The second issue of Silent But Deadly had 10 sets of responses to 4 poems, many of the responses opposing each other--which demonstrated, for me, the good health of the zine. My own critique was fairly short. It began with a few uninspiredwords about a poem by E. Mihopoulous called, "Respite":

                the mist finally clears
                he slices the air
                into slivers of diamonds
                the stars burst around us
                into a succession of sparklers
                a shower of glimmering particles
                that breaks & breaks until
                beyond us
                the air is a thinning veil

This, I said, was just "a collection of glittery 'poetic' words and phrases about an event--possibly paranormal--that is supposed to be profound but doesn't mean anything to me because it's too unconcrete, vague and un-contexted. The effect, with diamonds, stars and sparklers, is overdone. My impression is that some observer is having a religious thrill, but it's too standard and unexplained to move me.

I then went to Paul Weinman's "Working on Civil Rights," which I classified as a piece of "anecdotal nearprose." "Nothing much to it," I said, "but I liked the priest's advising the narrator to wire the Pope, and the anti-climactic plunge from moral questioning to the down 'n' at it of groping and a politically-incorrect game of Scrabble. This is a poem technically only, but it's very funny, and a good joke is as good as a good poem. Here's the poem:

                Her predilection for lizard skin
                skivies left me anxious thoughts
                desires to strip her down to those
                to do it on our local Cathedral's altar.
                I spoke to a priest about these thoughts.
                He advised me to wire the Pope.
                But, I decided to bring worries to her.
                We talked, we groped, breathed heavily.
                Later, playing scrabble,we spelled
                words relating to racist practices.

I found Holly Day's poem, "Legacy," to be pure anecdotal nearprose, as well--"but, said I, "I do believe its being in lines is a virtue (ditto with Weinman's poem) because the small extra time the lineation gives the segments of the story to take effect does put a valuable extra jolt in them. The jolts work here: a very cruel exercise in black humor--and therefore very funny. But wait--from the title of the poem, 'Legacy,' it might be that the author's intention is to show us how mistreating a child will make him mistreat his kids in turn, in which case it's a Moral Warning Poem that I'm afraid I lack the compassion to be moved by. The poem follows:

                My father was the ultimatedisciplinarian
                withour ever laying a hand on me.
                Whenever I did something bad, he'd sit me down
                talk to me like an adult
                then kill one of my pets.

                One day I decorated the side of the house
                with a hot glue gun, pushing insects
                and leaves and flowers into the red gunk
                spelling my name.
                He showed me the error of my ways
                by chasing my cat
                with his power mower. She managed to escape
                but her babies, the little fluffy gray one
                the two calico girls
                and the bglack and white tom kitten
                weren't fast enough
                I never went near my father's tools again.

                I told myself
                I would hit my kids when they were bad.
                I'd take them over my knees
                and whomp them into cherbus.
                But it's not good enough. My son
                just got caught shoplifting--the police
                are bringing him homeright now.
                It's time to learn him some respect.

                Where is that damn dog....

I considered "Milking the Cow of Your Dreams" the most interesting specimen of the poems in this issue of Silent But Deadly:

                She's so white it scares you: a can of unstirred
                Deck paint. She
                Bathes in light--
                Even your sister never looked so newly
                Naked. She watches you come to her as though
                The field of her vision were acountry church
                Illumined except for one dark center aisle
                You struggle up--You, the shining intern,
                Purer than the bridegroom, the bride, their whispered
                Yes . . . Her eyes grow vague and baleful:
                Yesterday's overweight nurse on her break.
                Your left boot makes a mushy noise... Surprise!
                You're ankle-deep in an analogy so
                New it steams. Her
                Thick tongue extrudes
                Like lava or a pink slur
                Of toothpaste
                Her squared-off nose must
                Belong to the teddy bear whose blue-glass eyes
                Grew milky and cracked in the washing machine.
                You recognize those hooves: fever-devils make
                Your sister knot her braids, or stand by your bed
                Wringing out cloths which would go past your forehead.
                Her ears are the kitchen towels you got for
                Spelling "bureaucrat" before Betsey Sands.
                What would happen if that tongue were pried:
                The tape your sister uses to check her bust
                Would get torn: your sister would be duly
                Spanked. She'd throw stones and spider-web your
                Glasses. So you walk around, try the back door
                Approach. Her tail may lash like willowor birch,
                But it's the barnrope you swung on from loft to
                Loft. You grab hold and tug: it's Eeyoure's tail,
                And off it comes: balloon tied
                By a knotted string--comes a bluging sack. You
                Fall to--rip the slick thing open, tooth and nail.
                You drum the ground in red-handed joy, then
                Drop
                To fours. You nuzzle the warm, white source of luck:
                Muzzle unmuzzled, you guzzle and suck.

Here's what I said about it: "This poem is a narration of a dream and therefore surrealistic. Everything works fine for me until the fever-devils: vivid imagery, fascinating mix of farm- and hospital-event. The sibling rivalry that follows the fever-devils in beautifully concrete details is equally and similarly strong but I can't connect it to the first part of the narration--and by "connect" I don't just mean through rationality but by any means, dream-logic, emotional-flow, etc. My initial guess is that the fever-devils represent the censoring aspects of the sister but I don't see why they should. I guess I want more literality here--some further connection to the sister--e.g., perhaps the hooves are brown like the sister's eyes. I dunno, I just want some firmer link here--or maybe there is one I've missed. Anyway, the final sequence, back with the cow, works fine--though I can't say it takes on me viscerally. (I can't identify with it as gustatory wish-fulfillment, only as sexual wish-fulfillment, which in this case would give it homosexual/incestuous overtones that don't do it for me.)