton
and replace the aluminum lid
that doesn’t begin to muffle
the heartbeat in my fingertips.