week of August 27-September 2, 2007
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Eric Steineger is a working actor and poet living in Santa Monica His poetry has appeared in various anthologies and is currently in the August 2007 PoeticDiversity issue online In his spare time he sleeps, eats, runs road races, and hangs out with his girlfriend
Visit Eric on the web here: www.ericsteineger.com
The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Eric Steineger and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
1961 Marilyn, in a stairwell, smoking at the Beverly Hills Hotel Where are you going tonight?
Brave Marilyn, now antsy and moving upstairs to smoke on the balcony If I could remove the wishlist father and boarding schools I would Let your hair fall down The makeup and sickness will follow The picture where your eyes are shut Open them
There have been and continue to be others like Marilyn Ghosts are the real reason I came out here Others whose casualties have not been finalized in celluloid
Do not seem to stay home:
They occupy windows in my hotel Are clerks in the lobby And still others spend their days coloring the Hills black and white
Looming like the specter of Valentino
Les Oiseaux Sauvages et Les Autres
They are humans really the savage birds The others are running their errands If Louis XV wants the royal birds painted
The menagerie will linger upstairs
Don’t waste your canvas on landscape
Nothing here but birds, les autres
No emotion but those eyes left alone You know them
What are you? A large griffin with a pincer foot
You kill prey with that stationary eye
Not the elaborate blue swirl of your murderous feathers
The rhinoceros paraded in front of millions
Has a sweet armored gait The crowds descend
Nobody look at your face and the pool of yellow slowly
The weight of your head is astounding
Dense white cover for your stringed up body
A peaceful eye clouded by gravity and blood
Was captured! Outrage! Your spots had no time
To ready themselves are running all over
Your teeth are your eyes bared like fire
In leisure I wear my flesh suit I go about singing
Though my spirit is bird
My eyes do not pretend to walk on this earth
This exhibit hibernates a hundred fifty years then decides
Your eyes talk to each other in the dark?
I’m to be smashed, put on display stinking of color They are humans really the savage birds The others are running their errands.
David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Tempe, Arizona He has taught English in South Korea and Mexico as well as at several colleges in the United States His works have previously appeared in a variety of venues ranging from The Buffalo News to St Ann’s Review to California Quarterly
The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by David Kowalczyk and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
are only water.
Ars Poetica Haiku
To talk like the rain Words the color of oneself This is poetry.
Mysteries of the San Fernando Valley
How in the hell
am I supposed to take
anything seriously when
I’m living in a town
named after Tarzan?
Entropy on Mount Olympus
Neptune dares not dream That which is invisible
ceases to exist.
My Favorite Fortune Cookie
It takes real courage to be loved.