Poetry
Kerouacking - Austin
Straus
The Cripple -
Lynette
What I Listen For (for Jerry) - R.G.
Cantalupo
The President's Woman - Tina
Catalina Corcoran
Ravens - Hillary
Kaye
Kerouacking
By
Austin Straus
hang out near a
coast
in case the center
crumbles
then catch a cruise
across
an ocean, don’t look
back
that wide middle
maw
gulps plenty, a few coughed up to the
rim
stick and prosper, the
rest
drift back, find
ways
to
die
it’s the sea does
me,
rolling surf and
stench
lull and tender, a
place
to
hide
blood-shifting sea
churning
in my flesh, old goodmama
sea
who feeds and fills, makes dark
moons
of scared child eyes, lets a
kid
drink himself to
sleep.
-----
The
Cripple
Sitting in
pain,
A deserted
room,
A chair of cold, uncompromising
metal,
Waiting,
Endless
pondering of “Should I or shouldn’t
I?,”
Paralyzed by a secret
fear,
Knotted
fingers
tremble beside the silent
telephone,
Listening for the threatening
doorbell
with unwilling
ears,
Haunting faces peer through the
windows,
My eyes sealed
shut,
Strangers don’t
understand,
Hurting in the disability of my
own design,
Frightening emotions
suppressed,
Poisoned by the
Past,
The delicate child of long
ago,
A crippled
adult.
–
Lynette
-----
What
I Listen For
(for
Jerry)
By R.G.
Cantalupo
Jerry hugs a tree and tells
me
his wife does this for
therapy.
She gets messages,” he
says,
and shows me how she
presses
her forehead against the
trunk
just so. I don’t know what to
say.
Jerry is as far out on the
fringes
as I ever wish to be, but, as
I
watch him, I think, what the
hell,
seems just as good as
praying.
We’re on the
promenade,
a Saturday, a warm Spring
night,
women sauntering by in
their
alluring, see-thru
dresses.
I can’t be intimate with an
oak
with so many warm
bodies
moving close beside me. I give
up,
tell Jerry I have a headache.
I’m
unable to achieve treeness
when
my head’s throbbing against the
bark.
“There’s a difference, you know,
“
Jerry continues, “between
hugging
a street lamp and a tree.” I
look
at him. He’s serious. His
eyes
sizzle in the amber light.
“Trees
have hearts.” I nod. Take
in what
he means. Then, I turn. Say
goodbye.
Slip back inside the body of
blacktop
and neon. Listen for the
hearts
of trees beating in the
night.
------
The
President’s Woman
By Tina Catalina
Corcoran
Winter
1998
I Pity, the Poor
Woman,
Who Fell -- For his Game. .
.
Share -- In his Shame . .
.
Bare - In his Blame . .
.
I Pity, the Poor
Woman,
Who Fell for his Game
-
Was it worth “15 minutes” of
Fame?
Yes, it was. (Yes, it
was.)
YES!, IT WAS! (YES! IT
WAS!)
At the time, I’m not
Lyin’,
He LOVED
me!
I Pity, the Poor
Women,
Who Fell - For his Face . .
.
“CHIEF” -- Of
the Race . . .
“THIEF” -- Of the Faith . . .
I
Pity, the Poor Women,
Who Fell for his
Face -
Was it worth “the DISGUST”
and “DISGRACE”?
Yes, it
was. (Yes, it was.)
YES! IT WAS!
(YES! IT WAS!)
At the time, I’m not
Lyin’,
He LOVED
me!
I Pity the Poor
Women
Who Fell for his
Eyes...
What a PERFECT
DISGUISE . . .
“The
President’s Eyes” . . .
I Pity,
the Poor Women,
Who Fell for his Eyes
-
Was it worth ALL those LITTLE WHITE (HOUSE)
LIES?
Yes, it was. (Yes, it
was.)
YES! IT WAS! (YES! IT
WAS!)
I SWEAR - I’m not
Lyin’,
He LOVED
me!
Oh, I SWEAR - Yes, I SWEAR it . .
.
He LOVED me . .
.
He loved me . .
.
He loved
me,
-----
Ravens
by Hillary
Kaye
the
pain had reached proportion greater than the sun could
warm,
and the earth was giving
way,
and the tides were changing and the sun
was setting
and the moon was waning and stars
were telling secrets to the clouds.
and the
liars were telling tales to the horse who was galloping on and on and
on
because he had the strength to do
it
and someone must carry on carry through
with it as if the end were near enough to
see
they thought they had the answers to get
from here to there
who cares the price or
millennium of years strangled by this,
that
was the map,
she crawled to the door opened
it wide and begged for air or insight whichever might come first.
Posted: Thu - March 1, 2007 at 09:29 AM