November 26-December 2, 2007: Bill Ware and Andrew James Spaschak

week of November 26-December 2, 2007

Bill Ware and Andrew James Spaschak

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Bill Ware

Bio (auto)

Bill Ware commutes from Cleburne, TX to Stephenville where he is Senior Publications Editor (read graphic designer) at Tarleton State University He has an M.A in English from Texas A&M University, designs ambigrams for fun, and plays guitar in church when allowed.

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

Synthesizer Suzie

Synthesizer Suzie
plays with one hand
on a keyboard in a
new wave post punk band

Churning out a masterpiece
3-chord melody
with chicken-fried hairdos
A 60s parody

Suzie knows but three notes
The guys maybe know four
Considering their repertoire
why should they know more?

Acknowledging no structure
they rigidly replay
with repeated high precision
their hit of yesterday

Suzie seems unconscious
But no one seems to care
The audience of self-made clones
isn’t wholly there

Emily’s Cat

Her cat’s as lovely as they come—
Red and golden brown—
Pads intensely towards a wren
Pounces, pins it down—
Methodically and peacefully fierce
Dismembers songs unsung
Devours the warmth of flesh and blood
And bathes with feathery tongue

Prehistoric Pigmentation

Dinosaurs were pink and green
And every color in between
Mottled and striped in every hue
From olive drab to DayGlo blue
Despite the color schemes they had
I doubt that they were ever plaid

Aural Adrenaline Rush

consider the scream of a cold guitar
wantonly amplified by
over-wound humbuckers
reacting to low-frequency steel
reined in—ironically—by carbon wipers
fingertips hammering
tensioning wire
transmogrifying pitch
arpeggios melting into sonic magma
pulsing plastic diaphragms
pounding organic membranes
palpitating the pavilion
clap your hands, tap your feet
foot bone connected to the ear bone

UNIX Eunuchs

code-spewing geeks
dependent illogically on technology
patching dot-com URL leaks
jobs secured by virus mongers, terrorists of the virtual

milieu of subroutines
limited only by time and space and power generation
state-of-the-art devices spawned in Silicon Valley
beget antediluvian quests
mythology for hire
pseudo-worlds of avatars, electrons coursing through their veins

derivative fiction
written by human digits that are inescapably analog
controlled by central processing units that have no practical understanding of internal combustion
(walk-behind lawnmowers have no BIOS)

on Mother’s Day
some technically challenged, albeit lucky, mom
will receive an E-card that she can’t open
(it’s the high-level cognitive process that counts)

Andrew James Spaschak

Bio (auto)

Living in Niskayuna, New York A proud father of two wonderful girls I have previously been published in periodicals, ezines, and have preformed live at various stops throughout the Northeast I am a songwriter and poet who’s creations tend to delve into the the natural energy of the soul and how we as humans relate to life in our contemporary and ever changing society I have written songs that have made their way onto airwaves along the folways stream of struggling artists I am in my fourties and forever thankful for the many opportunites I have had to express myself through poetry and music

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

Toy Soldiers

a slip of tongue
an adolescent impulse Later he will learn not
to say what he means,
when he dims to mellow.

he’ll learn to be
a remnant of himself He’ll carve days of dollars
they’ll rise and fall,
sink or swim.

he will gaze
at the slip curl of
a summer moon
thinking of lead
army men, and G.I Joe.

such a lovely month
for a man to be born,
again, and again,
dying in-between
each blink of sun.

what kind are you
Gray or blue?
I’d really like to know
if you ever won
at Stratego.

we begin our dance
of words and impressions,
here beside the middle-age
of life, still taking sides
and building walls.

you may find me
beside a hemlock
picking small cones
for a Marigold potpourri
no less, or more a man.

that day arrives
we guard ourselves
enough to be at ease
to give each other
what we plan.

Is a large word
it comes in moments
when the soul is loud,
then quietly slips away
hanging just beyond
our reach.

I chose the ones
in the prone position
blue, they fought at rest
hidden in the black grass
bullets whizzing by.

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