June 29-July 5, 2009: Simon Perchik and David Neves

week of June 29-July 5, 2009: 

Simon Perchik and David Neves

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Simon Perchik

Bio (auto)

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, Poetry Super Highway and elsewhere Rafts (Parsifal Editions) is his most recent collection Family of Man (Pavement Saw Press) is scheduled for Fall 2009 For more information, including his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at http://www.geocities.com/simonthepoet

The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by Simon Perchik and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

One fire hearing another
widens its nest, glistens
–I drink this tea
till each eye cracks for air, flies
and my wet shoulders as if a brood
still soaking in leaves and twigs :the sky
nearer, by morning all those suns
tracking in V formation
–I drink from a map
printed on glass, the burnt parts
sound like roads reaching out
and there’s no name for my hands
or knees or how do I find water
that has no name
though it’s here on the map There’s got to be somewhere
the swooping stab by a door
as it opens –this map
is outdated and my lips too
forgot who they are holding
–I drink this boiling tea
for its sound, its crash
as if the sky lost its way
and will last forever –drink
till my eyes, my talons and claws
my feathers and how painful
to eat anything in the morning.

These leaves although the sunlight
fluttered, each branch
tightening some birdcall
eaten alive –the leaves
still thin, will prowl all winter
for roots almost bones
almost dry :each leaf
brackish, sharpening itself
will strike through the Earth
as if it could overflow
and you drink without a cup
or hands Or lips All night
a river, unbreakable –you break a branch
as paths still fork
reaching for leaves, still mark
where lightening buttresses the Earth
with fountains –you will kneel
lift each leaf, your hands
greener than each day
half out some mountainside already warm
already loose and singing.

David Neves

Bio (auto)

My name is David Neves I am 51, live alone, love classical music, chess and computers I am a big Mets fan (baseball) and speak five languages I have two grown children-one of whom is autistic I look quite a bit like Jerry Garcia! I live in the Ironbound section of Newark and own my own home I am retired from the US Postal Service.

The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by David Neves and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

In Memoriam
(A Trilogy and Epilogue for Harry Shapiro and the YMCA)


Harry, I really didn’t know, nobody ever told me
as I stare Sodom in the eye;
boy we’re close-we’re so fucking close that
we can tickle King Kong’s balls, Harry;
Damn, that revolving fan in the ceiling
whirling clockwise but never faster
than the vapor that is us, Harry, you and I –
counter, clocked and unwise in our home;
Yes, we are home, Harry-in our cheesy little pocket
of well stitched yuppiedom
but you are released my friend
as they carry away poorly stitched patches
of what you were and
where you’ve been


I did not know, I did not know-
that fucking ceiling fan aggressively
attacks the smoke, but
where the fuck did the years go?
You take my greasy kid stuff and
defiantly comb it through your
reluctantly grey wannabe pompadour-
Harry, you handsome sonofabitch, you!
Fuck, where did the time go, musing
while puffing the coffin nails and sending
our epitaph into carcinogenic space;
Shit, no stray dogs in Yuppiedom, Harry
just us, as clandestine fumes cha cha
seductively between the twin whorehouses


It sucks, Harry; weren’t you a cook in Viet Nam?
– you can smell the wannabes and neverweres
(so full of shit) from across the river since they
always brag about how may gooks they’ve wasted;
but if you’d really been there, 
you wouldn’t talk about that shit as
the phony vet blows nicotine trumpets with
blazing tatoos that hurt my eyes;
But you can tell that he pulls his prick
and you’re not here to tell him ’cause
you’ve been released to those choppers
that bring holy hash and sacred shit-on-a-shingle;
they treated those cans like gold, like fucking gold, 
I won’t pull your prick anymore, Harry


They don’t announce this kind of shit;
whenever they find you dead in your room you’re
only a footnote and/or soup kitchen gossip but
I didn’t know since they don’t announce that shit;
May God grant us grace to be real, Harry
You’ve been released, Rest In Peace, my friend

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