March 26 – April 1, 2012: Matthew Abuelo and Joan Colby

Matthew Abuelo and Joan Colby

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Matthew Abuelo
maab30@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Matthew Abuelo is a writer, professional blogger and award winning poet who lives in New york City. He has three books out, two of which, Last American Roar and Organic Hotels, both can be found at lulu.com. He is also a former journalist for the online news site Examiner. He currently writes for the Times Square Chronicles. His third book “The News Factory” has just been released by Plain view Press.

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Matthew Abuelo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Untitled

Your fingers are like pills,
I become sedate with just one touch
As the shafts of light that
Shatters in our room
comes as a witness to your finest felony
stealing the precession of my moves
Which folds in on themselves
Its a crime that can only be pulled off when one operates with
crippled instinct
and
 all gravity and the seasons lead back to you.
This is where the weight of that gravity
bends each note of my heart stem
like the frantic cords of Satches furious guitar. 
And all the truth stolen by the thieves of art changes their pigment for you.
And all the Christian soldiers on 42nd street lose their bite for you.
Subway preachers cancel their lunatic speech for you.
And all of the subway trains pass by in their silent parades
All for you.
 Even those angles of Saint Luke’s keep it all together one last time
For you.
The horses that move through Central Park like fish in an aquarium snaps their mounts for you.
And all the shut ins of the SROs open their doors for you.
The stale air of their rooms are now the freedom meant for you to taste as a gift of their ruin. 
I can only hand this truth over to you
That the stars are still indifferent to us
As they wait for no one behind the lights
Of 86th street.
But their indifference is perfect
Like the last pieces of a dying artist
Who you swore you were going to meet.
 Their great
Great heights
is always
The next stage
For flaming monks
In their silence
smiling
 Reaching the purist form of escape
From the tyranny of flesh.
Like these stars
Some night when a rare black out falls over the city
And the glare recedes from view
I will look for you
to find my way home.

The Body Of Good Fortune

The body of good fortune is always fragile
And never lasts.
The unseen figures
Which gently strong our synapses
And always turning our direction to the
Agateware
That horror
Is what
Remains
Like the last roaches
Who return long after
The poison has settled under the floor board.



Joan Colby
JoanMC@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Joan Colby has been the editor of Illinois Racing News for over 25 years, a monthly publication for the Illinois Thoroughbred Breeders and Owners Foundation, published by Midwest Outdoors LLC. She lives with her husband and assorted animals on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois. She has three grown children and six grandchildren.

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Joan Colby and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

After a Line From Yeats

The bundle of accidence and incoherence that sits
……………………Down to breakfast is not who you are.

Who then? Not the orange you are segmenting
Into distraught hemispheres. Not the
Silver butter knife or the drenched scone.
What artifice eludes you? You look
Out the window at the blooming lilacs
Whose scent overpowers your discretion
Transforming what you were about to think
Into another notion altogether.

The weather report seems good enough
Although rank clouds are gathering
Beyond the south pasture so what can you believe
If not that you are entirely yourself
Drinking black coffee on a day like any other.