May 30-June 5, 2011: Justin Roberti and Ben Nardolilli

Justin Roberti
justinroberti@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Justin Roberti has been a writer for nearly 20 years, creating poetry, plays, and short stories. He has directed and mounted multiple stage products and co-written and produced documentaries. He has a Master of Fine Arts in Playwrighting from Rutgers University and lives in Central Pennsylvania.Visit Justin on the web here: http://unsensible.wordpress.com/ 

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by  Justin Roberti and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Fuck the Moon

Man went to the moon
Never asked what she wanted
Man drove his rocket straight into the Moon
She turned her face away
And let it happen
Because it was simpler

He didn’t make it easy
He did a victory dance
Bounding like a child,
Like an ape howling into a vacuum
And he left
Flag planted
The flag is still there
He hasn’t been back

We don’t assign gender to objects in English
But we all know
A fork is male
A spoon is female
A hammer is male
A clamp is female
A whip is a brute
A ship is a lady
An umbrella’s a girl in an umbrella skirt

The moon is a woman
The shadows that crawl across her face
Smudged eyeliner
Unfathomable ranges in darkness descending
In sienna black weeping
Round cheek cool untouchable
Distant, distant, distant and beautiful
250,000 miles beautiful
Impossible
Bereft and unreachable

I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m so sorry baby
I’ll come back
It’s one day’s ride
It’s one thousand day’s ride
From Philadelphia
I’ve got money for gas
Or I’ll bring you to me
And make the tides change in our union
Fish flying upward
The Earth caving in
At the shift and the whisper of our love
Which never was and ever shall be
Or I’ll get drunk
And I’ll hop another rocket
Straddle it like a cowboy
Ride straight into you
Again
Again
I wasn’t careful enough
I’m sorry
Let me just look at you
Let me just
Don’t cry
Be still
You look so pretty in your own light

Cat

Cat
you’re going bald and you’re old.
It isn’t your fault.
You’re still sleek and black on my lap
But your belly shows through white like a fawn
where the skin is bare
except for a thin wisp of hair.
Your ear is notched from where you bit the live wire
You’re wearing at the shanks like old upolstry.
Sometimes.
When you jump for the sofa you miss.
We all get old and
when that happens
we can roll along steady
till a single rock in the road
sends us flying.

Still
when you want to
you can jump from the floor to the bookshelf
with nothing to boost you.
Which is like me vaulting my ass
onto the roof of this one story ranch
in one leap.
Like Spiderman.
Maybe you’ve got a few good years left.
I hope so.
You look at me like you know me.
Your eyes are golden keyholes when you dream

 

_______________________________

Ben Nardolilli
bnardolilli@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

I am a twenty five year old writer currently living in Montclair, New Jersey. My work has appeared in the Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, One Ghana One Voice, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, Gold Dust, Scythe, Anemone Sidecar, The Delmarva Review, Contemporary American Voices, SoMa Literary Review, Gloom Cupboard, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Black Words on White Paper, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly. In addition I maintain a blog at
mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and am looking to publish my first novel.

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by  Ben Nardolilli and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

7476 American Blvd.

Every morning they have a grand opening,
All wares are out and specials stain the shelves.

Banners hang from corner to corner,
Small plastic flags dangle like colorful teeth.

Each customer finds themselves twice as rich,
Everything sliding off at a rate of two for one.

In the evening there is a going out of business sale,
The shelves must be emptied, the registers can be bought.