February 11-17, 2008: Jenn Rubi and B.W. Mayer

week of February 11-17, 2008

Jenn Rubi and B W Mayer

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Jenn Rubi
jennmrubi@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Jenn Rubi is a 33 year old wayward woman currently living in Kansas city, which isn’t as bad as it sounds because it’s halfway to where she came from and still belongs, the California coast.She is a professional cook and enjoys creating art.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Jenn Rubi and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Airplane to San Francisco

I am above you amid the soft twilight of the universe
35,000 feet above existence,
where smudged cities resemble lava Here in the speed of atmosphere
with the thought of space
just further than this Mesmerized by snowcapped rockies,
network of canyons,
patchwork of crops circle after circle,
surprised that I could even matter there.

Car crash

So this is how we go out?
Not even the spatial tint of stars,
no predestined hint of glorified high universe
when you feel yourself open up like a breeze
feathers and symbols of the angels.

To touch death yet still be warm, 
to watch it bleed and unfurl
like the ritual of morning glories at dawn Underwater-like and slow.

B W Mayer
brianmayer1@verizon.net

Bio (auto)

I am an active writer and work with poetry groups here on Long Island when I am not performing with my band, Out Of The Blue I used to believe that it was important to write every day Now I understand that the art is in the rewrite I quickly become disillusioned with each piece after I feel they have gone as far as I could take them.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by B W Mayer and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Conversation on Route 23 North, November 1987

He leans on me like a rusted bicycle, 
Tires flat against the weathered south wall
Of a lonesome, abandoned barn
Slumps into the rear seat of his old Ford
Station wagon, no longer capable of riding
Shotgun in the only car he has ever known
Images reflected in the rear view mirror
Are not always larger than they may appear
A small figure, gaunt .thin .weak
The bluff has lost its long battle against
A sea that is unrelenting and unforgiving

There is no apprentice program
No manual with appendix, numbered illustrations
That touches on the passage of responsibility
I did not recognize the need for silence
My feeble attempt to shoot the breeze
Was more for my own benefit than it was for his
I understand that now
I spoke of realty, the acres we had our eyes on
Now, his eyes were tired and trapped
Locked in that hollow gaze of regret
There, in a whisper, close to tears
I strain to listen

There has been a change of plans

For Camilla, May She Never Know

Solitary amber rays
Burn back early morning fog
Only to reveal the
Cracked orange trash pail so
Carelessly tossed to the gutter
Discarded like the small
Dented tin of cat food
That lies beside it
Silently
The tin is placed in his pocket
The pail is returned to
The elderly
Forlorn neighbor
So she will not know

Summer of Love

She stood at the mouth of
A gravel driveway
An oversized flannel
Shirt unbuttoned just enough

We did not speak

You were always the
Mature one, I
Hopelessly naive

This belongs to you
With the hope that
You may remember

Selling Water by the River

Lobbyists dressed in full
Regalia – their gold stars shine
Through the cigar smoke haze
That oozes from heads that bicker
With balderdash and ballyhoo
Ramped up rhetoric
Destined to stoke the flames
Red on this grand barn fire
As men of good fortune
Find themselves labeled somewhere
Between patriots and heretics
By carnival barkers who continue
Selling water by the river