After almost a decade of working as a freelance photographer in Europe,
Maurice Oliver returned to America in 1990. Then, in 1995, he made a life-long dream reality by traveling around the world for eight months. But 
instead of taking pictures, he recorded the experience in a journal which eventually became poems. And so began his desire to be a poet. His 
poetry has appeared in numerous national and international publications and literary websites including Potomac Journal, Pebble Lake Review, 
Taj Mahal Review (India), Dandelion Magazine (Canada), Stride Magazine(UK), and online at thievesjargon.com, interpoetry.com (UK), kritya.com
(India), and blueprintreview.de (Germany). His forth chapbook, "One Remedy Is Travel" will be published in August '07 at Origami Condom. He is the editor
of Concelebratory Shoehorn Review (www.concelebratory.blogspot.com). He lives in Portland, Oregon, where he works as a private tutor.

 

Undergrowth With Writer’s Block
 
Dear Samantha,
 
Sorry for not writing, but there’s been a rabbit in my cabbage 
patch and a grizzly bear in my shower. It is only now that spare time has gotten to it’s feet as if it’s name had been 
called out over the PA system. I miss you and still think of 
your shiny go-go boots all the time. I fondly recall the taste 
of your brussel sprouts and that cute way you had of rocking 
the cradle with my yo-yo. I hope this letter reaches you in 
a blizzard and that on your next visit you'll bring some land 
mines. If Dante could have words with the dead although 
they had no bodies than I’m sure we can sit and admire the ticket counter at the Greyhound terminal until our love jones 
comes down or the police arrest us for vagrancy. Either way, 
please bring enough bus fare to get us both as far as Reno. 
 
 

Her Muse, With One Foot Off The Curb
 
She claims her parents never wanted a child that 
was obedient. She honestly believes they desired 
one who would be as unpredictable as dandelions 
and as careless as broken bottles. She thinks they 
wanted their “bouquet” purchased without the clear 
cellophane wrapping. Instead, what they got was a 
child with the unnerving power to carry seas under 
her wings and still have her chimney smoke fumes 
visible after the express train went by. Dipped in the
delicate eye of small gradations. And the sun shines 
kindly for a coat, standing with one foot off the curb.
Or it it’s Tuesday than chicken chow mein is muse.
 
 
Please Pat Here
 
No gun to breathe power into a kiss.
 
Or a shoelace of boot zipper to grosgrain the meager 
sauerkraut of pickled crochet. Try adding a corn beef 
eye-patch to the cole slaw with the ticker-tape parade 
hand printed. Then, bundle a pinch of spice girls into 
the arthritic argument. Or if your gimme a quarter is 
pre-heated, bugaloo the belly dancer until riverside 
drive poodles into a fish hoop full of pickpockets. For 
an after-meal treat, why not sip some creeping kudzu 
pyorrhea just before you push the button to replay the 
soundtrack. A resolution that can turn all your thoughts 
to actions. Facets to combat every cold sore. Or maybe
a wrinkled purse of metal chambers. And if that fails just 
remember, a doorway without a door will still know how 
to crawl through itself. 
 
 
& 15 Remaining Items In The “Wish Box”
 
1. A hybrid Florida alligator with plastic teeth.
2. The Holy Grail after becoming the designated driver.
3. The only eunuch in a twenty-mule-team.
4. Burnt toast waving a large white flag.
5. A smart bomb that’s a yodel champion too.
6. Pigeon droppings with a bad case of hiccups.
7. A bleary photo of Paris in the shower.
8. Dharma chants especially written for crystal lynxes.
9. A porcupine sporting a blonde buzz-cut.
10. Rheumatic ice cut from an old Minnesota lake.
11. A dolphin you can rent for your backyard pool.
12. Jellybeans that can whistle Dixie.
13. A mouse hole with it’s own little mattress.
14. The cookie monster’s greasy fingerprints (complete set).
15. All the onion bagels in Manhattan.
 
 
Conversation With A Stonemason
 
Golden wings against the sky.
 
But most of the time, the newsstand down the street is
pronounced DOA and a saxophone plays into the cracked 
cereal bowl. The whine of garbage is exceeded only by 
exhaust fumes with a bloated stomach. Half-vacant is the 
motel sign and hungry money gone. The little wine left in
the bottle quickly runs down the subway stairs but still
misses the train. Pimp is my dog’s bullhorn with a dirty 
gray cap lacking generosity and candor. And if the fibers
gathered at the crime scene are stained in red, than you
can be sure all the canned peas on sell have been emptied
from the supermarket shelf. Adjust your hat any way you
want to but it won’t help a bit. And that’s the way love goes.