January 8-14, 2007: Chris Aguilar and Clay Burt

week of January 8-14, 2007

Chris Aguilar and Clay Burt



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Chris Aguilar
chris@chrisaguilar.com

Bio (auto)

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Chris Aguilar is a poet living and working in the Los Angeles area whose influences range from Walt Whitman, Henry Rollins, Allen Ginsburg to lyricists like Talib Kweli and Roger Waters His poetry has appeared in publications such as San Diego Poets And Art, Splitzz, Critque Magazine and Anthologies from Wasteland Press His 15 years of publishing and writing culminated in 2006 with the release of his first full length book of poetry; “Mayhem: Collected Poetry through 2005”  (ISBN: 9781847285607).This book features over 100 pages of the poetry that Boog Literature called “Powerful Stuff” and that poet/publisher Humberto Gomez called, “ honest, intelligent”  “Mayhem” spans fifteen years of poetry and took three years of editing to complete It is complimented by photographers from LA based fashion photographer, Mark Lidikay An LA native, Chris also writes lyrics for various musical acts in the LA area, as well as does short film projects through his production company, Soul Surf Media (soulsurfmedia.com) He can be contacted for readings and general information through his website, ChrisAguilar.com, or via MySpace at http://MySpace.com/C_Aguilar

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Chris Aguilar and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

For Melissa

Becky was in a ditch by the 60 east,
Bleeding out her 16 years, missing her family and her friends,
Surrounded by angels taking her places that devils like me can only dream of Taking flight the only way that a young soul can,
Meanwhile Jesus taps me on the shoulder,
Reminding me what’s really important and that He is still in control
Marco took his life last week,
He was strung up on display in the garage,
The cops declared it a crime scene,
And asked his mother to step to the side as she choked on her tears,
After watching her son hanging lifelessly from the rafters Self destruction, self hatred,
Exploding into desperation,
The worst chemical reaction I have ever had to see,
A young boy fresh and 16,
Hanging from those ghastly rafters,
His father sitting bewildered on the front steps,
As the cops ask him if he ever noticed that anything was wrong
So it is a bit darker tonight than usual in southern California,
Angels have turned down their headlights in respect for the dead,
As Melissa sits on the hotel floor,
Feeling life crush her young body to the emotional brink of destruction,
I try to figure it all out and say stupid clichés over the phone to her,
Feeling helpless as I listen to her cry I want to take over all of her rage,
Destroy everything on the Earth while screaming “why”,
But then Jesus taps me on the shoulder,
And reminds me to turn my rage into peaceful prayer and thoughts,
That He is in control Soon her sobs turn to soft breathing, and I hang up the phone,
Knowing that she is safe and asleep in Peoria


Mother

Way of moving in and out of decades,
Not ever being defeated or knocked down Rising up to the sun,
Falling only when alone at night with the moon Resurrecting hope in the way that you run,
The smiles you hand out for free Nights that you sat by my bed to make sure that I could sleep,
You would take away all of my demons,
Singing to me as an angel,
You rest on my shoulder during these days when I am weak Satisfy my senses with glances and hidden expressions You make this world come alive to me Thanking you for the dreams that you have instilled into me You have never tried to hold me down,
Or tried to take my soul I have sung your praises to the pigeons on the sidewalk,
To the ants crawling up my chair,
No creature will live on earth,
Without hearing your hymn,
Or about the life that you have given me


Calling for Help

I had a flashback today,
Of Manuel sitting in the kitchen,
The avocado green phone hung on the wall next to him,
He was in his dress shirt and gray slacks,
His large glasses covering his large face He had a green plastic cup next to him filled with wine and ice Typically he would sit here all night drinking wine,
Looking through his phone book and calling friends, relatives,
Anyone that would take the time to hear his voice One time when I was 7, I whipped the phone book out during one of his bad nights I called AA central headquarters and told them that my daddy needed help The man on the phone talked to me as I cried over and over,
“my dad is an alcoholic, my dad is an alcoholic”,
My young mouth barely able to say the words My dad,
Looked at me and asked who I was talking to,
I handed him the phone He sat down and chuckled to himself and looked at me with love
Instead of the usual hatred He sat there for an hour and a half,
The wine absent for once He grabbed me,
Placed me on his lap,
Kissed my cheek,
Told me that he loved me,
I cried hanging tightly onto his large neck “I have a problem,” he said,
Unaware that he was going to let me down.


Clay Burt
burt1@optonline.net

Bio (auto)

I live in Mattituck, New York with my wife and two children and an assortment of pets I have what you’d call a real job but my passion is backpacking Poetry is a tic I can’t control.

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Clay Burt and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Departure

My idea was first to rise with the warming air-
clouds in my hair, vapors & visions I doubt I can return to the world
On the spine of this warm granite, a soft heart in earth,
cautis of ribstone heated at volcan’s hearth,
is the footpath to a mountain house
Wabanakiyik, people of the dawn land, ran bareassed
over these hills and were happy I am happy too We call them Abenaki and they would understand
If I wanted to disappear into the mountains
to chase shadows that were memories 
and build my house of trees

I would leave this tent and walk naked
into the hills and never turn back, bareassed
like the Abenaki My wife would not understand.

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