April 10-16, 2006: Randall Forsyth and Eric Evans

week of April 10-16, 2006

Randall Forsyth and Eric Evans

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Randall Forsyth

Bio (auto)

Randall Forsyth lives in East L.A , frequents China Town over the sixth street bridge, and makes a regular schedule of Journalistic writing He has been published in Poetry LA; Asylum; Bakunin; Blue Satellite; Graffiti Rag; Beet; The Circle; Inevitable Press; Red Hen Press; Tebot-Bach; and Poetry Super Highway.

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Randall Forsyth and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

High Clouds

The umbrella is adjusted precisely There are observers taking notes Everyone used the same shampoo (writes one of the reporters) Does this seem like a Tuesday or a Thursday? A baseball flies in the host’s direction A young man jumps and catches it three feet from the host’s plate of food A breeze; golden sunlight Aunt Martha turns on the radio It is a be-bop tune from the 40’s Caramel is served to the entire table Suddenly, a new’s bulletin: A meteor shower in the south of France has taken twelve lives Uncle George turns the radio off and calls to his nephew across the park to come to the table, clear it as soon as everyone is finished eating The boy argues that old people should learn to do that for themselves He gives us all the finger It’s then that the tall, thin and smartly dressed reporter asks for his cell phone–he’s loaned it to his host The host refuses, begins clearing the table himself, telling everyone to enjoy the party An ice cream truck drives slowly by and no one looks up A shadow is cast across the table It’s seven P.M , late summer, and high above a small airplane goes into a steep climb, disappears into high clouds


“I’m a Teacher,” she said
and the Brazilian bug
in the center of her mattress
grew over the oven-like
summer of ’49 to
two-and-a-half feet by
three feet–sharp edges,
protuberances–and so she
took to sleeping on the
She wore a yellow scarf
on those days
when the sun wasn’t
harsh through the window
and the bug didn’t
make those mawkish
clickity, clickity, clickity
As this was Old Maine–
Marine Coast–home of
shoes and rotten
plaster, Ph.D ‘s and
fallen beams “One
penney too late,”
was her favorite
for instance, when the
sun was setting
and the Marigolds
would fail to close
but instead fill
the patio with a blanket
of True Olive scent
just for the
bric-a-brac .

The Ceremony

I stop
by, unexpectedly,
smell somebody
into her Wool

Eric Evans

Bio (auto)

Eric Evans is a writer and musician from Buffalo, New York with stops in Portland, Oregon and Rochester, New York where he currently resides with his wife, Diane, and son, Henry His work has appeared in Artvoice, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Posey, Lucid Moon, Poetry Motel, Hazmat, Remark and many other publications He has published six collections He has also published a broadside through Lucid Moon Press.

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Eric Evans and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Bag Of Teeth

I have a bag of teeth
(mostly white, one silver)
in my top dresser drawer,
the trade off for all of
those dollar bills slipped
beneath his pillow
I don’t know what to do
with these teeth – make a
necklace, perform a ritual,
grind them into powder and
sprinkle them in the lake?
Maybe they’ll just stay
in the drawer with the
broken watches and unused
It’s an odd thing, though,
this bag of teeth, belonging
to a mouth that works a lot
like mine, connected to a
brain that runs like mine
ninety percent of the time
-it’s in that other ten
percent where all of the
landmines live, just waiting
for a trigger It’s in that
ten percent where the
words start to bite and
I realize how few dollar
bills I have left to go.


White frame boxing in solid black,
the result of a slipped finger while
placing a Polaroid camera in a box
The (non) photo has taken up residence
among the others at my desk, its
nothingness often calling up the

most attention Depending on my
whim, I’ll tell people that it’s a solar
eclipse or a crow’s underwing,

the inside of my eyelid or a close
up of Richard Pryor’s hand I’ll
say that the blackness is the detail

of an old Laurie Anderson album,  the
pupil of my son’s right eye or the
center of my sense of humor And

when the conditions are just so, when
the censors are off and so am I, I’ll
tell them all it’s the gathering edges
of a darkening mood.