E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived for over forty years in eastern Sicily, where he taught English at the local university. His poetry appeared most recently in San Antonio Review, Danse Macabre, Neologism, Quail Bell Magazine, and California Quarterly, among others. Martin is an alumnus of the Community of Writers. He has published two collections of haiku, Bitter Pills and Smart Pills, and a chapbook, Exile’s Choice, from Kelsay Books. 

The Art of Double-Hooking

When you fish for love, bait with your heart, not your brain. (Mark Twain)

You are heavy and worth it
I’ve got you on my line, I feel a tug, I’m not sure I can hold you
maybe I’ve cut too much slack (you are way out there somewhere)
so far gone, I cannot see, hear, smell, taste, touch
it’s time, it's time to try a double-hook
a heavier line with more irresistible bait
with a larger sharper more devilish hook buried inside
I run it out in your general direction, wondering
if you even realize you’re hooked right now
if you are, that is
a swift rush could bust the thin line, you know –
gluttony should prevail and you never get loose
once you’re double-hooked
I’ll slide one line down beside the other with a special snell knot I learned from a sailor

He was a crusty sixty-year-old with long gray hair and a fat gold ring in his ear
he taught me about navigating by the stars and told stories of the horse latitudes
he also had a pretty slim girlfriend waiting outside
God, I envied him, his knowledge of the sea learned without books, and his gal
wonder if he had to use the ol’ double-hook trick on her as well.

Experimentos

In a small town in Canada or maybe Australia
many years ago educational research:
two classes: one with math, one without
all happy children until middle school
when the no-mathers caught up
in a few months -- conclusion:
math study is wasted on children

We use our kids as guinea pigs:
try this gizmo, that toy
fast food, that hairstyle:
who's getting rich selling phone
cards & cigarettes
to teenagers? so now we
send you to school on purpose
to be infected, to measure contagion
to gauge severity, hospitalization
& death for your age group
& gender

I'm a scientist guy
I can mark a spike on a graph: I measure stuff:
plus, parents want you out
of the house, they yell, "Enough!":
one year at home is madness
a year without socialization
in juvie, in a TB sickbed
one year of inferior learning
oh, the intellectual damage!
no one knows what'll happen
till we try:

I [the poet] don't get it, why not
let the panic play out
from inside a safe house
let the battle rage outside
then drop our kids off at safe
schools instead of into super-
spreader petri dishes risking
them siblings parents teachers &
janitors? we hear the latest mutation
infects & kills more children than adults:

Do the math
follow the numbers:
serial numbers on dollar bills
except that we use plastic now:
card no., pin, CVV code:
because they give a 0.1% bonus --
better than nothing --
algorithms to check our buying patterns
amidst lockdowns & the great
great depression of 2020-2021-2022.

I Hate Poetry Too

You ain't alone, silent majority
Nobody likes poetry
those few English teachers don't count
and they lie to keep their jobs
otherwise, they'd transmit the condition, spread the virus
no, you hate poetry
and so do I.

I ain't doin' this for my health
chained to the wheel of verse
spouting words of insanity
in an insane world gone meshugenah mad
upside down, wrong and lost
a voice crying in the burnt-out wilderness
of blow-down trees, widow makers.

no one will hear over the
nonsense white noise white nonsense
good for nothing
does not earn a dime
does not garner respect
a whole life could be devoted
with naught to show
nil, zilch, nada, zip
no mention on gravestone
nor internet search engines.

kinda like those retirees
in Grizzly Flats I saw
on TV this morning
who'd just got out with
their skins and pets
as the Caldor Fire swept over
like a giant magician's hand pass
their town to ash in one night
presto change-o
they cannot return
from afar they see the smoldering
and know and know
as everyone knows
that poetry is dead.