December 12-18, 2011: Clint Hirschfield and Scott Allen

week of December 12-18, 2011

Clint Hirschfield and Scott Allen

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Clint Hirschfield

Bio (auto)

Clint is from Madison Wisconsin and has been writing for the better part of 35 years, he has written one book which is being published named (The Closet). He writes what is and has been around him.

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

Swept a way

Again the roll of thunder comes
along with a moving wall of rain.
I am not the only one with waking hours.
Hurry then worries set in like a bad disease,
running yet stopping for one last look as all the
houses get swept a way, with a not so gentle
slow motion wave.

Scott Allen

Bio (auto)

I received an MFA from California College of the Arts where I edited poetry for the literary journal Eleven Eleven. In addition to literature, I’m inspired by music and by geography. I’ve lived and written in Italy, Oklahoma, and Colorado where I taught creative writing at an alternative high school for troubled teens.

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


monsters are always hungry / that’s what makes them monsters –Sean Hayes

what do the iron veins of the earth care for us?
do we destroy from vengeance
for generations past, generations
future, for our mothers and fathers
the elemental violence that will
manipulate our bones?
we make parks of graveyards
add stone to bodies going stone
grotesque in bald fragility
lackluster, lacking
the earth experiments with us
runs its own research
we have not imagined
laboratories like these
time is the poison
we’ve been screaming from the beginning—
fighting cancer like drunken children
hustling our parts around
fiddling with genes
loosely strumming strands and proteins
we magnify matter
but it bends us
this is darkest night, the work
molten in the land
this is death of sea-waves
black crash beach sky black
we watch the crests in angry march
reach and chomp, and the sky—
we could’ve said ‘clouds’, but we didn’t believe it—
clouds didn’t begin to explain
the dark was tricky, nameless
unnamable, it wanted to devour
left steep scoops in the beachhead
the undertow some speeding shout
some secret passageway, the quickest path
to the darkest depths
matter cursed our names and claimed our fates         
from the center of the earth
to the lips of the sea
stare into the riptide and greet
the depths of the galaxy
its black hole grip
atoms want your teeth and marrow
the ancients knew volcanoes
they knew a hell of a lot
we sit atop rock, and beneath that
the darkest light and
lake of fire
no wars existed, no newspapers
human life and all it carried
the smallest sparks—embers floating
from the fire, flying on dark air
what can we do?
besides take
tiny sips?


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