October 1-7, 2007: Patrick Ryan Dunn Sullivan and Robert C. Monroe

week of October 1-7, 2007

Patrick Ryan Dunn Sullivan and Robert C Monroe

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Patrick Ryan Dunn Sullivan
prsullivan1s@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Patrick Ryan Dunn Sullivan is a mathematician, linguist, and poet living indefinitely on the Korean peninsula.

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

Orchid

Curled in the sweat of a lily,
I find you Bred neatly, in the
Floridian swamps that
Hide the footprints
And the fountains of Deleon Green: in the murky dawns,
That rise from alligator lips Protected by poisonous snakes
And irreproachable distances I find you; yes, I find you,
Curled in the sweat of a lily.


Robert C Monroe
shelfffbuilder@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Robert C Monroe is a lifelong Californian, now living in Los Angeles Apart from poetry, his favorite pursuits are chess, basketball, and baseball

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

The Weather Hawker

On sale today!
Zigzags of lightning,
Diamond-like, still radiant,
Harvested by a merchant
With a thousand kites
Over Mien Mo Mountain
Bags of wind from Aeolia,
Tied up tightly with silver wires All the fairest breezes
A sailor could ever pray for!

Grey-white thunder grenades,
Surplus from Indra himself!
Hurl concussion upon a foe,
And strike fear in faraway hearts!

Lastly, our special of the day–
See our bounty of rain seeds,
Each as potent as it is tiny,
Guaranteed to impregnate the clouds Buy them by the gross,
And unleash a flood!


Sour & Sweet

Heber Street was long and narrow,
& at our end of it
Sunny,
Because the trees did not crowd around
Like they did at the East end
By the brick chimney
We had an Italian cypress,
Tall, splendid,
& a little potted lemon tree
Some afternoons
I would pick off a lemon
& send it as high
As my young arm was able
Again and again,
Until it began to crack up,
& then I’d suck at the almost
Intolerably sour pulp
Coming out,
& pucker
& frown
Afternoons these days I find myself
Far less inventive I have since sucked out
All the sourness I could ever care for I tear two bags of sugar
No lemon
For my tea
& the towering lemon tree
In the yard below
Belongs to someone else.

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