February 19-25, 2007: Kristy Bowen and C.P. Aboobacker

week of February 19-25, 2007

Kristy Bowen and C.P Aboobacker

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Kristy Bowen

Bio (auto)

Kristy Bowen lives in Chicago where she writes poems and makes vague attempts at collage and book arts She is the author of the fever almanac (Ghost Road Press, 2006) and feign (New Michigan Press, 2007), as well as another project, in the bird museum,  forthcoming from Dusie Press Books She is also the editor of the online lit zine wicked alice and founder of dancing girl press, devoted to publishing work by women writers

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

midnight at chet’s melody lounge

Again, I dream I’ve killed you The back of your dress taking on
rain and the windows fogging over I dream a radio and a bedroom I dream a button and a bead Someone who looks like you
but more like me, moaning
into the backseat

We both smell like sugar and wax Both trace our names against the glass Like sisters Only better Bless us for our mothers For the yellow hair dyed black For the rum in our cokes
that makes us lovelier This thing that burns behind us
grown fierce and clumsy as our fingers.

the imagined lives of ghosts

Perhaps they are, after all, godless Licking the finials and mothering
strange black dogs The boxwoods
alone accumulate thousands,
precarious as jukebox lovesongs All of them enamored with objects In love with birthday cake and
the backs of stamps See how they
rhyme in couplets, how their
shoes don’t match their skirts And velvet Yes, velvet As if any of us have enough As if the low-watt gleam
of silver guardrails doesn’t charm us How even the road bends to meet them.


I am bending toward the headlights
when the sound goes out One minute
the wind in my throat, my hair,
and the next nothing I had three sisters,
I tell you, and each of them a china figurine A man, he took my sweater and gave me drink Took my keys Took my name down in a book
and offered to drive me home I can’t stop
these headaches The jagged glass beneath my
tongue I wear my quiet like a charm bracelet
tinkling at my wrist This body practically
a crime scene by now, all dusted and closed My sisters cry and make wreaths You wouldn’t
believe how hot my hands are right now How tiny my fingers.


The tail light put the dark
in her mouth, this rubied gleam.

Black lake beneath her nightgown
littered with sparklers and roman

candles At home, the stockyard filth
in her mother’s kitchen sullies

the mended bedspreads.The bleached
bones of peaches She breathes

a little sometimes Swallows a silver
locket lifted from the thrift store.

Not the real girl with the dress
rehearsal and the geometry of sixes.

But the one gone musty in the throat Gone deep in the milk white.

roadside inventory

The ribs are a lovely museum, you know All spooks and idling Chevrolets Amazing the glow that finds its way into open spaces This mouth like a broken reflector, a length of silver chain I’ve carved a heart in the tar that lines the shoulder and assembled my name in bottlecaps In ditches, the discarded tires resemble murders Slender pickets of crosses lingering at their margins There’s a racket in the things left behind Each name a handbag or a hairpin The forked heat of backseats My limbs are riddled with sisters lurching along interstates Their pink shoes abandoned at the turn How they all lie down like this Lie down like this Lie down like this.

C.P Aboobacker

Bio (auto)

C.P Aboobacker is a 61 year old retired professor of history living in Kerala, India He has published 17 books of which three are anthologies of malayalam poems He is the editor of www.thanalonline.com and is interested in education, literature, poetry and the anti-war movement.

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

Political Hedonism

Open the hidden casket
Look at its contents
Fondle them
Dolls and balls
Toffees and trophies
Plants and trees
Flowers and fruits
Rocks and streams
Smiles and love
Pains and pangs

It’s good
To smile,
Then sigh,
Then weep
On the saplings bent
Flowers fallen
Leaves flying
And faces swollen
To break heart
On broken dreams
To remember mountains
Climbed in love
Sweat dripping
Fragrance of youth
To flow the rivers
Break bones in battle
Fly a soul in storms
Fiddle breezy days of past
Fire the canons
Light beacons
Match the ostrich

Everything’s good
To open the casket
See the contents
Curly hair
Covering the eyes
Glossy chins
Lake blue eyes
Smiling lips

Then it’s good
To be sad
Of hair thin
Eyes damp
Nostrils fluffy
Lips dumb
Ears deaf
Limbs skeletal
Cabins dark
Clothes stinky
Shades of stench
Scratches of lizards
On walls old
Corpses plenty
Beneath Streets
And cities modern

Now it’s good
To be lonely
On the broken floor
Lie down
Eyes half open

Elsewhere in life
Were winged occasions
Soaring to skies
Crossing horizons
Traversing deserts
Glowing in darkness
And writing life
With a feather
Dipped in blood
Slogans sweet
With gallows ahead
Drums loud

Mongrels fed
With honey and meat
Screaming to full moon
Barking to anonymity

Kings foster kennels
Roll in tunnels
Kill with swords
Soothe with roars

War is gone
Waterloo won
Basra burnt
Gardens falling
Babylon trembling
Cuneiform wedges
Creating laws
Clay tables unburnt
Eye for an eye
Tooth for a tooth
And skin them alive!

It’s good
To laugh
And weep
In sorrows
Seattle chief
Mourning for the morrow
Why fret
If today be sweet?

Past Tense Of A Rain-Drop

Transformed in to
The weightless depth
Of celestial tears
Flows unaware
A tiny rain-drop

Along the lanes
Array of shadows
Shedding love
In soil upturned
That grows corn and gold
And on trees blossoming
Before plains are reached
And in the boughs
And the soft lands
Embedded with
Fallen leaves

It flows slowly
Through the plains
Through the lives
Where sands pilfer
And sounds rhyme

Then it flows
Into the infinite ocean
Where it’ll
Become a spot
Of past deserts

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