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Though the Lummox Journal publishes five to ten poems each issue, the April issue contains almost all poetry.  Here are some excerpts from the recent 2004 issue.  For more poems, please visit DUFUS, our online poetry journal. 

Last Poems

I browse through the latest issue
of the pretentious poetry journal
and find the vast majority of poems
particularly incomprehensible
so I move on
and glance at photos
of the featured poets
and think,
"My God, I've been mistaken.
This must be a magazine printing
the last poems of dying patients.
Their faces express such despair
and a kind of insane rage.
I must pray for them."
But returning to the cover
I see it is indeed the latest issue
of the condescending poetry journal
and then of course
comes the realization
that the academic elite
are fooling no one but themselves
and that their misery
is a wonderful punishment
for their god awful musings
as they remain single-handedly
responsible for the nation
refusing to read poetry anymore.


David Rushing

Arcadia, CA



jimmy dark used


to deliver


to taverns

along w/my

father it

was the low

level shit

my father

did for the

mob &

when they

went around

to collect

jimmy liked

to say


i lose a

little cash

off the top

you won't

tell now

will you

the guy who


jimmy told

my dad

the sweetest

part's the

last part

where you

get to live


Todd Moore

Albuquerque, NM


This Is Not Poetry

The poet’s desk was a kind of time capsule,

a thing frozen, like an open wardrobe at the foot of Vesuvius.

It seemed that he had stepped out to make some copies,

and in leaning over the flash of the Xerox machine,

decided that he could never return to Cowley Building,

Room 652.   Maybe he thought, in that moment, lit up

by the bulbs beneath the glass surface, of the bottles of aspirin,

Excedrin, Tylenol, half empty, tossed in various drawers,

or the jagged half of his American Express card,

buried beneath the dozens of pens,

caps all marred with incisor dents.

Maybe it wasn’t a Xerox flash at all.

Maybe it was a long time coming.

Maybe he was tired of the rusty Colgate can and plastic

razors piling up beneath decades of syllabi,

the dirty forks from home smudging student poems,

the fluorescent lighting, the endless Department memos

announcing the new Attendance Policy, the Add/Drop deadline.

And what if it was ennui?  What if it was finding himself staring

at a wind-up Toy airplane, or mini Chinese firecracker

and thinking to himself,  This is not poetry.


Kathryn Formosa

Long Beach, CA



Suicide Letter of Johnny Appleseed


dear mr. b

i had to write you because i can’t find the sun!

gone! no where to be found, the dawn left last

week to get some steak & eggs at little gus caf &

never came back. i lost the sun b! i lost the sun.

Armageddon is here & it’s my fault & no more

seed b & no more drunken cider binges b & no

more politics b & no more sex b & no more green

wigs & blue collar sweat & noontime rides & no

more b b. no more me b! what am i going to do b?

gotta kill myself b. hope you understand, tell

adam. the serpent can have that bitch. i can’t live

w/out the sun b. good-bye forever. sorry.

johnny appleseed


J. D. Mitchell

Las Vegas, NV



because of the way my body rises

to meet you, I’d take you back


because of the places my pride has been

I’d take you back


because of the strength I never had

I’d welcome you open


because of the skin I don’t own anymore

I’d tender you again


because of the weather, the wind, and the air


Cathy Barber

San Mateo, CA



Pocket Park

broken benches
crumbling brick
all but abandoned
save for flowering
graffiti. radio wafts,

settling like cinders
on the street below.
from some high open window
hip-hop, maybe
Mozart, only rooftop
pigeons know for sure.

a stunted bush, exhausted
flowers, defeated swatch
of threadbare grass.
in the corner, a poor excuse
for a tree -waxed, wan-

as if carried out
from the basement
exposed to sun
for the very first time.

an old man tries
to soak up what's left
of the shade,

clothes, skin,
the color of earth,
communing alone
with his brown paper bag.


Richard Luftig

Oxford, OH



Exploring the Creative Process since 1996