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After almost a decade of working as a freelance
photographer in Europe, Maurice Oliver returned to
America in 1990 to work for the Los Angeles Times.
Then, in 1995, he made a lifelong dream reality by
traveling around the world for eight months. But
instead of taking pictures, he used the same acute
creative energy to record the experience in a journal,
which eventually became dozens of poems. And so began
his ambition to be a poet. His poetry has appeared in
The Potomac Journal, Circle Magazine, Tryst3 Journal,
Eye-Shot, The Surface, One Forty Two Magazine, Holy
Ignorance, Bullfight Review, Taint Magazine, Somewhat
Magazine, Word Riot, Monkey Kettle, Retort
Magazine(Australia), StrideMagazine(UK), Taj Mahal
Review(India), and many online journals.He
presently resides in Portland, Oregon, where he works
as a private tutor.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

Edgar Allan Poe


photo by John Thompson

Disregard All The Above

sizing-up the skulls & orchids
or back would be nice
hanging-thereof   on a swing
until the rain comes again
or a train appears in the tunnel
stuck on today's assignment
in opaque plastic  or a pill
meant for the privileged class
basking in subtle October light
or simply build a bigger bellow
with bright nose rings that glint
or skip English 101 completely
& answer in the door instead
wearing yesterday's boxer shorts
with no means of real transportation
try the restroom opposite Chem lab
or ask for the customer's key at
the filling station down the street


In A Collection Of Nose-Rings

mostly crumpled at first but then
flattened out for closer inspection
the colorful streamers & party hats
shining like a chastened sun is
viewed from a window above the square
where refugees of passing populations
somehow get side-tracked after
reading yesterday's newspaper story
about some remote Montana farm
that host sheep-herding contests
& promises to change their lives
on camel-back into heaven or
across a desert of shifting sand
with fax machines blathering
& a resulting flow of art
that resembles a waste product
sometimes mistaken for speech


Bent In A Squint

fortune-tellers make whole lives
in such meanderings approaching
each intersection with care
as the light diminishes to a
point where smoke shows through
& dreaming occurs in z's so
you can see the blur of war as
birds test their wings around it
& the ten or so prisoners in the
cell where some are stretched out
on the cement floor while others
know the drill will gradually get
harder or so warns the sergeant
in the skimpy uniform who keeps
time by counting his fingers
but who gives a flying leap about
serial numbers or ranks as long as
the nametags are clearly visible
like pages in a phone book or
those ads that sell what no one
wants to buy well here's a free
pinch of pepper so find yourself
a quiet spot to sneeze

Maurice Oliver

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