May 5-11, 2014: Jay Passer and Karen Vande Bossche

Jay Passer and Karen Vande Bossche

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Jay Passer
jp8521984@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Jay Passer lives in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco, the city of his birth. His work has appeared in journals and periodicals in print and online since 1988. His most recent collection of poetry, At the End of the Street, is available from corrupt press, Paris, 2012.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Jay Passer and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Kiss

Surrounded in the small room
By books and boozy memory
I think of her delicate hand in mine
As we skipped down the stairs to the Powell station
So naturally enveloped in familiarity and fruition
I’d only kissed her once
On the cheek at the Tempest at 5 pm that afternoon
After the exhibit of Beat photography at the Jewish
Our thighs just touching with a hint of electrical restraint
Talking of American cities, art theory, and the history of elephants
Talking of conservation, vegetarianism, jazz singers and old standards
Just a girl I thought just a young woman
I really ought not to preconceive the seduction of this vision
A further museum visit promised and my brain fairly dancing
Her skin her eyes her angelically molded cadence of being
Resolved to court her to the end of time
I kissed her after a spontaneous parting embrace
Boldly on the lips before she disappeared past the turnstile
I could sense her invisible smile
Even though she’d earlier insisted
‘This isn’t exactly a date’


Karen Vande Bossche
kjvb53@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Karen Vande Bossche (b.1953) lives in Bellingham, Washington, with an exceptionally large cat. She has been a poet for over forty years, but is just beginning to see the "fruits of her labor" in published form.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Karen Vande Bossche and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Bruises

One on my inner thigh
you say you didn’t do
but a perfect outline
of your teeth belies
the sting the bite the barely
held hunger of your denial

The dim violet procession
across the top of my nose
sharp collision with a Roman building
that showed no scrape or dent
but gladly left its centuries
old mark on me

Another on the back
of my calf like a black brush
stroke across tan canvas
has no associated memory
yet reminds me of a hundred
others mysteriously received

I watch them all bloom dark
then fade ugly olive yellow-brown
I wonder if really they aren’t
just surface bubbles popping
rising from a larger
inner wound